Today is a day that will live in infamy.
For instead of giving you words for your enjoyment here on this site, I am instead directing you to check out the brand spanking-new, shiny and lovely Official Website for The Lost Blogs.
While there, you’ll be able to read excerpts from the book, peruse press clippings and videos, read about news, signings and appearances and even purchase items in the WOMP store.
Oh, right. What’s the WOMP?
The World Organization for Manuscript Preservation. Responsible for unearthing these fictitious digital blogs that populate the book that is called The Lost Blogs, already previously referenced in paragraph two. With a rich history that only the insane could craft — the WOMP might as well be real. In fact, maybe it is. Perhaps.
So go. Enjoy. Learn something.
My skills are world-renknowned.
They whisper my name in hushed tones, quietly wondering if I am the man they think I am, sitting there across from them at the dinner table. They watch, with bated breath, wondering if when the end of dinner arrives — if I will flex my muscles and make an offer that, in the end, I will most definitely refuse. In Spain they call me Volvereturno! which is a simple yet clever combination of the Spanish verb that means “to return” and the obvious American word “return” — which just communicates how doubly-dangerous I can be.
That is, dangerous…when the dinner check arrives.
Look, Y isn’t a vowel.
No matter how often elementary school teachers get their students to repeat that annoying vowel rallying cry (“a, e, i, o, u and sometimes y”) there’s still no reason to the rhyme. A is a vowel, okay. E is one too, and I can support that. I can support the I and oh boy am I behind the O. And you gotta believe in the U.
But Y? Total vowel wannabe.
I’m shivering right now, just thinking about it.
Shaken to the core, just thinking about how even though you don’t need more than that key to your house, that key to your office, that key to your car and that fourth rotating key that opens things like that lock on the front gate or that public storage deadbolt — that you load up your keychain with things like squishy toys and USB flash drives and pennies with heart-shapes cut in the middle of them and much much more…
You are a keychain clutterer, and you make me cringe more than people eating tin-foil.
If Field of Dreams happened to me, I wouldn’t be typing this right now.
That’s primarily due to the fact that if I went around telling people that I was hearing whispering voices telling me that if I built it they would come and that sometimes they would whisper to me that I should go the distance, I’m pretty sure someone from the county would say something like, “Yeah, we’ll make sure you go the distance buddy,” while putting me in a straight-jacket that restricted by hands and disallowed me from typing in this blog.
At least, that would be the case if Field of Dreams happened to me.