I’m Going To Be Moving Up The Literary Ladder

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Okay, so maybe I do ask for your undivided attention … while you’re asleep. And yes, you might want to erect a statue to me … for no apparent reason. And no, I will not discourage you from bowing down to me when you hear about my latest plan for moving up the literary ladder.

And why is it that I have these ridiculously high expectations from all of you?

Well, it’s because I’ve decided to become a big name writer.

Paul, you a big name writer, you ask? But, how could you ever hope to compete with the likes of Carlo Alessandro Agostino of Milwaukee, who writes about his obsession with the Wienerschnitzel down the street? Or Helga Smitzer Schulz of Rome, who writes volumes about her Italian heritage?

And how could you ever hope to be mentioned in the same breath as Melvin Elimelech Swimmell of Japan, who writes Greek mystery novels in Yiddish?

Well, actually, I can’t. After all, those are pretty big names.

Then again, I could possibly be mentioned with some of the smaller named writers. Like Agatha Christie, Mark Twain, or John Updike.

Or, maybe even some moneymaking novelists like James Patterson, J. K. Rowling, and John Grisham.

I wouldn’t mind being in the company of their money.

Sure, I know I don’t always press the publish button for many of my writings. But, hey, not even Jane Austin could say that!

So, take that all you big name authors who only publish your books every other year or so. And you call yourself writers?

So, what do I write about, exactly?

Well, many things. For one, I write our youngest son’s name on his lunch bag every single day—including Saturdays and Sundays. Then there’s the grocery lists I write down for my wife—including items my wife always seems to forget—like beer and chips.

Also, I scribble love notes of sweet nothings to my wife, which I lovingly leave under her pillow at night. Wonder why she never says anything about them in the mornings? Oh well.

Then there are all those angry letters I anonymously pen to the power company, whereby I complain about how they spelled my last name wrong—and yet they still want me to pay them! I think they have me confused with some other writer … customer.

Now I realize that many a big-name author might well claim that, unlike me, they all get paid to write and that they have me over a barrel with that one.

But, I’m happy to report that I also get paid to write. Yes, that’s right. I get paid to write, too!

See, all I do, is I write certain folks about something I might have seen them do that maybe they shouldn’t have done. And, bingo, they send me money!

Someone told me it’s called extortion, blackmail, or something like that. But who cares what kind of writing it’s called, as long as it pays, right?

And you know what else?

If given enough time, I bet this this sort of gig could land me a long term contract with one of the big publishing houses like Random House, the Big House, or some place like that.

What a sentence that would be to write, huh?

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My Picture Should Have Been On The Back Of A Milk Carton

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I’m back!

Cue the crickets—chirp, chirp, chirp, chirp…etc.

Well as you probably know by now, I’ve been missing for the better part of the last two weeks, but it’s not my fault. I was abducted, lured away—clawing and scratching—out of my attic… by my wife.

“Snookums,” I said “we can’t go on vacation now. What about my blog, my readers?”

“Well, what about em?” she asked, innocently enough.

“They’re going to abandoned me like the plague!” I replied. “You don’t know these people like I do. They’re all about quality writing, and all I have to offer them is this absurd and ridiculous blog. I realize that’s a lousy option, but if you take me away, who will they turn to instead?”

Her response?

“Relax, they’ll barely notice you’re gone. Besides, you know what they say… absence makes the heart grow fonder.” That’s when I knew she was out of touch with reality—because you guys barely tolerate me as it is!

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“You don’t understand,” I pleaded, “I have my stats to consider. Why, if it weren’t for that amateur course in hypnotism—the I took for no apparent reason other than to have something to write about for this paragraph—I fear my followers (all of whom can’t explain their love for me) would have left my blog in cobwebs months ago.”

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However, between you and me; I don’t obsess over such things—for more than 14 hours a day anyway—because that would be shallow.

Instead, I protested… and vigorously. “Dumpling, we can’t leave for vacation, not during the height of the WordPress blogging season! Are you mad?”

Okay, so I twisted the truth about the WordPress blogging season—that’s not until next month—but remember, I was doing it for you guys.

Anyhow, after her face reached a bright crimson color—which was immediately followed by steam escaping from her ears—I decided I’d better move onto my next argument… forcefully.

“Dumpling, precious, sweetheart, cupcake… only a blogger with followers numbering in the millions—and capable of producing better material than myself—would ever consider going on a vacation at this time of the year!”

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She was having none of it. I was about to be taken—AGAINST MY WILL—to some horribly comfortable resort… complete with swaying palm trees. Dragged there by some 110-pound petite brute.

You can imagine my terror.

“Help me, help me please!” I screamed as she pulled me across the busy airport terminal floor by my ankles onto an awaiting flight. “My wife is taking me away from my readers to go on a vacation.” I screamed, “FOR TWO WHOLE WEEKS!”

Nothing. Absolutely no one, not one single person (nor married couple) stepped out of any of those LONG TSA lines.

Thus, I became just another missing person.

It was then I realized—to my horror—that settling for that coach ticket instead of first class—probably did nothing to prevent my abduction to some far off place.

I should have known better. After all, the heavy chain—the one I latched to myself and my laptop—hadn’t work either.

If only I hadn’t left those bolt cutters out—and in plain sight.

Nope, I was doomed. Doomed to go to a place where—despite my vigorous (albeit, impassive) protest—I was forced to lay around a pool like a beached whale. Waited on hand and foot, while powerless to do absolutely nothing but eat, sleep, and go to shows.

It was all I could do to escape my captivity—which happened when the hotel told me that our two-week stay in paradise was over. That is when I learned that my picture had never made it onto the back of a milk carton.

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Leaving me to assume that they felt my rather large nose would only serve to distract from the truth of my absence.

Naturally, I couldn’t believe how the milk companies could leave you—my loyal and faithful readers—sitting there in the dark about my sudden disappearance.

So this post about my abduction became necessary.

Oh, but anyway, Toto, we’re home—home! And this is my blog—and you’re all here (well two or three of you anyway—and I’m not going to ever leave here again (unless I’m offered a seven-figure contract)—because I love you all (except for those of you who failed to return)—And… Oh, Auntie Em, there’s no blog like my own!

My apologies to The Wizard of Oz. Which reminds me… did I tell you how this huge tornado came down and swept me up to this land they call Oz?

Well you see, it all started when I encountered this witch… and well…

The Amazing World Of—Toilet Paper!

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Most of your are well acquainted with the fabulous product known as, toilet paper. For those of you who are not, you might want to turn over a new leaf.

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Aside from its most obvious use—that of TP-ing your enemies house before a rainstorm—there are plenty of other uses for this marvelous product.

For example: I remember this little snot who used to bully me at school. One day he ran out of Kleenex and I knew this would lead him—and his runny nose—racing for the nearest bathroom

With my usual foresight, I saw fit to un-spool all the toilet paper into the toilet bowls, thus leaving him with none to use. However—uncouth scamp that he was—he chose to wipe his nose on my sweater, instead. Not only did this leave me with a silver slick up my sleeve; it also left me with a lot of explaining to do—to the school custodian.

In time, I moved on and discovered some other practical uses for toilet paper. For instance; spitballing can be an enjoyable way to pass time while sitting in the stall of a school  bathroom. Simply wet the tissue and launch it upward. It’s truly amazing how well it sticks to the ceiling.

Did you know that you can cover an entire ceiling with the stuff? Not to mention how it can lead you and the principal to getting better acquainted with one another while sitting together in his office.

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Over the years creativity set in. Once, I was chewing some gum while sitting in a stall of the office bathroom—a place I had grown quite familiar with—when all of a sudden, I had an epiphany. Fortunately I was on my meds at the time—but that didn’t stop me from getting an idea, too.

I thought; why not attach the gum to a piece of toilet paper and place it on the floor in the next stall?

It worked to near perfection. Eventually some stooge came in and sat down. When he got up to leave, he stepped right on my little trap and off he went. It was too easy. All I had to do now was follow the toilet paper attached to the knuckleheads shoe. Out of the main office I went, through the halls, to the playground, in and out of several classrooms…

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Eventually arriving back in the school principal’s…office!

Apparently, I had made one tiny mistake. That of leaving some gum on the floor in my stall, too. My shoe had stepped on the end of the toilet paper I was using. This made it very easy for his bloodhounds—(the very mean) Mrs. Montrose and her maniacal henchman, Mr. Bentley, to track me down.

Thus proving, they weren’t really trackers after all. Just a couple of lucky teachers—leaving me terribly unlucky.

None of my ingenious lies seemed to sway the principal from his decision to put me in solitary, thus forcing me to do hard time in (the truly evil) Mrs. Montrose class—while having to stay after school. Six months of that can have a profound affect on you. It caused me to go straight. Straight back to the bathroom. Where I discovered another amazing use for toilet paper.

Called, wiping your…

Who said school wasn’t educational?

 

 

 

 

 

Honey, We Need To Talk

If you watch daytime programming or any kind of retro television, you may be acquainted with an AARP Medicare Supplement Insurance Plan ad. There’s this older couple, they’re in a car (he’s driving), when suddenly out of the blue the wife (who is in the passenger side of the vehicle) say’s to her husband…

“Honey, we need to talk.”

He responds with “We do? I took out the trash.” and she retorts “I know, and thank you so much for doing that.”

I’d say things were rolling along quite nicely, wouldn’t you? Oh, a little syrupy perhaps, but then my wife probably would have responded more like…

“Sure you did, just like last week and the week before that and the week before that. Each time I reminded you the night before, and you still forgot to take the trash out. Forcing me to get up and rush out in my slippers and robe, only to be ogled at by old man Mitchell—the pervert next door—all because I got locked out of the house on account of your forgetting to take out the trash the night before!” 

“Never mind that, though, that’s not the point I was trying to make.”

But, now that I think about it, she might be right. Mitchell does kind of ogle? Why last month, he did the same thing to me (ogle me that is) when my wife locked me out of the house, and in my underwear—and on purpose!

Its nothing, though, just a little game my wife likes to play—when she gets mad at me—for accidentally locking her out of the house.

Besides, he only stared at me for ten minutes—without blinking! Nah… what a ridiculous thought!

Now where was I? Oh yeah, the commercial. So anyway when the wife (by the way…that’s any wife) starts a conversation with, “Honey, we need to talk.” You can bet it’s not likely going to be about some Medicare Supplement Insurance Plan. I can tell you that. No siree!

No, now that she’s got you trapped in that speeding car (yes, you’re accelerating, any man would after a statement like that), she probably wants to know how lipstick got on your collar. In fact, you’re probably wanting to know how it got there too? That’s still not the point I wanted to make.

But, now that I think about it, I’m having some terrible thoughts.

What if I’m in a bathtub full of water and my wife walks in (a devious smile across her face), and with a toaster that’s plugged in!

And what if she decides to make that statement then?

“Honey, we need to talk.”

All I see is lights flashing on and off throughout the house.

Or, maybe, I have the car jacked up and I’m working underneath doing a repair job, when suddenly I see my wife’s high heels and she’s standing next to the car-jack saying,

“Honey, we need to talk.”

I have this horrible image of the car coming down on me—and boy is it ever heavy, because it’s not a VW bug!

Worse, I see myself hanging from my tool belt over the edge of the gutters while cleaning them out. Suddenly, my wife appears (smiling) standing on the roof above me, and she’s holding an extra sharp pair of pruning shears saying…

“Honey, we need to talk.” Clip, clip!

Uh… those are just crazy thoughts. I shouldn’t be trying to do a post anyway as I’m suppose to be figuring out why the pilot light’s out on our oven and I promised my wife I would get it done today.

She’ll be very disappointed if she finds me writing a post instead. Boy it sure smells like gas in here? Oh wait a minute, there’s my wife. This won’t take but a second and I’ll finish my thought.

“Oh, Hi honey! What’s that? We need to talk? Talk about what? Why are you standing outside the house with that lighter?” 

Why I Have So Little Time To Blog (and other great mysteries in my life you won’t care about)

I fear time is not on my side. I wonder if that’s because I stand on the left, and I’m not in my right…?

Anyway, maybe you’ve noticed how everything TAKES time, and have you also noticed…no ransom demand from EVERYTHING yet? Just thought I’d point that out. But, there never seems to be enough time, (And isn’t that just like money, there’s never enough of that either) to do everything we want to do.

The frustrating thing about time is that it can become an enemy. Some quick calculations have told me what I feared to think about when it comes to time (because thinking hurts my brain). One: that blogging and reading the blogs of others must be a figment of my imagination, as time is short. And two: … I’m thinking, I’m thinking… 

… Oh I remember… why time is short—at least in my case.

And why are these people masquerading as sheep in my dream?

First of all, there is only 24 hours in a day…I’ve never really bothered to count how many hours in a night (that might be because I’m too busy counting sheep, or people pretending to be sheep). But, I can tell you that practically all the hours in my day (especially the good ones) are all spoken for long before I ever reach my keyboard to work on my blog.

And I believe none of this will help the time/space continuum thing either—not that that is relevant. But those of you who blog here at WordPress, might want to help the rest of us poor saps tell WordPress “To stop mucking around and making a mess of things!” And I think that’s relevant.

Okay, I’m down with it, and off my soapbox. And no, I’m not off my rocker, Ed with no last name from Plainview, Texas! You and I can meet in a dark alley later, Ed.

Anyway, back to my calculations. Now this may be fuzzy math to you (forget logic), but I figure 8 hours of sleep (on a good night, and 30 seconds on a bad nap, but that’s just me). An hour to get ready for work (and I don’t even put makeup on… some days). And an hour to relax when I come home from work (in my dreams).

Then there’s walk the dog, walk the wife, and walk the self just to recover from those walks, and that’s a dead man walking. Help cook dinner (after I wash the morning dishes and last nights left over pots), another hour there, and that’s only if I remembered to let them soak first.

Which I didn’t. DARN!

Help the child with the homework—15 hours! Oh, then there is the nightly budget discussion—but what budget? Heck, I can’t even budget the hours I have in a day (seeing as I don’t have enough hours to work with in the first place, not to mention any grey matter left), much less find time to work on the monetary financial report for the family.

Now that leaves just enough time for…(zzz). Oh, my wife is snoring…again “Honey…honey…oh well, must be another headache night. That makes the 31st time this month, just like last month—only there were 30 days last month!

Let’s see…there are 365 days in a year, and how many times did we…? Well never mind.

So where was I? Oh, hours left in a day. According to my calculations (new math, which by now must be old math) that would leave me with… no time for blogging!

I’m going to have to post on this subject tomorrow, because I just ran out of time again.

The State Of “The Attic” Address (and former employee…Bob)

The Idiot

The following is from the CEO (public nuisance) of “In My Cluttered Attic”

Welcome good readers. I take great pride (in the misery of others) that I (he means his writers) provide a blog that offers an escape and refuge (insane asylum) from your daily strife.

However, you may have noticed that I’ve been gone for a week (A week! Oh I think we all know he’s been GONE much longer than that) so that I could get some badly needed rest (something this slacker knows plenty about).

But, now I’m back (help us Obe-Won, you’re only hope!).

And it’s time for the monthly “In My Cluttered Attic” state of the blog address (that’s new, when did this happen?). The state of my blog is strong (obviously the guy is delusional and hasn’t seen his stats lately).

As many of you have noticed (chirp, chirp, chirp…etc) I have not posted in a week (for which we are all grateful). You may be asking yourself, why (not really)?

Well there’s a simple explanation for this (because the author of this blog is a simpleton?); a quality post takes time (not if your good) and I have been working on a (fifth of Jack Daniels) post worthy of you, my many followers (actually, he’s quite paranoid).

That, and my internet provider has been having problems of late (sure and I have a bridge to sell you in the Mojave Desert). I had writers block too (nothing new there). And finally, I was hard at work all week long (try hardly working).

Sometimes this happens to great writers (and frequently to this dope). But, don’t be alarmed dear readers (I’m not… are any of you?) as this is only a passing predicament for me (that has plagued him all his life).

Occasionally (try always), I find myself staring at a blank screen (with a vacant look due to his lack of intelligence) not sure what I’ll write next (as I, and all his other gag writers just quit and he’s lost without us) before a post finally crystallizes in my mind (first, you to have one…a mind, that is).

But, that is the exception (try the rule, moron) here “In My Cluttered Attic.”

I had writers (block) who desperately tried to provide laughs (frequently) for you, my loyal readers (accidentally sucked into this black hole he likes to call a blog).

But, I was recently forced to let them all go (we fled…happily), because they were (competent and refused to work for nothing) demanding more than they were worth (its called a paycheck, TIGHTWAD!).

Have no fear though (if I were you, I’d be petrified) followers of “The Attic” because your prayers for better writing has been answered (did you all go back to reading scripture?).

And with that, let us begin (to abandon this clown) again. SHUT-UP BOB, I FIRED YOU! (I quit, REMEMBER?)

Oh…You’re Going To Love This ‘Cause I Said So

When we were young, we all sought to be something special when we grew up. But ask yourself this; did we grow up to be that something special we thought we we’re going to be?

Firemen, doctors, nurses, and astronauts?

Did you say, “When I grow up, I’m going to be an assembly line worker? No, of course not. Or how about when you were asked “What career will you choose for yourself? And you responded with “I’m going to flip hamburgers at a fast food joint for the rest of my life.” Amnesia?

Well somebody has to do those jobs, how else do you explain my ever expanding waistline?

I remember when I was first asked what I was going to be when I grew up, and at that particular moment sugar plum fairies were dancing around in my head (I was fast asleep at my desk. Whad’ya expect?).

Hey… I was just resting up for a big spelling test to come later in the day, when out of the blue my first grade teacher asked that famous question…

“Johnny, what do you want to be when you grow up?” I was so startled to see her waving her finger at me that I instantly replied, “My name is Paul, you sent Johnny to the office earlier for sleeping at his desk, and someday I’m going to be a programming executive for a big name television network!

Gasp, and thud! Boy, talk about hitting a floor hard. Well its her own fault, she was overweight anyway. The heavier they are, the harder they fall.

Mrs. Field was sent to intensive care… where she still resides today. There she sits in her bed, quietly grading papers well into the night, and under intense observation by armed guard (on my payroll)—just in case she ever decides to have second thoughts about altering my spelling test grade from the now A+ to her judgemental F-.

I must say, I was ahead of my time during those years of the coat-hanger resting on top of a television.

But one day, the coat-hanger evolved into a pair of rabbit ears. So naturally, my hand was required to rest on one end of the antenna at all times. Lest my dad lost the picture on the screen, due to fuzz, and in turn the football game he was watching.

In the years since, the blood returned to my arm and I regained most of the use of my fingers. This was fortuitous, otherwise I’d never have been able to switch channels manually.

My doctor (being a visionary) said the paralyses would go away in time for cable television.

As predicted, eventually fiber-optic cable came to rule the day, and most of our income too. But clear TV was out of the question. There are some things a man should not have to do without. Live sporting events for one, and the remote, “Honey, I need another beer… chop, chop!

Whad’ya doing with that big frying pan?”

(Whop!)

Wow… just went by just like that! (SNAP!)

Where was I? Oh yes…

In the old days (1966 B.C.) before cable, the network voice-over guy would announce the name of a particular show—this was in spite of the fact that the title was already spelled out for you on the screen (I can only assume this was because I failed that spelling test in Mrs. Fields class, and was now… unable to read).

A male voice would intone, “Bewitched,” “Time Tunnel,” or especially, “Batman…In Color!” Oohs and ahhs would ring throughout the house, even though we only had a black and white television. Later, RCA Victor rectified that little problem, saving us all from a world without color.

Before that, I vaguely remember my blood being all black.

I’m an excellent programming director without a network. I’d sit and write my own series creations, complete with title, and synopsis. Here are a few…

“Dancing with the Star” With your host, Elvis Presley. Elvis would have given the winning dancer a free Cadillac. Who wouldn’t have wanted that from the King of Rock and Roll.

Too Oprah?

Okay, its about time that the western genre made a return to television.

Here’s one, “Tan Hide… In Color” Tonight, Tan rides into town and after a few drinks in a saloon, kisses the town drunk by mistake. He then puts a saddle on what he believes to be his horse (but is actually, the town Marshal) and climbs aboard yelling “giddyup!” Now the town wants to hang Tan as a horse thief. The Marshall, just wants to hang him! (30 min).

You want cops? How about, “John Smith, The Normal Cop” Donuts have been disappearing by the dozens all over  Everytown, USA… population 12. John decides to go undercover and nab the culprit. No one suspects a thing until John sits down and eats a whole dozen of Krispy Kremes, while drinking a fine cup of Jo over at Emma’s Emporium. (30 min).

Alright, you want medical drama? My network has that too.

“Peruvian Jungle Zombie M.D.” In the series opener, doctor Hector Enrique Alonzo Fernandez becomes a certifiable zombie surgeon. However, the last thing he expected was being called on to save the life of a young transvestite (let alone anyone) wondering the Peruvian Jungle. (60min).

Eat your heart out NBC executives. You turned down these show ideas for another rehash of Heroes? No wonder you guys are last in the ratings.

Why You Are Here—Mystery Solved

One of the great mysteries of the universe… about to be revealed? You may not realize it yet, but knowing the difference between success, and failure is why you are here.

Oh sure, there are people in life who are massive failures—Adolph Hitler, Adam and Eve, and he who shall not be named (Voldemort)—come to mind. But then, Hitler had a funny mustache under his nose, Adam and Eve probably had noses like Pinocchio, and Voldemort never even had a nose.

Whereas, I’m nothing like any of them—because I own a big red one.

By the way, none of this nose talk has anything to do with why a person is a success or failure, or even… why you are here. But, that was as clear as the nose on your face, right?

I suppose some would tell you the reason why we are here, is to be successful and have plenty of money, because then you could come and go as you please.

Well, my pink piggy bank is stuffed with pennies, and still he sits on my dresser (could it be because he’s too fat?), unable to walk due to the weight of all those pennies he ate.

That’s why HE’S here.

And while others may measure success by how much is in their 401 K, 300 J, or 502 L , I can’t be concerned by phoney numbers like that, I’m far too busy counting all the real money I’ve made from recycling this week. Do you know it was nearly $15 bucks!

Makes you think TWICE as much about drinking beer, let me tell ya.

People have suggested I should put my money in a bank. Well I’m no fool… I went and got direct deposit! Others recommended I invest in bonds… so I bought tickets to every James Bond movie ever made. Financially speaking; I think you’ll agree… that’s got me where I am today.

I’m not saying I haven’t miscalculated at times.

For example; some will be quick to point out that you measure success by being part of creating something special. Well I tried that. I went to my wife and said; “Honey, lets create something special.” She replied, “I gave you children, what else do you want?”

I have to admit… that didn’t pay off too well, in fact… at times it’s cost us plenty!

Experts will tell you; you’re only a success once you’ve become famous. I thought about being a stand-up comedian—then I realized I wasn’t quick enough on my feet to dodge all that rotten fruit, so I became a sit-down comedian.

Writing humor afforded me the time to correct, what a live audience would not. Thus, I’m sure you’ll agree, that the wonderfully comic stylings you find here, are like nothing you’ll find anywhere else on WordPress.

Stop laughing.

I explored writing a novel, novella, and short story, but settled on producing the most impossible to find blog on the entire internet. Those of you who’ve found it—can you blame me?

When you stumbled in here, you likely felt like you’d found buried treasure, and that’s why you stayed—that, and the new bulbs for the Exit lights are on back order.

So here you are in my blog with the most successful (not a failure in his own mind), impossible to find humorist, on the entire internet, and you’re probably asking yourself…

“Now that he has SUCCESSFULLY lured me in here… and under false pretenses… HOW THE HELL DO I GET OUT?”

And that’s why you are here—mystery solved.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Back To The Hover—Uh, Drawing Board

Thanks for nothing Toyota. Way to break our hearts Lexus. In 1989 Marty McFly went “Back to the Future (2)” to glide on air while riding a hoverboard from the year, 2015.

However, at present (2015 in the year of our McFly), Marty McFly might find hovering on air… to be something of a really neat trick. Oh sure the—hoverboards that glide on air—do exist, but you… I… and Marty McFly… can’t have one.

Well that’s not completely true. We can have one…for a price, as long as we don’t use it anywhere except where they tell us to use it…if we use it at all—which we can’t.

If you happen to have $10,000 lying around that you don’t need, or wouldn’t miss, if you wanted to donate it toward the purchase of a hoverboard, you might find yourself going “Back to the Future (2) too!”

A few companies have not only designed the hoverboard, but have put it into production. And yes… it does hover on air, and in some cases—it’s hot air.

The first ten Hendo hoverboards (from a company called, Arx Pax), are expected to be ready to go sometime in October, and just in time to celebrate the re-release of Back to the Future (2).

Just one small problem…the first ten boards are all spoken for, and by other people not named Marty McFly, and yours truly.

Now I agree, that yours truly is kind of an odd sounding last name, but these days the utility companies don’t care what name they call you by—as long as you pay them!

That brings us to Toyota and Lexus… you remember I mentioned hot air?

Well, their scientist have hatched a plan to put a board out there which will also glide on air. Only there is one tiny little problem—you and I can’t have one. You’d think it’s because our last name isn’t McFly, right? Wrong. Its because the hoverboard is a prototype, used only in a commercial to showcase the talent they have for modern technology.

They swear that they have a board that glides on air, HONEST. They’ve even made a video where someone ALMOST stepped on the hoverboard. But again, this is only for promotional purposes. Its all about showing what their scientist’s can ALMOST do—someday.

Okay, so the boards will work, but only in a controlled setting.

And let us not lose sight of the important thing to take away from all of this new technology…

That even if you have the money, you still don’t get the board that ALMOST hovers, because you are not among the chosen ten, nor is Marty McFly—or yours truly.

If that really is my name?

The Tale Of Angus O’ Malley And The Elephant

A short story by Yors Twooly from Svetzerland:

When Angus O’ Malley, was but a small lad living in Dublin, Ireland, he was struck with the thought that one day he would like to write the “Great American Novel.” A novel concept to be sure, for anyone but an American, and especially for that of an Irishman.

But truth be told, Angus was not at first struck by this thought… but by an elephant. You might say, his idea of writing the “Great American Novel” probably became something of an afterthought.

However, this was no ordinary elephant, but rather a large cast iron candle holder—shaped like an elephant. All the same, when one is hit on the head with a large cast iron candle holder shaped like an elephant, the effect is still pretty much the same.

You can well imagine the profound effect the incident had on Angus and his memory—say nothing of his appearance because of his now, lumpy head.

And although Angus O’ Malley made a conscious decision to write the “Great American Novel” that was before the cast iron elephant fell on his head. Apparently, he made an unconscious decision to walk under the shelf the elephant fell from—no doubt leading to further unconsciousness.

Angus O’ Malley was a small lad of 4 foot 2, but that was before the blow on the head left him a diminutive 3 foot 8.

Years went by like a herd of pachyderms, yet always the “Great American Novel” was in the back of his mind—literally. The elephant had stunted not only his growth, but his idea of writing the “Great American Novel.”

Then one night, Angus awoke from a sound sleep to write. He went to his computer and sat at the keyboard only to have the power go out. Undeterred, he grabbed paper and pen and began scribbling in the dark.

He was about to write by the glow of candlelight, when all of a sudden the power returned, and he found himself face to face with the cast iron candle holder in the shape of an elephant. You see, Angus may have forgot, but as anyone can tell you—an elephant never forgets. 

It’s times like these that try a writers patience—and perhaps that of his readers too. Angus was no different, and so he adopted the pen name of, Yors Twooly from Svetzerland, as an alternative to his novel idea—and then went on to write this short story instead.

Because, as you all know by now; no one ever TALKS about the elephant in the room.