Did you see who took my seismograph? It was laying out on the coffee table, next to the seven bottles of whiskey and the stack of unused ipads that I keep for emergencies. I wrote on it:
IF FOUND, PLEASE RETURN TO THE RIGHTFUL OWNER. IF STOLEN, SHAMEY SHAMEY ON YOU.
I hope the culprit is sufficiently shamed. Without my seismograph, things could be bad. And my pet rabbit, Count Flopsy, would grow very angry.
Do you ever catch a whiff of your deodorant and think, man, that smells pretty good? I do. I use Axe deodorant. It must work, cause I'm constantly attacked by girls who always wrestle me to the ground and lick my face. Or, sometimes, they jump in my lap and nibble on my hands.
When does the transition from childhood to adulthood take place? Is there any sort of physical changes in the homo sapiens that marks this stage in life? Do young males grow protuberances from their arms and legs, like little praying mantises? Are the females still turning color when their change happens?
I really need to get my seismograph back. I've pretty much narrowed down the suspects to a reasonable few.
1. Millard Filmore, everybody's favorite president of the United States of America. I believe he developed some sort of time traveling device and spends his days slipping throughout history, dabbling in petty thievery.
2. The Harlem Globetrotters, as they seem to be making random appearances at odd times.
3. Brian Tucker, a noted seismologist, though I cannot understand why he'd want it
4. Wolfie, the neighbors dog and prime suspect
Is there a particular order to the teeth-brush/floss/mouthwash combo? Should one floss first, then brush, and finish it up with a mouthwash gargle?
And really, who eats sugar on their grapefruits? That's absurd. Alfondo Montpelier, my newest assistant, informs me that this is a common trend among the peasantry and ruffian class, but I refuse to believe it. Surely no one civilized would do such a thing. Why, is that not the reason salt was invented?
As it turns out, salt was not invented for grapefruits. Julius McPeasy, my newest assistant after the firing of that lazy Alfondo, pointed out that salt was used as a preservative for meats. "Pah," I said when he told me. "It's true, oh wise and terribly Great Somnambulist. I read it here on Wikipedia." And after careful consideration, I was inclined to believe him.
The Globetrotters and Brian Tucker are now out. Tucker is not in a nearby geographic region to have need of my seismograph, and the Globetrotters gave me an autographed basketball as a token of their innocence, and I believe them both. So it's down to Fillmore and the dog.
Do you sometimes start a book and sigh, knowing that it's going to be a long one and you're ready for a break already? You know it'll probably be good, but getting into the world, into the worldbuilding, takes some time and some effort, and sometimes you just want something easy to read.
Do you ever smile when you finish a story, satisfied with how it ended, or do you always want more, something else, something different?
I found it. The missing seismograph. I could not sleep last night, and so I decided to take a midnight stroll around the Victorian estate on which I live. There I was, walking down the stately sidewalk, wearing only my deep purple robes and my tight, white underwear. The robe was undone and I was enjoying the feel of nighttime on my brazen chest when I heard the laughter and the barking. I crept closer, bringing up my slingshot in case I needed it, and suddenly came upon two figures. One was definitely Millard Fillmore. I'd recognize his handsome face anywhere. The other was not Wolfie, as I had suspect, but my own precious Count Flopsy, holding the seismograph and blinking uncharacteristically.
"Bah! What's going on here?" I cried.
Fillmore looked at me, the blurry gaze of time travel in his eyes, and looked down at Count Flopsy and shrugged. "I'm outta here," the old President said, and turned a dial on his bowtie. He shimmered and blurred and soon vanished into thin air, heading out to whenever he was going.
"Flopsy, how could you?"
The rabbit blinked again, this time slowly and deliberately. "I'm sorry. I needed it for some private research that Millard was helping me with. I didn't think it was going to take this long."
"Well," I say a bit too harshly, "next time you'll just have to ask. Now let's get back to the house. Julius should have us some eggnog and grapefruits at the ready. What do you say?"
The rabbit smiled and followed me back to the house.
Do you ever long for something more, something greater than what you have? Are you satisfied? Are you content? Did you stop dreaming when your skin turned colors and the protuberances grew? Did life turn boring when somebody told you to eat sugar on your grapefruits? Do you misplace your keys as much as I do? Does it ever snow in Ecuador? Do you find yourself doodling on important papers? Why is coffee a love and hate relationship?
If you made it this far, congratulations. If you didn't, congratulations. Your prizes are buried beneath the third and fourth trees of 42 Sycamore Lane, Hartfordshire, CT. Bring a shovel and a backhoe, respectively.
Next Wednesday should begin "The Bombing of Morrta." I'm excited. Gotta do some final editing and record the audio. I hope you enjoy it.