How do you know if you have a wrong number? Right now it seems like it’s a needlessly complicated process of submitting your number to the number checking facility, waiting 7-10 business days for a confirmation, submitting your confirmation, and then waiting 2-3 weeks for a reply.

Wouldn’t it be nice if you could just try a number, and if it was wrong, you’d be told right then? Essentially instant wrong number notification?

Well, I’m working on it. I think I almost have it. Now, don’t go stealing this. I’ve done all the patenting that I need to do (patents pending) so if you steal my idea I’ll take your stuff from you and make it my own. That’s what I do. Evil laughter.

My corn chip garden. How I love my corn chip garden. It nourishes me daily. Sometimes it will shear my sheep for me, but only in slow motion. Corn chips aren’t the quickest chips around, especially when they’re still growing.

The sheep also love the corn chips. Their favorite bit is being able to nibble on the corn chips while they’re being sheared. I tried that at the barber once, biting the barber’s hands and scissors, but it didn’t go over as well as I hoped.

If only I was a sheep and had corn chip shearing, that would take care of all of those problems.

Go down to the lake
Where the badgers have their picnics
You can swim and frolic
And gallavant and play

But don’t splash the badgers
They’ll throw their picnics at you
And those picnics are likely to
Bite you
Ouch

I really like spending my Fridays underground. Tunnels are good. A random groundhog hole is good as well.

You just never know when being underground on a Friday will come in handy. Take three weeks ago. Please. All that rain? I stayed 100% dry due to being underground. The umbrella and poncho helped a little bit, too, but the undergroundness of where I was was really the thing that made the biggest difference.

And if someone’s looking for me? They never check underground. And everyone’s always looking for me on Fridays, wanting to give me cake and presents and things like that. I don’t want to give in to that kind of thing. They’re so relentless.

In conclusion, being underground on Fridays is always a good thing and never a bad thing. Thank you, thank you.

At long last, an early draft of the screenplay for The Room Where Nobody Disappears.

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The distant subway trains clack off to somewhere else. They fade out and fade away, and eventually fall asleep. The subway tracks would be deserted, and you would need a rabbit to guide you from station to station.

They’re all connected, and the rabbits know the way. Put your faith in your bunny guide, and follow it to your future.

Don’t paint your rabbit. It might seem like a good idea at first (you know, so you can recognize it easier) but it never works out as well as you think it should. If you have to, give your rabbit a unique name. “Bunny” isn’t the best choice, but it’s better than “Frampton.” You know how people are with their rabbitnames.

I got this in the mail today. It was postmarked 1958, so that’s some pretty lousy postal service service. I couldn’t make out what the address was supposed to be, so I don’t know why it came to me, but I’m not going to put the envelope in the blender just because of that.

So, I opened it up. It turns out that the letter isn’t for me. The strangest thing is that it seems to be describing things that will happen 10 years in the future. Ten years from now, not from 1958. I don’t know if these things were originally 57 years in the future when the letter was written, or if the 1958 postmark is a side effect of whatever weird temporal distortion time travelling mailbox the sender used.

Unfortunately, the letter isn’t going to make me rich in 10 years. It’s all things like, “The average temperature on July 14, 2015 in Akron, Ohio will be 77 degrees.”

And, “The number of people who will stub one or more of their toes in zip code 10044 during Thanksgiving day 2015: 4″

I’m going to try sending a letter back asking for lottery results or other more useful things, but I have a bad feeling that it might take 20 years to get there. Stupid time travel mail delays. How am I going to get rich off of secret insider trading with my friend from the future at this rate?

Lift the bird bath. What do you see underneath?

• If you see an old, yellow mask that’s been there for thousands of years, you’ll probably have 6 more weeks of winter.
• If you see a miniature oak tree and some even smaller baby oak trees, winter will be ending early for you.
• If you see a cat that’s been waiting there and trying to catch birds, you’ll have a winter filled with cold and snow and that sort of thing.
• If you can’t pick up the bird bath because it’s too heavy, your winter will pretend to end early, starting tomorrow, but it’ll be a trick. Winter will actually come back colder and meaner than ever 2 days later. Sorry about that.
• If you find a tornado, your seasons might wind up being backwards this year. You should also consult a few fortune cookies.

Glad to help!

I don’t know about Thursdays. They just seem superfluous. When I’m elected president, I might wage a War on Thursdays and see if we can’t eliminate them once and for all. But that probably depends on what the polls say. Polls and advisors and pundits, those are the things that will really drive my Thursdays agenda.

But hopefully people agree with me about Thursdays, so we can go ahead and just get rid of them. Does anyone out there really like them? I don’t hate them or anything, they just seem unnecessary. As long as you, the people, are with me, or at least not violently against me, we can go forward with my Thursdayless agenda.

The agenda looks something like this:

9:00 am — Get rid of Thursdays.

9:15 am — Lunch

That’s it. Simple times. Vote for me!

Mr. Guffger drank his tea. Boy, did he like tea. He drank the tea until he was out of tea. That was a sad tealess time for Mr. Guffger.

He had no choice but to join the army at that point. His drill instructor once offered him tea, and he jumped and cried because of his tea-joy. The drill instructor was only being a big meanie, though. He didn’t have any tea for Mr. Guffger at all.

That night Mr. Guffger escaped and went AWOL. He wandered through the countryside, completely lost, until one starless night he wound up at an abandoned cottage.

“Those abandoned cottages sometimes have abandoned tea inside!” he said to himself, and to anyone else nearby who might be listening.

Was there anyone else listening? Maybe. That would ruin the story if I told you, though. Wouldn’t it? I think it would.

The inside of the cottage had no tea. But it did have a bag of Mr. Guffger’s sanity.

“Hey! I’ve been looking for that!”

He took the bag of sanity and brewed himself a hot cup of sanity juice.

The end.

Oh, and no, there wasn’t anyone else listening to what he said outside the cottage. Aren’t you glad I waited until after the end to tell you that?