All The Good Subjects To Write About Were Gone

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Nothing gets people talking, like what this blog talked about all week long. Nothing. As you probably noticed, no one said nothing about it either, and that’s nothing new. The problem was; I had nothing left to write about, all the good subjects were taken by other blogger’s.

I fear I’ll have nothing to write about for weeks.

Writer’s block can leave you with plenty of nothing to write about. There is nothing more terrifying for a writer to write about, than nothing. Particularly, when everyone else is writing about something. In fact, the only writing I did this last week, was when I wrote comments on other people’s blogs.

Writing comments on subjects other people have already written about is a lot easier, let me tell ya.

Brain-block is a terrible thing, especially when you take up writing a blog. Occasionally, followers come looking for something to read. Its not like when you wrote in some personal journal or a diary. Particularly one that didn’t belong to you.

In those cases no one cares except you, the snoopy mom, the dopey sister, or the ruthless dumb blackmailer who kidnapped your boss in hopes of extorting money from you, or he’d dump your boss in the river—which you let happen, because you didn’t get that Christmas bonus you were counting on.

But a blog…

A blog can open windows, telling you all about people and their personal lives—which is often better than eavesdropping on them. Or about their pets—and possibly more than you ever wanted to know about their personal lives…especially their sex lives.

Blogger’s also write poetry, good and bad… and much worse than bad—”See Rex, see Rex run, see Rex run for fun. Run Rex, run, run, run.” Some blogs, are by unpublished authors talking about books they’re going to write—and never finish…or get published.

Then, they’re the blogs about traveling to places—you can’t afford to go see. Comics—by people with more talent than you; hobbies and crafts—again, by people with more talent than you; Photography—by photographers more gifted than you; and movies and television—by people with more money than you!

Then there’s me—the blogger with no post. Because, they’re no subjects left worth writing about.

Oh sure, the blogging community left me a few boring subjects I considered toying with. But, they’re the rejects. Subjects, that no other blogger would dare touch with a 12 inch keyboard. Riveting material that could lead to post titles like:

“Aunt Hester’s gall-stone surgery and her sister, Bertha’s, bunions.” How’s that for a Stephen King wanna-be’s poorly written horror novel post? “My work”—good for two or three words, maybe a complete sentence!

Or, I could write about, “Sleeping Habits of the Sandman deprived Narcoleptic.” Oh here’s a good one,  “Small Talk and the Weather…conversation starters that won’t get you noticed.” And finally, “How Facebook allowed—Big Jim Martin, my next door neighbor—into last nights nightmare.”

No…I think the good subjects are all gone folks.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Uh Oh—A Greeting Card From The North Pole

 

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Ordinarily I love this festive time of year. Twinkling lights hanging from all the trees, never mind that you can’t see their reflection on the wet streets below because of all the bumper-to-bumper holiday traffic.

epa03970663 Christmas lights on Regent Street in London, Britain, 29 November 2013. EPA/ANDY RAIN ** Usable by LA, CT and MoD ONLY **

But that’s expected at Christmas, like holiday shoppers pushing and shoving their way forward, jockeying for position in front of me—the last guy standing in the long line to the counter.

It’s Christmas though, and I expect it.

“ATCHOO!”

I tink I’ve caught a nudder nasty code in my dose.

“Honk!” just a nudder by-product of da, da, ATCHOO! Season of giving.”

“Honk, pfft, sniffle.”

Speaking of which, I’d sure love to find out who gave me this miserable code—SO I COULD GIVE IT RIGHT BACK TO THEM!

All I do know is, I sure hope I get a stocking full of NyQuil this year. You know, the nighttime cold and flu medicine.

However, what didn’t I expect to get this year was a Christmas card from the North Pole.

When my wife and I arrived home from a pleasant evening out at a little Christmas soiree, she went to check the mailbox and came back with a pile of mail that even Santa Claus would find overwhelming.

Sorting through all the bills (that always come just before the holidays) was this card.

“Hey, sweetie, you received a Christmas card from the North Pole! Who do you know at the North Pole?” she asked.

Guess she’s never heard of Mr. Narwhal.

I dropped my Airborne tablet—completely missing the glass of water in the process—and raced for the card.

Santa sent me a card? All must be forgiven! Or, so I thought. I mean, there was that infamous blowtorch incident with his sleigh and all (it was in all the papers), and a few elves got a little scorched here and there.

And then there was that big burnt bag of toys and all. Well, you know, accidents do happen, right?

But hey, I was only thirty-nine at the time! Could happen to anyone, right? Besides, I think there should be an expiration date on that sort of thing, don’t you?

http://www.jinglebellejackson.comAnyway, back to the card.

Anyway, I had hoped that my massive write-in campaign to Santa over the past year (better known as PROTEST 2014) would help the ‘Big Guy’ see the error of his ways and remove me from the list, not to mention dismissing that lawsuit he filed against me (settlement pending), and hopefully granting my Christmas wish for this year.

The wish?

For a million dollars in unmarked bills to be dropped down a chimney of my own choosing on Christmas Eve.

I would have asked for two million, but I felt that my be pushing it a little, and didn’t wanna have him think me greedy.

And this in spite of Mrs. Claus and all those horribly pathetic, itsy bitsy, teeny weenie, tiny minded little elves painting me out to be some kind of extortionist.

I mean, who do those elves think they are anyway? Santa’s legal counsel!

Last year, fatso sent me only a buck. ONE WHOLE DOLLAR! And it was at the bottom of my Christmas stocking too, along with a note stating “Son, you’re still on the naughty list. Love; Santa.”

Love, Santa? He wants me to love him for that?

And then there was the fine print which said, “Remember the blowtorch incident?”

Well, they do say elephants never forget?

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But, I was sure this year would be different, so I lunged for the card my wife was holding, practically knocking her onto our corner table—fortunately,  her incredible sense of balance helped her find the floor instead—and grabbed for my card.

With envelope now in hand, I eagerly read…

“Greetings from the North POLL!”

I should note here, that my friend, Sarah Ferguson (no, not the Duchess of York), caught this misspelling. Check out her funny response in the comment section below. I’m sure my misspelling of pole was simply because someone spiked my eggnog—which, by the way, I don’t drink.

The card continued…

“You know Dasher and Dancer and Prancer and Vixen. Comet and Cupid, Donner, and Blitzen. But, do you recall … the most famous reindeer of all?”

I looked up and thought, “Where’s the old fart going with this?”

“Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, who has a very shiny nose, tells me there’s a guy just like him, also with A BIG RED NOSE. Now all of my North Pole Reindeer, like to laugh and shout his name. And it isn’t Rudolph the Red-Nose Reindeer, care to play the guessing game?

Hint, hint…his picture in shown on your blog as the author, and he also happens to have a Red Nose too. Maybe, IT EVEN GROW! Lying to the police like that. I hope your insurance rates go up, dummy. Now do you know who my reindeer were singing about? Donkey brain! WELL… DO YOU PUNK?”

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My wife (still on the carpet) looked up at me and said “Honey, are you alright? You look white as snow!”

I turned and looked at her, my eyes wide as saucers. The words barely escaped my lips…

“I’m not sure, but I think Santa Claus might actually be Dirty Harry! Or, possibly Clint Eastwood, but in either case, I think I’m still in trouble.

“Honey, what in the world are you talking about?” she asked.

“Well, I suspect Santa and Rudolph are out to get me!”

“Oh… that’s nonsense, honey. Don’t be ridiculous, Santa and Rudolph? They’re not even real!”

“Oh really, you think so, huh? Well, just feast your eyes on this!” and I handed her the card and asked, “What do you have to say now, huh?”

“They take a nice picture?”

I don’t think I’m going to be getting a million dollars this year, or ever! All I can say, is just pray none of you ever make that naughty list of his. You might never make parole!

“ATCHOO!”

“Honey! Can you please bring me a cup of Nyquil. On second thought—BRING THE WHOLE BOTTLE!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Christmas Carol—No, Not The Dickens One

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There had never been a more miserly man than John Q. Consumer—better known as, GOUGED. He adopted his nickname for he felt Christmas was no more than another excuse for retailers to pick a man’s pocket.

“Season of giving? Bah, humbug!” he was often heard to say.

His abrasive personality and manner of being were forged out of his disdain for the holiday—and for not spending money in general.

Every year—starting around June—he found himself being bombarded with Christmas deals offering holiday sales on everything—from cars to… EVEN MORE CARS!

Oh sure, advertisers still offered the cheaply made goods as well—those that would fall apart after only three or four uses, but GOUGED, had discovered something more devious.

Retailers marking goods up in price in advance of the holidays only to reduce prices back down to their original OVERPRICED amount just in time for Christmas holiday shopping.

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Naturally, GOUGED, became as bitter as the cold that accompanied the festive holiday season.

Finding items failed to work after he got them home, he was further frustrated by having to go back and stand in long lines to get his money back. Many times, only to be told of the retailers no return policy.

He felt preyed upon by the mercantile for his hard earned… MINIMUM WAGE.

During the holiday season the “Ladies and gentleman of charity” could be found standing by their little red kettles in front of the many retailers places of business.

They would ask him to contribute to those in need of common necessities. Hoping, that he might be willing to give to the less fortunate, and thus offering provisions for the poor and destitute—of which he felt he was one.

Being part of what was formerly known as, The Middle Class, his answer was always the same. “Bah, humbug.”

Though, no one ever had the slightest clue what that meant, they figured as long as the old fool cracked loose with some cold hard cash—preferably tens and twenties—let the old geezer babble and speak all the gibberish he wants.

For the record; Bah, humbug actually translated into, “Hey, when are you dummies going to start contributing to my needs?”

So this Christmas Eve, GOUGED, decided things were going to be different.

He launched into a tirade, asking his detractors why there weren’t more unionized workhouses in operation that paid a living wage to their workers?

Why bankers never considered lowering interest rates? Why unemployment offices never honestly tried to provide for those in debtors prison—better known as credit card holders?

“Right.” they would reply, “Well, you see sir, there are many unscrupulous employers, banking institutions, and corporations operating and each is corrupt as all get out.

They’re always wanting to pay less while raking in more. Bankers are always raising interest rates constantly trying to remain highly profitable. All this comes at the expense of the suckers… uh… we mean the labourer’s and shopper’s.”

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“And why do they do this?” GOUGED asked. “I’ll tell you why. They want to ‘decrease the surplus population’ that’s why! Then you’ll only have the wealthy to fill your little red kettles at this time of the year.”

They were all too aware of how the tightfisted wealthy seldom did that.

His rant had caught them off guard. GOUGED sounded inexplicably like he was from the United Kingdom, but they knew him to be American?

Realizing his slip of the tongue, as he had recently become an Anglophile—no doubt because he had seen far too many remakes of A Christmas Carol—he decided to pause for effect.

Then—now in broken American English—he continued his rant.

“Employers don’t like having to pay health benefits for what is left of their overworked, underpaid employees. So, in order to increase their hefty profit margin—and still reluctantly pay the health care cost—they slash the wages of the laborer’s who helped make them that tidy profit.”

Oh, it should be noted, that many a labourer hadn’t seen a cost of living increase, in about fifteen years.

GOUGED, further knew that those who lost their jobs would likely find themselves navigating a never ending call tree over the phone with the unemployment office.

Those few who did manage to get through, would likely be dismissed as unwilling to work. And this was because they were going to be paid far less than what an illegal alien (immigrant, or is that an emigrant) could possibly scrape by on.

The “Ladies and gentleman of charity” warned, GOUGED, that the merchants might be angry if they ever heard his views on the state of the economy.

May even hire some peasant to go plaster his car windshield (LITERALLY), with thousands of flyers in an attempt to promote one of their sales.

“Bah, humbug!” he shouted at them, and off he went into the bitterly cold winter night seeking out his car in a poorly lit parking lot, only to uncover its windshield—WITH A CHISEL AND A SCRAPER!

GOUGED, finally arrived home close to midnight. Sitting down to a cup of Campbell’s Beef and Barley soup, someone came crashing through his front door. It was one, Jacob Marley, his former used car salesman, who had only recently lost his job at the local Carfax dealership.

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Hardly a ghost, but a shell of a human-being all the same, GOUGED, didn’t feel this excused Marley’s driving through his front door—WHILE INTOXICATED!

It made for a very uncomfortable encounter.

“Take heed, GOUGED, Marley began, “for I have it on good authority—I think it was a guy down in front of Macy’s ringing some sleigh bells—that you have forged in life a chain of debt, far less than that of my own!”

GOUGED, cowered over his checkbook—surrogate to his empty bank account.

“Beware GOUGED” Marley intoned, “beware, for you will soon be visited by The 3 Spirits of Madison Avenue over the course of the next 72 to 96 hours. “Beware!” he warbled.

Then he faded from view—handcuffed in the back seat of a squad car as he was taken off to jail for a DUI.

GOUGED, thinking Marley a man given to drink and suffering from the DT’s, decided to ignore the whole incident.

But, not before he called his State Farm Insurance agent about the damage to his front door.

His agent, wearing Khaki’s at the time and sitting at his desk at 1:00 AM in the morning, was waiting for the call—not that any of that is important to the story.

Nevertheless, a few hours later the first spirit of Madison Avenue appeared.

“GOUGED!” it bellowed from the glimmering light of the television screen.

“Who is it?” asked GOUGED, grabbing his 12 gauge shotgun.

“I am the ghost of Black Fridays past.” replied the voice from the TV. The spirit now floated through another disrupted cable signal (which GOUGED paid through the nose for on a monthly basis) and into his living room.

Fearsome indeed was she. Battered of face with clothing torn asunder, the ghost was the full embodiment of a Black Friday shopper. A real live Walking Dead zombie! She implored GOUGED—screaming at the top of her lungs…

“Remember… anything for the deal, anything for the deal!”

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The thirty second million dollar spot—paid for by advertisers—was over. The spirit vanished, but not before GOUGED had emptied his 12 gauge shotgun into his flat-screen television in a blind panic.

“Now I’m going to need a new Samsung 110 inch TV for Christmas.” he frustratingly thought to himself—a sad price to pay for being a gun-toting ARA member.

Now, left with only being able to watch YouTube on his desktop, he gradually nodded off to sleep again.

24 hours passed, when suddenly a voice echoed from the monitor in front of him. “GOUGED” the voice asked searchingly, “are you there?” He sought refuge under his pegged together IKEA desk.

“I am the ghost of Small Business Saturday.” it continued. GOUGED,  recognized the voice.

“Bob, Bob Cratchet? Is that you?” GOUGED asked.

Bob was the owner of The Rug Emporium just down the street. Always going out of business for one reason or another, Bob would somehow always reopen a month or so later—usually with a relative taking over as the new owner.

However, old Mr. Fizziwig recently bought him out, or so Bob claimed.

“You have never seen the likes of me, have you GOUGED? For you’ve never shopped locally on Small Business Saturday, have you? In fact, you never shop at all, do you, GOUGED?” asked, Bob.

GOUGED replied “True. In fact, I can’t see you now either, but I recently WINDOW SHOPPED your former stor! Which I believe is now under new management by old man Fizziwig, is it not?”

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“Window shopping doesn’t count, GOUGED. Ignorance and want, that’s what counts these days. But, I tell you what, my son Tiny Tim (who stood 25 stone), has bought the store back from old man Fizziwig, and he’ll make you a right fine deal on some new Persian rugs. Whad’ya say?”

GOUGED, thought for a moment and replied…

“Okay… I promise to buy some rugs—NOT! Look, I’m going to need a new computer monitor more than those stupid rugs. See, my monitor is shot!” (and another bang rang out)

And with that, GOUGED, was out of ammo.

Another 24 hours went by. Soon, GOUGED (who practically overdosed on sleeping pills), heard a buzz on his cell phone. He picked it up and clicked on the smart phone only to be met with a reminder that the third spirit would soon arrive.

The ghost of Cyber Monday.

“Am I in the presence of the ghost of Cyber Monday yet to come?” asked, GOUGED?

His smart phone beeped in the affirmative. “Oh spirit” GOUGED continued, “I fear you most of all. For I am technologically challenged and do not have a PayPal account. Should I Google how to get one?”

The phone beeped and an image appeared. It was the photo of an H&R Block followed by the words…

“Spend…or else!”

GOUGED thought for a moment, and then asked, “Or else…what?” Another beep, and a picture of Tiny Tim’s Rug Emporium appeared with the words “Closing, everything must go. Going out of business!”

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Gouged asked…

“Spirit, are these the shadowy signs of what might be, or what has actually happened? Because, Cratchet is always claiming he’s going out of business.”

The phone beeped once again and the screen on his phone read…

“GOUGED, I fear if you do not start spending money—LOT’S AND LOT’S OF MONEY, then Tiny Tim’s Rug Emporium will be no more. I even surmise a visit from the IRS might be in order.”

“No not an audit!” cried GOUGED.

“Please spirit, I promise I’ll exhaust my savings (all two cents worth), I’ll even spend money I don’t have, max out my credit cards, get a lone from the bank—well at least exhaust my savings, spend money I don’t have, and max out all my credit cards.”

“Can’t do much about the bank loan thing though…banks don’t loan money anymore. But, I swear on my former used car salesman’s liver that I’ll do the rest!”

The phone beeps stopped. GOUGED, figured he’d better sell out to the spirit of Cyber Monday—but FAST!

“Hey… I don’t mind being gouged for the money, honest I don’t!” he screamed, “I promise, I’ll do all the other stuff just like I said. Just please… don’t send the IRS to my door to conduct an audit. I can’t afford a law firm!”

GOUGED, dropped to his hands and knees—and reached under his bed for an an old shoe box full of receipts—just in case. Then he rushed outside and practically drove over a jaywalker carrying a small turkey to get to the closest ATM and withdraw his savings.

GOUGED, proved to be better than his word. He gave all his cash until the little red kettles swelled with money. He bought Persian rugs, just like he promised he would, and from Tiny Tim’s Carpet Emporium.

Of course… he eventually was arrested and put in prison for embezzling funds, writing bad checks, and committing grand larceny.

But, he kept Tiny Tim’s Rug Emporium from going out of business. Plus, he kept Tim out of debt, all while keeping the Rug Emporium flush with cash.

After all, isn’t that what the true spirit of Christmas is all about? The spirit of giving—until it hurts?

(Soon to be a Major Motion Picture from some big name studio starring—my… quarter brother—Tom Hanks)

 

 

 

 

Tis The Season To Nitpick

http://www.comicvine.com

There was once a time when we didn’t seem to worry so much about every little thing. We didn’t always sweat the small stuff. It was more like, “Sticks and stones will break our bones but names will never hurt us.” Like ducks, we’d just kind of let the water roll off our backs and then moved on. Who cared if we weren’t always politically correct?

But, that’s all changed now. Goodness, we can’t even let sleeping dogs lie.

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Not that my neighbors dog ever was much for barking the truth anyway. I can’t even remember the last time he repeatedly barked in order to alert the neighborhood that a dangerous intruder was nearby. Of late, he only barks (incessantly) to inform us of stray cats, wayward dogs, and old Mr. Jenkins somewhat questionable attire. Some watchdog!

But, I digress.

Today, we will nitpick anything to pieces, even when it comes to nitpicking lice out of our children’s hair. Not that I’d ever want to draw undue attention to the fact, that our barber suggested I may have done irreparable harm to my sons hair the last time he had head lice. But, he forgave me…sort of.

But, as I was saying; have we really become overly sensitive to everything as a society?

Take retailer, Target, for example. Last week they became a real topic for conversation when they introduced a new holiday sweater. The sweaters say, “OCD, and then directly underneath “Obsessive Christmas Disorder.” Cute. Not the sweater… it’s downright ugly! But, I thought the idea clever.

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Now I think most of us know what OCD really stands for, and obviously Target does, otherwise, they wouldn’t have counted on the general public immediately recognizing the play on Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. I know I did, saw the clever play on words and enjoyed the humor in it.

But, then I suffer from the problem and try not to take myself too seriously. But, then what do I know?

However, some mental health advocates, and more than a few consumer groups, apparently took offense to the whole thing. They pointed out how sufferer’s of the disorder would not see the humor in the sweaters and would be deeply offended by them. Their concern for us sufferer’s of OCD is admirable.

But, I think some of us can see the humor in our tics, and recognize no malice was intended.

And if that were not enough, last week offered us a second helping of overly sensitive people being critical of, Starbucks, and this years holiday coffee cups. The cups are simply red and green and lacking the usual christian symbols of the season. Like snowmen, flying reindeer, and Santa’s little helpers.

http://www.usmagazine.com

Yes, I could possibly understand Madison Avenue types being deeply offended by this horrid turn of events. What with the big money to be made by encouraging a more festive holiday season, this might be misconstrued as sacrilegious. Heaven forbid!

However, with so many more serious issues occurring in the world this holiday season, don’t you feel that the son of god—patient, tolerant, and understanding soul that he is—might not cut Starbucks just a little bit more slack this time around?

 

 

 

 

“I Got A Rock!”

And this is it!

Oh, this is just great. Here it is, Halloween, and our youngest son told us he was in need of a new costume for going out to Trick or Treat tonight.

Wasn’t the Scream costume we bought him five years ago, good enough? At the time, he begged for it—on his hands and knees while clutching my leg as I left the store—it WAS top of the line then. It’s only been five years… surely it’s top of the line now, I thought.

I mean I’ve been to the local Halloween Spirit store, and there are tons of plastic faced Frankenstein, Werewolf, and Dracula costumes hanging there from the 1940’s—all just under $9.95. Obviously, still as popular today as they were 75 years ago—why else would they still be hanging around?

So, SCREAM, must still be a scream after only five years…right?

But, that was not the worst of it… oh no. He further informed us that the neighborhood kids deliberately started avoiding our house on Halloween, not because it looked so scary—even though I did put a small fortune and many hour’s of work into making it look EXPENSIVELY spooky—just ask my protesting wife!

No, he said, instead, they are avoiding our house annually because we only hand out a piece of fruit and one piece of candy per Trick or Treater. He then mentioned how the kids all claim that the candy we give out is always the assorted Jolly Rancher kind.

Well, I can’t deny it, they are the best—smallest candy you can buy, that’s cheap!

Also, he mumbled something about how the kids pointed out that we always make sure to tuck into their trick or treat bags, a cost assessment breakdown of every bag of candy we buy for them.

This, along with an explanation that because of the increased cost in candy, we’ve had to cut back on our Halloween candy handouts. Can’t have ill-informed marauding Trick or Treaters now, can we?

After all, while the kids count their candy, we parents have to count the cost.

But now my son has warned us that the little urchins are planning an attack on our house—so devastating—that it would put to shame, any house teepeeing, rotten egg tossing, splattered window fiasco’s, they’ve ever done in the past.

And, that it involves the launching of a rock… the size of an asteroid, with the face of a skull no less!

And he said that they told him, that the only thing that could save us; would be if we bought him the best Halloween costume of his choice. And also, forking over the best candy money can buy when they show up at our door on October 31st.

Naturally, being nobody’s fool, I required proof of such a threat.

He produced the picture above. I asked him, “What’s this?” He told me it was the proof I demanded. When I told him I’d need more than just a picture, he said, “Call NASA and ask them if I doubt that a giant skull faced Rock is heading our way on Halloween?”

Naturally, I scoffed at him and called, NASA. Well, as it turns out; he telling the truth!

NASA, confirmed that there is an asteroid size rock hurdling our way for tonight, and that it does have a skull shaped face.

Of course, I immediately broke down and went out and bought my youngest son a new super deluxe Ironman suit, complete with all the fire power he could possibly need to defend our home against marauding ghouls and goblins—and big skull shaped rocks.

Plus, just in case trick or treat attackers were to get by him while he was out trick or treating, I took the added precaution of shelling out thousands of dollars for hundreds of boxes of See’s candies to hand out. You know, just in case.

After all, the last thing you’d ever want to say on Halloween is—wait for it—”I GOT A ROCK.”

The More Things Stay The Same, The More They Change

Have you noticed, ‘The more things change, the more they stay the same.’ And yet, the more things stay the same, the more they change.

We are creatures of habit. We love familiarity. Then there’s that guy on the subway who is always trying to squeeze into a seat next to an attractive woman. I’d say that’s trying to get a bit too familiar. But, I’m talking about the kind of familiar regarding things we’ve come to expect. Things happening in their own appointed time, yet with unwanted progress.

Sure, we say we want to make progress, and yes we do want to make progress… just not at the expense of our comfort zone. Were comfortable with the idea of familiarity. Sometimes, there’s something cozy about having regular patterns.

Take for instance: Holidays always occurring at the same time every year. Baseball’s arrival to assure us winter will end. Football season ushering in autumn and the holidays, and basketball and hockey season to remind us to avoid going outside, or we’ll freeze our tuchus off.

Then there’s the blockbuster movies in summer, Oscar worthy films in the fall, and holiday movies that bring families together for winter. We left spring to the movie studios, so they wouldn’t go bust. Scraping a few bucks together from their box-office bombs by way of the poor saps with money to burn.

You’ll note, that cooperate America and Congress have not let Hollywood fail—OR THE BANKS!

Now granted, we’re not comfortable with hurricane season, fire season, and the political season—Particularly political season… all those politicians, telling us how good they’ve been all year with their lame campaign ads. HEY—WE’ll TELL SANTA!—but we’ve come to accept, bad things happen to good people.

Most notably… the voter! 

But, despite all this familiar sameness, some have sought to distort the familiar…with progress.

For example: Christmas and Halloween now start… on the Fourth of July! Baseball used to end in early Fall, but now the World Series ends in time for Thanksgiving! And Basketball and hockey still run concurrent—ending in July, and starting again in August!

Blockbuster movies still arrive in summer, but summer is shorter—late May till the Fourth of July! The Fall release of Oscar worthy films (all two weeks) get a second Fall release—in late January, just in time for the Academy Awards! And corporate America and Congress are still burning through our money.

Well, some things never change. Our tax dollars at work—FOR THEM!

Hurricane season no longer see’s hurricanes named after women. But, we’ve never doubted men can be crazy too! Mother Nature is no longer the only one with a fire season, now arsonist have gone and extended it! And political season; well politicians still feel we the voter can’t get enough of a bad thing…

So, now they’re bashing each other all year round—AND AT OUR EXPENSE!

So you see; The more things stay the same, the more they change—like me, now I’m adding even more exclamation points!!!

It Was All A Big Mistake!

Whoops! Apparently a former employee of ours from, “In My Cluttered Attic” (going by the name of Bob), went and hijacked my blog yesterday (without my notice), and then proceeded to go about telling the world that it was going to end.

He even tried to create AN EVEN GREATER STIR, by telling the worlds populace that my blog “In My Cluttered Attic” was also coming to an end!

Well, you’ll all be happy to know that this bounder and cad has been apprehended by this sites secret police. He is being held in a secluded maximum security prison where some inhuman experiments are now being conducted on him. He’ll trouble you no more.

Normally I would not divulge the nature of these inhuman experiments, but in this case—and as a warning to others who would dare to overthrow and use this site for anything else, but humor and gaiety—I am going to let you all in on the cruel treatment he is currently undergoing.

First of all, upon his incarceration, former SS officers (who had been hiding out in Brazil) were brought in (don’t worry, we here at ‘The Attic’ paid them the proper American minimum wage) to do a thorough interrogation. At first, they were not as excited about the work as we had hoped.

Naturally, we showed little patience with our interrogators (its the American way) as many of them are not only long out of practice, but also hobbled and crippled by age. But, our use of the finest whips money can buy eventually compelled them to do our bidding. We find this works quite well, except for when a certain number of these slackers die on us.

That’s when we really had to crack down on them. Thus, the need for a new time clock where they have to punch in before they can conduct their inhuman experiments. Now they can’t wait to get to work. However, they still hate that time clock..

But back to our prisoner.

The torture for his crimes have been hideous, but no more than he deserves. First they took away his half eaten peanut butter and jelly sandwich… and under no circumstances was he permitted to have a glass of milk. NO MILK FOR HIM! He’s also forbidden to watch ‘Dancng with the Stars’ (we discovered that he secretly worships Tom Bergeron). 

And lastly, he was asked to take down his posters of Caitlyn Jenner from his cell walls, and replace them with Bruce Jenner’s posters.

Now, some of you may find this kind of treatment harsh and uncivilized. We here at ‘The Attic’ get that. But, we also feel the punishment should fit the crime. After all, we were no less harsh with former Vice President (god I love saying that), Dick Cheney, when we took away his rifle after his famous misfire.

Or when we took away President Obama’s birth certificate for naming his dog Bo. Of course at the time we had no idea that the Donald would have a field day with that one. But, our reluctance to let anyone off the hook knows no bounds.

Especially when it comes to former employee, Bob.

Sorry Earth, I Admit It, I Taunted Extraterrestrials

About a dozen years ago I may have made a little mistake. I sent a letter out into space calling out extraterrestrial beings for their hostile nature. Ha, ha, ha… but it was a joke! Nevertheless, as luck would have it, I don’t think they saw it that way. I just received a letter of response in the mail. I think… we’re in trouble.

It was marked “Contents Urgent, Open Immediately Upon Receipt”

Naturally I wasn’t expecting any kind of response as I wrote this letter over a decade ago. I never expected any return mail, say nothing of it reaching some great INTELLIGENCE—I wonder if it’s too late to kiss up to an extraterrestrial?

Anyway, I did as instructed and opened the letter.

“Dear vile human-beings:” it began “how delightful to hear from you. We are in receipt of your letter dated September 14, 2003. We cannot help but wonder what on earth you were thinking, when you know darn well WE’RE GOING TO DESTROY YOU ALL FOR THIS!”

Okay, so I may have said a few things that were a little out of line. Things we’ll all probably regret later. But nothing any of you wouldn’t have thought of saying yourself to those little green bastards from outer space if they were standing here.

Which apparently they will be doing any minute now! (gulp)

Ha, ha, ha nothing like company coming when you least expect it, right? (Ahem… Gulp)

Naturally, I am as upset about this recent turn of events as you probably all are. But, I thought you should know (even at the eleventh hour) that they’re kind of upset about some of the things I…okay… WE… said to them. (Bigger GULP)

For example; I may have gone a little overboard when I swore (with a lot of profanity… and some finger-pointing) that someday I’d… okay WE… would kick their alien butt for abducting some of our people. And um… that WE would not take any of their sorry asses as prisoner. Okay, so BIG WHOOPS on my part there.

But hey, who thought they’d ever get the letter, right? Ha, ha ha!

And I may have accused them of doing this strictly so that they could have a little too much fun performing inhuman experiments on us—all without using some of our more popular pain killing recreational drugs. Yeah alright, I’ll admit that wasn’t cool either.

But dudes… E.T. has access to all the best stuff!

I also happened to mention how we didn’t appreciate their UFO’s buzzing around some of our aircraft over the years—just so they could show off how superior their technology is to our own.

Oh, and uh, how that was something only morons would do when they feel REAL inferior. I suggested they were compensating for not having a big… uh… well… you know.

They concluded their letter of response saying, “We thought you’d like to know (apparently as a courtesy, though some might call it a warning… or a threat) that by the time you receive this letter we’ll be well on our way, and very nearly there. Can’t wait to meet you, and all your friends…IN PERSON!”

“Yours truly: the little green bastards from outer space.”

“P.S. We haven’t forgot about what you guys did to us at Roswell.”

Uh… I think it’s just possible we’re all toast.

Well, It Happened Just Like This Your Honor…

Before the bench

I was driving down the freeway, and yes…I’m fully qualified to operate a motorized vehicle. I obtained my Disneyland Autopia License at the age of eight, and I have never had an accident in my life. 

Anyway, I suddenly realized that there were white squiggly marks on the passenger windows in the back seat of my car.

Whats that? How fast was I going while looking at the back windows? Oh, no more than 85… tops!

So, I immediately pulled over and off to the side of the freeway and got out to have a look. There appeared to be quite a few squiggly lines on both my windows, but none on the rear window.

It wasn’t long before this nice highway patrol officer here, pulled up behind me and got out to see what the problem was. He came over and asked, “Flat tire?”

I replied to him calmly, “No.” So then he says to me…

“Oh, engine trouble, huh?” I just had to shake my head in disbelief your honor. I mean, we haven’t had any Indian problems for years—with the possible exception of the Washington Redskins of late. Well, not since the days of the Stanford Indians respectfully changing their name to the Stanford Cardinal. 

So I asked your officer, politely of course, “Are you out of your mind? I have no reservations about Indians? That’s NFL owner, Daniel Snyder’s problem!”

I was met with a quizzical look from your officer. I mean, talk about being out of touch. You folks are obviously overworking your people. Your officer apparently has had very little time to read the papers, or watch the news while consuming his daily supply of donuts and coffee.

Anyway, he then asked me, “Well then, whats the emergency?”

Taking into consideration that the poor man has been terribly overworked, I pointed to my rear side windows and said, “Look at that.” he turned to look at my side windows. Then, with this blank expression on his face, he looked back at me and replied…”So?”

So I took time to explain to him, very slowly I might add, so that he would understand every word I said…

“Look, I just cleaned the entire car two days ago. Inside and out. I vacuumed, I scrubbed, and I wiped down both sides of the windows… I even Simonized my car.  And now this” 

I then pointed at my windows again.

Still, your officer seemed out of touch and with a face that could only come from someone having had a full frontal lobotomy he responded to me with, “I don’t see the problem.”

I then took out my cell phone—he then pulled out his gun— and I then called my wife. The officer sarcastically asked, “Calling your attorney?” I told him “No, my wife.” With a smile he nodded his head up and down and jokingly said, “Is she an attorney?” Again I said, “No.” Then he looked down and said…

“Oh… that’s too bad.”

When my wife answered the phone I began to describe to her how the back seat windows looked like they had squiggly lines all across them, even though I had just cleaned the car two days ago.

Naturally, I asked her how that could be?

She laughed and told us, your officer and I, how yesterday she had put our youngest daughter’s dog—his name is Simon—in the back seat of our car so that she could take him to the dog run. She concluded by suggesting that Simon must have ran his nose along the windows while he was looking outside.

I then smiled at your officer, sheepishly of course, and joked “I guess you could say our daughter’s dog…  Simonosed my car.”

He didn’t seem to be too amused and that’s why I’m standing here before you now, judge. Hey, I don’t suppose you guys could loosen the handcuffs a little bit? You know, they feel awfully tight. 

Trying To Get A Rise Out Of People

The year was 1814 and Dr. Victor Von Frankenstein was busy pilfering bodies in order to build his modest practice—that of raising the dead. Everyday, starting at nine A.M. the deceased would start arriving at his office.

Victor wanted to raise his new creations right, but he was going to need a lot of help—A LOT OF HELP!

At first, his office temps—working for minimum wage—had no problem handling the work load. But, it wasn’t long before the temps were overwhelmed by the shear number of walking dead coming through the office doors…windows… and roof. So much so in fact… that the day, and swing shift temps became working zombies themselves. 

This unforeseen nightmare forced the GOOD doctor (it would be a long time before he became better than a good doctor, and would attain the rank of… specialist) to advertise on Craigslist, for someone to assist him on the graveyard shifts.

You see, word had spread so fast among those in the cadaver community, that they were starting to come out of the cemetery in staggering numbers, so much so in fact, that the doctor couldn’t make time for his nightly ritual of grave robbing. Thus, the need for a new hire to take over soliciting the graveyard on his behalf.

Enter, Eyegore, that’s Eyegore with an E.

A young man, who had read a series of books about a character named, Victor Hugo. He became so obsessed with the writer of the books—one Quasimodo by name—that he got a bad eyestrain from reading up on him in all the tabloids.

That, and a bad back from sitting hunched over his keyboard every night until sunrise, researching for more facts on Wikipedia about his favorite writer.

He learned how his hero, Quasimodo, had played football at university. But, as Quasimodo had not eaten enough to play fullback for the Notre Dame team, it became necessary for Quasi to play hunchback, under then coach, Knute Rockne. The coach weighed more than Quasimodo expected, and this forced Quasimodo into a BAD BACK, and BACKFIELD.

But, Quasimodo carried Rockne to one victory after another, until one day…

Quasimodo broke down at the five and ten paper stand, due to bad press… and some wobbly knees. And so, he gave up playing football and concentrated on becoming a writer. However, Rockne never got over it, and that’s when he went out to the players and gave that famous speech about, “Go out and win one for the Gimper.”

Some historians swear he said limper, but the word ‘Gimper’ made for better yellow journalism. Well, that’s enough back story on, Eyegore.

Back to the medical profession and doctors who had more legitimate practices than Victor Frankenstein (for example: the kind that paid money) like plastic surgeons, chiropractors, dentist, and electrocardiologist. One day, one of the heads from the FDA (the Food and Drug Administration) came walking in—which Victor thought was a pretty neat trick (particularly since this guy had no body!), and asked…

“What’s all this rigmarole we hear about you raising the dead?”

Victor, looked down at his extremely lazy, but always hungry dog (named Frankenweenie), who hadn’t moved in weeks, and thought for a moment, before saying… 

“Well, I think its possible.” then he continued…

“For example; look at this dead dog—a slight exaggeration, but not by much—to look at him you’d think it impossible you’d ever be able to get a rise out of him. But, with the snap of my fingers… and this here dog biscuit, I can bring him back from the dead. I think it has something to do with Pavlov’s dogs”

Some guy named, Petrovich Pavlov, was Victors neighbor. He ran a kennel.

Anyway, just like that, Frankenweenie rose from the dead and pranced all around Victor. He’d follow Victor from one corner of the room to the other around, never once taking his eye off of the dog biscuit.

The head from the FDA  smiled in amazement, “That’s very impressive!” he said. Then he asked “But, will it work on humans?”

Victor thought for a moment and replied, “I doubt it, people are much more complicated—they hate dog biscuits.”