The Most Outlandish Tale About Anxiety and Depression Ever Told

Wait wait, the story doesn’t start here!  This is a blog hop, people!  Click HERE to start from the beginning.

—–

The taller of the two figures looks straight at me and says,

“Is there something I can help you with?!”

He seems a little annoyed. I try to play it light,

“Um, your extension cord is showing…hee, hee…”

The shorter one frantically begins looking over the bundle. The droplets of sweat that have accumulated on his forehead spill to the ground in a salty typhoon for any passing by ants to enjoy. He spies the extension cord and reaches for it with one hand.

“No! Stop! We are dropping it!” the Tall one grits through his teeth.

The bundle starts to shift in their arms. Both men grasp for purchase, but gravity reaches up and yanks the package hard from their limbs. It hits the ground like a 300 pound professional wrestler hitting the mat in an over exaggerated, yet somewhat aerodynamic, death fall.

The metallic thunk reverberates off the pavement and bounces off the apartment walls.

The tall one hisses, “Jesus, we are going to wake up every make-up wielding dateless chick in the neighborhood!”

“Hey!” I said indigently. “Do not, and I mean, DO NOT call me a dateless chick! I am a dateless woman!”

“Sorry,” the Tall one replies.

Suddenly all eyes look at the plastic bag lying on the ground, which is now tiger stripped shredded from the contents within. What looks like a rather large lava lamp wearing a Christmas turtleneck is revealed. It also has two big hubcap wheels on the bottom of it, and two antenna sticking out of the top of it. The largest extension cord ever protrudes from a small compartment on it’s…butt? Duct tape is randomly stuck to it here and there.

“Poop on a stick, she has seen it!” hisses the Smaller one.

“Well, you know what we have to do now…” Tall replies with a rather wicked grin on his face.

—-

Click HERE to continue the story.

 

Not A Good Way To End The Year

Fiction

The cigarette hung from his fingers of bone inches over the glass table top.  The smoke wisped into where ever smoke wisps too, just kind of up and gone. The hooded figure attached to the cigarette was slumped over slightly. His attire consisted of nothing but a single robe which hung slackly over his skeletal frame. The robe was old and a colorless gray. A heavy sigh was heard from inside the deep black hole where a rosy face should have been.

“Ok,” said a voice out of the left most darken corner in the room. “Let’s start from the beginning.”

The hooded figure sighed again, “How many times are we going to go over this?”

“As many times as it takes for me to get a story I believe.”

The  hand holding the cigarette raised from the table and disappeared into the nothingness of the face hole. Smoke billowed out, looking like some starless part of the galaxy that was on fire.

The voice from the corner spoke again, “Start from the beginning.”

“Of course,” said the robe with a smile. You couldn’t see his smile, but you sure could hear the smile. It was a blood curdling smile. A smile that many, many, people saw as the last thing they ever saw. A smile that stopped the blood flowing in ones veins. “I was making my rounds…”

“On what date was this?”

“It was on December 12th, 12:38 am  to be precise. I was assigned a Mr. Robert Hupert as my next collection. Mr. Hupert lived in the suburbs in a single story house. Nice lawn, well taken care of…I remember that. Anyway, easy stuff. I entered through the south wall and landed in the kitchen. It was a small kitchen. I was surprised as to how small it was…I don’t know why…you know, just compared to what the outside of the house looked like. Anyway, I was thirsty so I helped myself to a glass of water from the built in water dispenser in the door of the refrigerator. As with just about everyone’s refrigerator  in the world, pictures of what I assumed where the Grand-kids hung with those cheap fruit shaped magnets. A little boy was featured in one photograph, and a little girl in the other. The rest of the photos had them both in it, playing, laughing, hugging…it could have been any house in the world really…”

The Robbed Hood paused.

“Go on,” prodded the corner.

“Right. So I had a job to do and about seven others on my list for that evening. I admit I was in a hurry, but I’m pretty good at what I do. I have been doing it forever…literally forever. ”

Hood sneezed and a spider shot out from the black hole of his face, hit the table on it’s side. It recovered awkwardly and quickly, and then scampered away.

“Sorry,” he said and wiped his hole with the back of his cigarette holding sleeve. “So I head into Hupert’s bedroom where I expect him to be sleeping with  one of those CPAP machines attached to his face. I see a lot of CPAP machines anymore.”

“We don’t need to know that stuff, just stick to the relevant facts.”

“Hupert wasn’t asleep. He was awake.”

“So?”

“He could see me,” said Hood. “He was looking right at me. I knew he could see me. His face was flush of color and he was shaking. He also pointed at me. His mouth was open and moving, but no sound was coming out. This is a look I’m only used to seeing when the collected are in their last seconds of life. I like to look into their eyes as the last bit of their soul leaves their bodies. The eyes lose their shine slowly, like a fading star until…pop…nothing. The eyes, after  they lose their soul mind you, remind me of rocks you find in a river bed; dull, lifeless, flatten, hard…but regardless…Hupert could definitely see me.

‘What do you want?’ Hupert asked me.

‘I’m here to collect you,’ I responded. ‘How can you see me?’

‘What do you mean?’ Hupert asked.

‘How can you see me?’ I asked again. ‘Normally you can’t see me until you are toting that fine line between this life and the next.’

‘I don’t understand what you just said, but why are you dressed like the Grim Reaper?’

‘Because,’ I said matter-of-factly, which is how I always talk. ‘I am the Grim Reaper.’

Hupert started to whimper, then he started to cry.

‘Why? Why me?’ he said.

It’s what they all say. If I had a nickel for every time I heard that question…

(I don’t know what I would do with it. I have no need for money. It would just be a big pile of nickels, I guess.)

‘Because, you have been ordered to be collected. I am never told why. I just collect.’

‘No, I’m way too young! I’m only 47! There has to be a mistake!’

If I had a quarter for every time I heard that this has to be a mistake…

(Again…just a big pile of wasted quarters.)

Hupert suddenly jumped out the window and ran down the street. I was stunned. That has never happened to me before. I didn’t know what to do. I just stood there for a moment. Then I headed back into the kitchen, got a beer and a slice of turkey from the fridge, and left.”

“You just left?” asked the corner in shock.

“Yeah,” replied the Reaper. “I just left.”

Some papers rustled from the darken unseen corner. “Do you know in the billion years we have been doing this, we have never had someone scheduled for collection just run away?! Not one! We have always collected! Our record, until now, has been 100% collected! What the hell where you thinking?!”

The Reaper sighed.

“I wasn’t,” he replied. “I was still in shock… he could see me.”

“Some special people can see you, like Mediums, Clairvoyants, Bakers, Priests…”

“Bakers?”

“I don’t know why, but yes, bakers,” boomed the corner as more papers were shuffled. “You’re fired.”

The Grim Reaper didn’t say anything. He had never been fired before, but of course this had been his one and only job ever.

“What about the quota?” asked the Grim Reaper.

The man from the darken corner stepped out of the shadows. He was wearing a white robe and had a long beard. In one hand he held a stack of official looking papers, in the other he stroked his beard. “We will just have to have a run on of ‘natural disasters’, the Midwest is due for a tornado, Japan needs another tsunami soon anyway. We will figure it out until we hire a suitable replacement. Not your concern.”

“Just don’t get Eligos. I hate that guy.”

“Not your concern.”

The Grim Reaper got up and grabbed his sickle…

“Leave the sickle,” said the Other.

The Grim Reaper got up, leaving his sickle, and walked out the door. Maybe he would go visit the tropics for awhile, have a vacation before deciding what to do with the rest of his eternity…maybe he would check out that restaurant on the fourth level of Hell that’s been getting all the rave reviews…

Maybe he would just seek out Hupert and kill him.

Do the job right.

Get his position back.

Maybe he would buy a puppy instead.

So many possibilities…

The Grim Reaper sighed to himself.

To be continued?

The Gift Of The Scratchi

Once upon a time, in a little village, just south southwest of Santa’s Workshop, in the North Pole, there lived an older couple. This couple was each on their third marriage, although that doesn’t have anything to do with anything…I’m just making conversation. Now the couple didn’t have much money. The husband had started a potato washing business that wasn’t as profitable as it was expected to be, and the wife hadn’t been to work since she was diagnosed with elephantiasis in her left leg. Needless to say, Christmas was around the corner and the couple had no money to buy each other presents.

The husband thought, “Well it’s Christmas…I have to get my wife something!”

So he decided to rummage through the couch cushions and look for loose coins. He looked and looked and looked, and finally found 22 pennies, 3 nickels, one of them minted in the year 1978…which really didn’t have anything to do with anything…just making an observation…2 dimes, and 2 quarters for a grand total of $1.07.  The husband looked at the coins in his hand and sighed. What could he possibly buy with this? A pack of gum? A toothbrush?

Meanwhile in another part of the house, the wife was looking under their bedroom mattress. All year she would stash a dollar here and a dollar there as a little nest egg for Christmas. The problem was that all year she would also borrow a dollar here and a dollar there with the intention of paying it back, yet she never would. Currently all that resided in the mattress Christmas nest was one dollar.  A single tear rolled down her cheek as she got a paper cut on the tip of her finger from grabbing that one little dollar bill.

“What can I do with this?” thought the wife. “Buy a pack of playing cards? A plastic kazoo? A band aid?”

Both the husband and the wife both felt a little dejected, a little depressed, and a little tipsy because both of them were drunks…nothing to do with this particular story, just throwing it out there for discussion.

The husband grabbed his coat and called to his wife that he was going for a walk.

“OK!” she called back. There was little chance she would join him due to her left leg being the size of a VW Bus thanks to the elephantiasis, so the husband had a few moments to himself to think.

So he did.

He thought and he walked, and walked and thought, until he stopped in front of a convenience store. He stood there for a moment as his breath billowed in front of his face from the cold brisk air. He could see the worry lines on his forehead mirrored in the window of the store. He could also see the beer case, because as explained earlier, he was a raging drunk. And lastly he could see the counter where the lottery tickets were advertised. In his pocket, his hand clasped on the coins and he headed into the store.

Come that Christmas morn as the husband and the wife gathered in front of their Christmas tree which made Charlie Brown’s look like a lush Evergreen, he took her hand, and patted her enormous leg and whispered,

“I love you. Merry Christmas.”

He pulled out the  scratch off lottery ticket he bought with the change and handed it to her. He also handed her one of the left over pennies that he didn’t spend. This was so she could rub off that mystery silver cover that hides the winning numbers from the naked eye.

She smiled, and rub the penny back and forth over the ticket, slowly and with determination, all the while biting her lower lip. She turned the ticket to her husband when she was done, and said,

“We won.”

“What?” asked the husband gasping for breath. “Really?”

“Yes,” she said with the biggest grin. “We won a free lottery ticket.”

“Merry Christmas,” said the husband.

Merry Christmas,” replied his wife and slipped the dollar she had found into his pants pocket.

This doesn’t really pertain to the story, but later they got snockered on eggnog…you know…just throwing it out there…for conversations sake…

Merry Christmas to all.

Six Christmas Reindeer that Didn’t Make the Delivery Team

This is a piece that was written by my fellow Pauser, Chowderhead and myself…well to be honest it was about 90% Chowderhead and 10% myself.

The task of expediting billions of presents to mouthy brats around the globe in one night is a heaping pile of responsibility – one that requires a sharp, sober team of hoofed navigators to help carry it out. There’s only room for one drunken deviant on the parcel delivery team, and that’s Santa Claus; a morbidly obese shut-in operating under the delusion that wearing a belt and boots with red pajamas is more than a just a kinky homage to Hugh Hefner, it’s a fashion statement.

Assembling a dashing team of sleigh navigators has historically been no simple task – one that requires a formal tryout, which annually results in reject letters being handed out to dozens of four-legged, horn bearing hopefuls. Remember all those Reindeer games? These caribou take it seriously and have been training all their lives!

Now I know you’re familiar with Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donner, Blitzen, and that freak, Rudolph; but according to some loose media source there were 6 previously unknown potentials that narrowly made the cut.

(To be honest, they weren’t even close to making the cut.)

Flasher

Official scouting report notes indicated that this obscene creature couldn’t keep his reindeer gear tucked between his furry little thighs during the tryouts. A lewd compulsion to flash his candy cane and holly berries in front of festive front room windows not only kept him off the team, but also nearly landed him a two year stay on the pet offenders list.

Dahmer

Initially, his calm demeanor and ability to take orders earned him a spot on the flight crew team. However, his membership status was revoked shortly after scouts discovered his hidden cannibalistic tendencies. He didn’t last too long at tryout camp, and neither did his stable mate, Meaty.

Square Dancer

It was determined that this uncoordinated mess of a creature might potentially blow the cover so to speak. During the trial package drop, Square Dancer attempted to Doe See Doe with Flasher, producing unacceptable decibel levels up on the roof tops.

Grab your partner don’t be shy,

Eat some magic corn, then you’ll fly

Land on the roofop, dosey doe

Santa is in the house,

your ass is standing in the snow

 

Nixon

A soft spoken and charismatic leader-type at first glance. However, walking papers were issued after one scouting team official candidly discovered him editing Christmas Lists and the official package delivery route. The incident was later coined, KringleGate. For the full story, you can watch the movie, All The Reindeer’s Men starring The Elf that Wanted to be a Dentist and the cast of The Island of Misfit Toys.

Vomit

Suffers from motion sickness. Also didn’t look good for any publicity photo shoots, for Vomit always had about six air sickness bags hanging off of him…just in case.

Stupid

His offenses are too long to list. Fellow trial mates frequently complained of inappropriate blinker usage during practice flights, and Stupid fell of a roof during one trial run while attempting a chimney handstand. The incident resulted in a broken femur, insurance settlement dispute that has been ongoing since its occurrence. Officials would not release any further details or names of the scouts associated with Stupid’s official invitation, but it’s been rumored that Stupid maybe in the new Jackass movie.

Blitzed’n

This deer liked his beer, which affected his steer. His also liked his vodka, just like his poppa. You would usually find him in passed out in the gutter, with a hooker nicknamed, Nutter Butter.

Since we are talking alternative reindeer, did you know that when Rudolph throws a hissy fit because he is such a big celebrity, (sometimes they do that) that his cousin from Germany, Christoph sometimes fill in?

True fact.

Which Would Win In A Fight…Writing Or Child Birth?

Writing for me is hard.

It’s really hard.

Writing to me, is like spending days, weeks, months, even years in labor. Pushing and prodding, sweating and cursing, groaning and straining and out pops the top of the head…but only the top of the head. You look at the head and think,

‘That’s a nice looking head, but what could be better about the head? I mean, I like the shape and the little wispy hairs, but..is that a dent on the side? What are those red blotches? Can I make those red blotches look better? I can’t. I don’t know what would make those red blotches look better! Dammit! Is there too much hair going on up here? Is there too little? I hate this baby! No I love this baby, I will never give up on it!’

So you push some more, and it hurts…oh boy does it hurt! But you produce a whole head! You look down between your legs and marvel at the head you have just produced. You see two bright blue sparkling shiny eyes and a nice button nose…wait…my baby’s nose is really a button! That’s not good. We can fix that in the next draft, no worries. OK, what else here? Oh yes, cute little mouth with some toothless gums…that works…and a right ear and only a right ear…

What the hell? Where is the other ear?! I just spent three weeks on this baby and it only has one ear! How can I fix this? I can’t! I just squeezed out this whole head and it’s missing an ear! There is no repairing this! I can’t just shove this head back into my cranial vagina…it’s already hanging out there! I even made the mistake of telling a few friends that I was thinking about birthing something! I remember telling the neighbor yesterday,

‘Yeah, I decided to birth a short story. I don’t know, maybe if it goes well I might turn it into a novella or possibly a novel. We will see. There a couple of publishing nurses I was thinking about shopping it around too, but you know it’s so hard nowadays with all the HMO Blogs and the Affordable Health Care Self-Publishing Services nowadays…the completion is fierce. Dr. Mom says I should go for it. She says I have always had the writing cervix for it, so I figure…what the hell? How hard could it be?’

So now I’m hunched over, cradling this one ear baby as I try find some inspiration. Do you know how hard it is to waddle around with a one ear baby dangling between your legs? Starbucks won’t serve you in this condition.

I tried.

“Um yes…I would like a Mocha Machismo Skinny Carmel Al Pacino Latte, Extra Froth, Double Lid, please.”

“Sorry, we only serve Hipsters, Accomplished Writers, and Moms here.”

“Really?! Since when?”

“Do you know you have a one eared baby hanging between your legs?”

“Yes! I guess I’ll go to Café McDonalds instead.”

“Good, and you might want to be careful! You’re banging that baby against your leg every time you take a step…on its good ear.”

Writing sucks.

It’s also hard to sleep with a one eared baby between your legs. It’s annoying. The thing is always crying,

‘Feed me! Finish me! Fix my ear! Change my sentence structure, its dirty! Where’s my Starbucks?’

I can’t get you Starbucks, its only for clever people, clever people that can sit down and bang out a 92,000 word novel in two hours and its sequel over tea with the Queen of England while inking the movie rights to Steven Lucas del Toro.

I can’t even fix your ear. I’ve tried. I tried hot glue, duct tape, cookie batter…

Then it comes down to the point of:

Do you just live with this baby head, ignoring it for the rest of your life?

Or

Do you take a Samurai sword to it, aborting it into the digital trash can, never to see the light of day again?

Or

Do you keep pushing, hoping the rest of it comes out alright? You know, two arms, two legs, a feasible plot line, a cute little belly button romance perhaps…or at least an “innie.”

(“Outies” are so in your face.)

Or

Do you just put a gigantic hat over it, covering it up, and call it, “taking a break.”

If you could see all the gigantic hats I have in my drafts folder, you would call me a whore.

More often than not I want take this one eared baby between my legs and punch it in the face and scream at it,

“I hate you one eared baby! Things were going to well! Why did you have to have only have one ear?! Do you think Steven King ever produces a one eared baby? No! How about Tom Clancy? I think not! What about J.R.R. Tokien? I’m pretty sure all the Hobbits had two ears and that extra ‘R’ in his name stood for Radical!”

Whoever invented writing hates puppies.

So why do it? Why write? Why bother?

I don’t know. These thoughts just get inside my head and I feel the need to put them on paper regardless if they are good, or bad, or rambling…or stupid. Does everyone else in the blogisphere actually really enjoy doing it? Am I the only one that hates it? I would rather sit on the couch and eat jalapeño Cheetos and watch really bad reality television than write…but I know my brain will turn to mush.

Well…mushier.

Mush potatoes.

McMush potatoes.

Now to be totally honest, there was no point to this except I’m stuck at a point in my story called, “Fatty McFat Fat Fat” and I needed to take a break. I decided to continue the birthing process, be it good or bad, or if it has one ear or three…so thank you for listening for a minute.

I feel better.

I’m going to waddle out of here now, please stop staring at the baby head between my legs.

The Story of the First Black Friday

Many, many years ago the Pilgrims sailed across the ocean surviving cramped conditions, disease, and weather.

After almost turning around twice since Google maps was lacking the proper updates, they finally reached the New World when Mrs. Jones made Captain Jones ask for directions from some sea Sirens.

But things were not any better once they landed upon the shore. They endured even more hardships: food was scarce, the winters were hard, the wifi signal sucked, and no HBO.

One day, as chance would happen, a native of the land was sent out by his wife to pick up a six pack of deer skin, when he happened upon the dying settlement. Seeing a need to help these people, and knowing his wife was going to be out all afternoon with her friends down at the river gossiping about the new shorten hem lines of the latest buffalo skin dresses of 1621, he decided to school these white devils.

The name of that Native American was Squantoski. He had learned to speak English from an illegal obtained copy of Rosetta Rock. Little know fact, it was later renamed Rosetta Stone as the program became more streamlined.

Squantoski made the mistake of introducing himself to the Pilgrim Vinny first. Vinny had the bad habit of giving everyone nicknames, and dubbed Squantoski as Squid Lips. Squid Lips did not take a liking to this nickname at all and threatened to scalp Vinny if he didn’t come up with something cooler, and thus was introduced to the rest of the village as Squanto.

Squanto taught the village how to fish, build better shelters, plant maize, and build hedge mazes.

The Pilgrims were so grateful that they invited Squanto and his posse over for a big feast of turkey, mashed potatoes, green bean casserole with those crunchy fried onions on top, canned cranberries, and small pox.

The Pilgrims thought this to be a big success, and decided to hold this dinner every year there after. The Native Americans agreed, until they started dying off from the small pox. Those that survived plotted revenge.

They thought and schemed all year and came up with a four fold plan.

Step One: Introduce the game of football. This would distract the men folk from helping to prepare the Thanksgiving meal and making the woman angry and resentful.

Step Two: Come up with the concept of Black Friday where the village merchants would hold incredible sales deals the day after Thanksgiving. The woman would go crazy over the opportunity to save money and also be sleep deprived as they stayed up all night running from store to store, and deal to deal in order to get the biggest bang for their wampum*.

Step Three: Have a plan in place so by the year 2020 Black Friday would actually start at 9:00 am on Thanksgiving Day. This would cause division and fights in families as to whether or not to shop, watch football, or eat turkey.

Step Four: As the white man slowly destroys itself every Thanksgiving Day, the Native Americans retake their land with all the casino money they have acquired over the years.

Happy Black Friday everyone!

*wampum is the currency of the pilgrim.

On A Side Note: With Author Rodney Lacroix

Join me over at Long Awkward Pause today as I interview or don’t interview Moooooog35 aka Rodney Lacroix. He has a new book and it’s hilarious!

This was supposed to be an interview with author and humorist Rodney Lacroix, but since the man decided to release a book* and get married in the same week, I decided to do him a favor…well, more his for his bride… I decided do the article without him. Rodney agreed to do the interview mind you, but I have learned that women are crazy, especially when they are getting married…or eating, or watching TV, or…even sleeping!

So, you know Rodney…you owe me. I saved your marriage before it even began. I had made plans to fly to New Hampshire and meet Rodney on his home turf. I thought we would conduct the interview in a local Gastropub. I’m not sure what a Gastropub is, but it has the word gas in it, so I thought Rodney might like that. Then I would order us two Kentucky Breakfast Stouts, a local…

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The Do-Over Fund

There should be a time in everyone’s life that you get a do-over, especially if you have totally messed up your fiances…but not on purpose, mind you…

I really need a do-over.

I was thinking…

I don’t really understand the whole concept of the value of money anyway.

We print these little pieces of paper, all made from the same type of paper, and place different denominations on them. Some have a little 1 on them, some have a 5…some have a 100…we like those…those 100s. Now, it’s my understanding that you’re not allowed to add zeros to the ones that only have a 1 on them and turn them into 100s, although they are printed on the same type of paper. It would be nice if you could do that when you need too. Basically, when it boils down to it, if you were able to erase all the print on a 1 dollar bill and a 100 dollar bill then the paper is worth the same amount of money.

Nothing.

Well, maybe it would have the value of toilet paper.

I’m told that it’s not actually the value of the paper itself, but it’s what is backing that paper…which is gold and silver, maybe diamonds and other shiny stuff from the ground*.  What makes this shiny stuff from the ground so valuable?

I’m not quite sure.

After you brush the dirt off of it, it’s pretty. Is pretty enough to be a value? If it was, I would be able to spend Angela Jolie the next time I ran into her.

“Hey, how much for that hammock?”

“Why, that’s two Angela Jolies.”

“Damn, I only have half an Angela Jolie on me…”

“Really? Which half? Maybe we can make a deal.”

Now I know when the Pilgrims or Romans or Ancient Egyptians or Dinosaurs were first finding the shiny stuff in the ground, it was a lot harder to find. Thus making it more valuable. They didn’t have the luxury of using backhoes and that big crane looking truck that pounds the pole into the ground over and over…

What is that thing called anyway?

So…yeah…the gold and stuff was a lot more valuable. It was also harder for them to make charm bracelets out of the gold because they needed a big hairy sweaty guy to pound it out** on an ACME anvil with a big fire blasting forge behind him.

Which is why he was always sweaty. Maybe they should have invented the oscillating fan sooner then they did. I know they weren’t around because you never see an oscillating fan in movies that feature the medieval blacksmith.

Nowadays we can dig quickly and more freely.

Maybe we have found all the gold already…I don’t know. What I’m getting at is that these pieces of paper are just pieces of paper, and gold is just a shiny metal that we, the humans, have placed a big value on. What else I’m saying is, I’m broke and rambling.

Do you think aliens from another planet think gold is valuable?

So back to my original thought, I need a do-over fund. Just something like 200,000 of those little pieces of paper with the ones on them, nothing super crazy. I just want to get out of debit, buy a couple of cars for my kids, move to a smaller house, and maybe go on that cruise that my wife mumbles about in her sleep. Apparently it’s called the Allure and they have a Broadway production of Chicago on it. I would prefer if it had a Broadway production of Book of Mormon, but you know…whatever! It’s a cruise!

I don’t have to be so wealthy that I don’t have to work anymore, I just need a reset. Everyone should have one opportunity to reset.

Now what of those that don’t have to reset, like they are in a good place financially. Then they should be rewarded too, maybe with a couple of life bonus options:

Option One: You get to eat for free in any restaurant at least twice a week. Whatever you want. Just don’t forget to tip the waiter on whatever the bill would have been or you forfeit this reward.

Option Two: Ladies: Free Pedicures and Manicures for 10 years. Guys: Free season tickets of your favorite sports team for 10 years. (Go sports!)

Option Three: You get your own daytime TV talk show.

Option Four: Free oil changes for life.

Option Five: You get a street named after you, like a real long street, not just a cul-de-sac or an alleyway.

Option Six: A movie will be made of your life and it will be directed by Peter Jackson and have Leonardo DiCaprio in it, that way it will be extra long.

You get to pick two out of six options by the way.

 

 

*This has not been researched in any way. Please do not take any of this as fact.

**Snicker

Ode To My 64 Box Of Crayons

Oh there is Maroon, Antique Brass, Plum,

And Aquamarnie,

Asparagus, Yellow,

And Atomic Tangerine,

Who can’t live without Beaver, Bittersweet, Black,

And Blizzard Blue?

Or Blue Bell, Blue Grey, Blue Green, Blue Violet,

In fact Blues of every hue?

It’s better to Blush than be Brick Red,

As also to be Brown, than Burnt Orange,

But to be Burnt Sienna is something to be said.

Cadet Blue is pretty,

While Inchworm is silly.

Caribbean Green, Carnation Pink, Cerulean, or Cerise,

If it had one, would be the color of the breeze.

Chestnut and Copper,

Are understated colors,

While Cornflower, Cotton Candy, and Dandelion,

Stand out amongst the others.

If the world was colored Denim, Red, or Eggplant,

Then Scarlet, Magenta, and Forest Green

Would be jealous of that.

Fuchsia is to Purple,

As Gold is to Goldenrod,

However Fuzzy Wuzzy is not to Midnight Blue,

Those colors are too cool.

Grey and Green like Vivid Tangerine,

While Mango Tango hates Magenta,

If you ask

Tan and Pink,

They are always ones to think,

That nothing rhymes with Orange.

My Simplistic Review Of How to Blog for Profit by Ruth Soukup

I subscribe to BookBub, and what BookBub does is send you emails when there are discounted ebooks on Amazon. You can set up the categories you’re interested in like Fiction, Non-Fiction, Historical, Poetry, Horror, Zombie Horror, De Voss, etc., and everyday you will receive an email with anywhere between 2 to 8 different ebooks ranging in price from free to usually no more than $5.

Monday’s email featured the ebook, How to Blog for Profit by Ruth Soukup. It normally costs $4.99 but was on sale for $.99. I usually just stick to the free zombie books, but due to recent life altering events, it seemed like it was a sign for me to buy.

I’m not expecting to make money off of this blog. I think the other blog I’m part of has a chance to make a couple of pennies. It has a lot of talented writers behind it. I’m not one of them, but I can ride coattails really well.

I mean I can really cling…like balled up saran wrap…

I’m just happy they include me because I kind of bring the intelligence quotient down over there, but every village has to have an idiot.

I bought the book for the marketing chapters, but decided to read it from cover to cover. It basically starts off from the aspect that you do not have a blog…

or you have a blog but don’t know what to do with it…

or you have a blog and you have about three readers…

two of them being your pet cats and the other your weird Uncle Stan…

or you saw my blog and thought;

“What? Do they give these blog things to any idiot who knows 23 of the 26 letters of the alphabet?”

Yes. Yes they do…and they are free…and you only need to know fifteen letters as long as ‘E’ is one of them.

My favorite advice from the book is, and I’m paraphrasing here; “If you want a great blog, have great content.”

Which is like saying; “If you want to win the sporting event you’re playing, score more than the other team.”

Or

“If you want to win the war, have your side die less.”

Or

“If you want to be a millionaire, get a million dollars.”

Side Note: I would like a million dollars.

What I read of the book isn’t bad, I’m not putting it down the ideas in it, but…

Hello!

Now, to be fair to the book, so far I have only read two chapters.

But the other thing that kind of hit me in the face like a dead sea bass wearing a hulu skirt was this paraphrased statement,

Side Note: I just looked up what paraphrased means, so I’m planning on using it a lot.

“You need a clear direction. Randomness will turn off your readership.”

Well…that chaps both of my blogs like the inside of a slightly overweight teenage girl’s sweaty thigh on the 4th of July while waiting for Junior Barnes from down the street, who promised to kiss her during the finale of the Farmer’s Day  Firework Spectacular, but has yet to show up…and it’s getting close to finale time…and now she is suspecting that he just said that…and that he had no intention of kissing her during the finale or at any time of her life…which is really sad because she has liked Junior Barnes since Kindergarten when he first fell over a block tower she was making and he started to cry of embarrassment…but she didn’t think it was embarrassing, she thought he was cute.

Side Note: I tend to be random.

Ruth Soukup writes a blog about being thrifty while maintaining a family and a room full of assistants to help her maintain her blog.

Side Note: I want a room full of assistants to help me with my blog.

I think this book is more geared to help craft or recipe or mommy bloggers. There are a lot of those type of blogs out there, and I guess they are easier to sponsor since they are so specific in their content.

I personally read blogs that make me laugh or are random like mine.

So are random blogs marketable?

Probably…not.

I’m sure the rest of the book is very helpful, I’ll let you know when I find time to finish reading it, or my randomness gets sponsored.

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