The musings of a madman...

       “So where was he?” you ask… The short answer would be “away for two weeks,” but the full picture is much MUCH deeper.      Part of me wants to just up and tell you “look, I lost track of what day it was week before last and landed myself in the ER last week and got thrown off,” but where would be the fun in that? Let’s go back, way back into time to the distant time coordinates of Monday August 19… I had a doctor’s appointment that morning and, after noticing that I have a TON of unused leave time at work, decided to take the whole day off instead of just the couple of hours to cover my appointment/lab time. My visit goes fine and I swing by the lab to have my blood drawn on the way back to the house to cut my front yard. As I have made some adjustments to my mower which anyone connected to me on BookFace has seen, I double-cut the yard so it took me 30 minutes instead of 13. Still no biggie.      What happened next is the beginning of my problems… I finish the lawn,

       When I was a kid I only travelled outside of my home state a VERY few times, and never outside of the time zone I was born in until I was an actual adult.   Never set foot on a plane until I was 20.   Everywhere we went was driveable distances.   It became such a “thing” that even in adulthood, I will sooner drive out trips that many people will fly. Kid me, having only been to Williamsburg and the beach in VA, then Atlanta after that – outside of visits to grandma’s family down in the sticks in SC – used to think that the lines one saw on a map would be visible out in the world as you travel.   Like there would be a white line marking the exit of one state and into the next.      Adult me, as soon as the constraints of being a broke child were off, got the fuck out and around the country even if to be inconvenienced by the habit of driving instead of even CONSIDERING flying.      One such trip transpired and the young age of 21… I rented a car because I was driving an abs

       The past was a wild time…   There were people called town criers who would go to the city square and scream the news to everyone who would listen because without child labor laws, it was perfectly normal for people to not know how to read or write. Things being full circle as they are, nowadays people glue themselves to social media and while perhaps they CAN read or write, they choose instead some asshole yelling at a screen on TikTok or Youtube.   The person who won’t read is no better off in this aspect than the person who can’t read.      Anyway, the town crier… Wait!   Y’know, as I have discussed before, I get a LOT of off time at work.   Due to some to-be-sorted health issues I have mostly been playing my off time close to the vest, limiting my Mental Health™ days and instead using that time for date-to-be-determined doctor’s visits and such.   There comes a time, however, that I will have to use the time or lose it so I have to play this delicate game of saving as

  I don’t know if y’all know this but for about five years, me and Santa have had what the homies in Houston might call “plex.” If you need to be brought up to speed, please pack a lunch and start  here  and spend a while.   Welcome back.   So yeah…  I figured that Rudolph being down bad was a result of Santa’s abject shittiness and I wound up paying the price for shenanigously attempting to set things right on my own terms.  It has been four years since I learned a lesson so embarrassing that I sometimes still cry myself to sleep just thinking about it.  Part of me, though, wonders how I could have built a clandestine career as Supervillain Internacionale and still let a 1751 year-old fat man get the drop on me like that. I had to get to the bottom of this. [ Phlip note :  oh, y’all thought I was just gon’ let him punk me? ]               I spent major time studying and researching how to reach The North Pole undetected and maybe – POSSIBLY – get a deeper peek into the fat man’s oper

       Another Thursday morning, another instance of me explaining where the hell I have been for the previous couple of weeks. The short answer, here, is “in Japan.”      The long answer is the one you’re getting though, and it perfectly aligns with the “menagerie of shit that could only happen to me” that you’ve become accustomed to. This all started back in late April with a phone call… Me: “Hello?” Caller: “Hi, this is [redacted] from the USOC, and--…” Me: “United…   States…   Olympic…   Commission?” Caller: “Correct, sir and we’re calling in reference to--…” Me: “And you’re aware that the last time I participated in any organized sport was 80 pounds ago, right?” Caller: “Well we’ve been recently advised of your RECENT prowess, and this is in an event that doesn’t necessarily require athletic acumen.” Me: “This should be good.   Which event?” Caller: “Skeet shooting.” Me: “HA!!! Hahahahahahahahahaha!” Caller: “Did I say something wrong?” Me: “I don’t thi

       My brain is like a training exercise in just how much infinitely useless bullshit can fit into a tiny, tiny space.   I say that to say that I know a LOT about a LOT of things that do nothing in the interest in paying my bills. [ Phlip note : Speaking of bills…   Website renewal fees are next week Wednesday.   Anyone wanna pitch in?   The best nation is donation.   Please and thank you ! ]      Anyway…   I know a lot about a lot but one thing I cannot seem to avoid is unsolicited phone calls and, not those of the “extended car warranty” sort. As ever, this week’s tale begins with a phone call.   This time it was from an international number…   This should be fun. Me: “New phone, who dis?” Caller: “Good afternoon, sir.   Long time no hear from.” Me: “D-do I know you?” Caller: “You ask this every time you speak with one of us.” Me: “’one of us’ as in who the fuck?” Caller: “Well, sir…   I am the director of the International Supervillain’s Convention, and--…” Me