Total Safety Recall

The Centrifugal Baby-Dryer. Things get weird after this.

Happy Home Products, a manufacturing division of The Facility, announced today that they are issuing a full recall of all models of their "Tubby-Time Centrifugal Baby-Dryer" units.

The device, which was developed to allow busy modern parents to replace the traditional and time-consuming method of using a soft towel to dry their post-bath child, may instead unexpectedly malfunction and fling the infant into an alternate dimension of time and space. 

A spokesman at The Facility verified the presence of "some sort of matter displacement glitch" in at least one of the machines in question. This finding was confirmed by Glen Mondebrat, who as a baby was evidently transported to a parallel universe earlier this week when the centrifugal dryer unit his parents had placed him into after his bath failed to function as advertised.

Reports indicate that Mondebrat, after vanishing from his parent's home on Tuesday as a 16-month-old baby, reappeared shortly thereafter that same day as a 47-year-old man. In a bizarre twist of quantum fate, Mondebrat emerged "as if from out of nowhere" to find himself standing in line at The Facility's complaint counter directly behind his own parents, who had just arrived to report his disappearance less than thirty minutes earlier.

Mondebrat, who had been missing only briefly in our own time period, while in the strange dimension where he found himself deposited as a baby had apparently reached adulthood, raised a family of his own, and played a key role in vanquishing a hybrid race of cruel reptile-ape overlords before returning to this reality through what is being referred to as "a small but dynamically shifting rip" in the time/space continuum.

Product Safety Engineers at The Facility are optimistic that the Mondebrat case will prove to be a one-of-a-kind incident, but regardless are strongly urging consumers to immediately stop using the dryers and return them to the nearest Happy Household Products outlet, or deliver them directly to The Facility for a full refund and compensatory free gift.

The Unbearable Dichotomy of Christmas

Words are sometimes inadequate.

Okay, we admit we're at a loss as how to intellectually reconcile this whimsical holiday tabletop decoration with anything even remotely resembling rationality, but that doesn't mean your family and friends won't be able to reap scads of joy and inspiration from its perplexing variation on Christ's nativity! 

We're sure that the moment this carefully mass-produced depiction of Santa™ genuflecting over the Baby Jesus takes up residence in your home you'll begin to wonder if Kris Kringle's sleigh, in addition to its ability to fly, is also capable of time travel . . . which would certainly appear to be the case with this delightful chronologically incongruous Jolly Old Elf™ in the manger!

At this special time of year, you'll no doubt want to pause in reverence for a moment to ponder what prayers might be tumbling from the lips of this red-suited icon of consumerism. Our own household members speculate that St. Nick is likely offering some sort of mumbled apology to the newborn Savior, while at the same time asking that glad tidings be delivered unto future generations of corporate holiday marketing focus-groups and pepper spray-armed shoppers alike, whose ability to completely miss the point will keep the Christmas reindeer flying high for years to come.

Look at their faces. Look at their faces!

Don't pass up this chance to add another inexplicable artifact to your child's already cumbersome burden of theological questions! Enhance their confusion and make an investment in years of future psychological counseling while simultaneously doing your small part to increase the trade deficit by purchasing this imported plasticine tribute to the Christmas Spirit™ today!

Regularly $70

HOLIDAY SPECIAL: $63.50!

Don't delay! Supplies are mercifully limited!
(Hand-painted in Indonesia)

Turkey, With A Side Of Terror

The Facility is a division of Random Musings

This is not a problem

Staff at The Facility awoke this Thanksgiving morning to find they had less to be thankful for than they had originally hoped when it was discovered that an experimental mutant turkey had escaped during the night from the lab's underground containment chamber and was flapping amok through town, leaving a trail of destruction and horror in its wake.

According to Dr. Quentin Bloor, director of The Facility, the traditional Thanksgiving meal component was part of an experiment to help reduce world hunger, while at the same time encouraging more humane treatment of domesticated avian food sources.

"What we were working toward was a sustainable turkey," explains Bloor. "That is, a species of featherless fowl not only genetically modified to be of increased size, but one also capable of regularly, and painlessly, shedding and regenerating the most delicious parts of its body for easy harvesting. Needless to say, this specimen is much larger than we had planned."

Bloor believes the turkey, which by noon had grown to be nearly 300 feet high, may have attained its massive proportions due to a malfunctioning timer on the equipment which automatically fed the bird special nutrients and bathed it with "a very specific type of radiation" at regular intervals. It is suspected that the faulty timer somehow became stuck and remained in the "High" position for several hours, rather than minutes.

"I guess we over-cooked the turkey," says Bloor, in a grim attempt at levity.

These were a problem

Robert "Rock" Abslab, head of security at The Facility, and Professor Rand MacGreggor, field explorer, are currently at the scene of the unfortunate holiday incident.

"Yeah, that's a [censored] huge beast, no two [censored] ways about it," shouts Abslab, over the nearly deafening sound of turkey gobbles rattling through the rubble-strewn town, "but we've dealt with worse. Right, MacGreggor?"

"Absolutely," says MacGreggor, with his usual cool demeanor. "The self-replicating holiday fruit cakes in '02 were a far greater global hazard, and we wrapped that episode up with a minimum of collateral damage. This is a localized issue. This isn't a problem."

When asked how they planned to eliminate the threat to the besieged town, MacGreggor and Abslab confirmed that they have a very definite strategy.

"Because of the risk to the townsfolk, we obviously can't use standard heavy weaponry such as large missiles," says MacGreggor, "so we've come up with a far more efficient, and in the the end perhaps more humanitarian, solution. Why don't you explain, Rock? You're the military man here."

The Facility's helicopter with really big [censored] axe

"Right on," says Abslab. "What we've basically done is have our R&D guys build a really big [censored] axe that we're going to airlift over the turkey. We've dumped about a [censored] ton of corn in bird's path and when it drops its head to peck at it, we drop the axe and wham! Right in the [censored] neck."

MacGreggor takes over, explaining that after the bird has been effectively decapitated, and has stopped spastically running around, highly trained ground troops will move in and hose it down with a proprietary non-toxic napalm, cooking it to juicy perfection.

"Such is the beauty of Abslab and MacGreggor's plan," says Dr. Bloor, speaking by radio from a secure location deep within The Facility. "If this works, and we're confident it will, not only will the damaging antics of the gigantic bird be ended for good, but its remains shall provide a holiday feast such as none have beheld before to the brave people of the town."

Pending the results of what is now being called "Operation Enduring Drumstick," citizens in areas not already flattened by the rampaging turkey are urged to remain calm and continue to enjoy whatever Thanksgiving activities they traditionally observe, but are cautioned to be prepared to flee for their lives at a moment's notice if necessary.

Breaking (Up) Dawn

Edward's Smoldering New Look

In the news today, the already messy and very public divorce of "Twilight" couple, Edward Cullen and Bella Swan, got even uglier when, according to Edward, Bella maliciously switched his hairspray with a can of pressurized Holy Water.

Sources close to the couple say that Bella began behaving in an increasingly psychotic manner shortly after being "turned" by her vampiric spouse in his attempt to save her life following a particularly difficult childbirth.

"She got, like, way mean," says Tammi Anklefoot, former neighbor. "She started telling Edward they needed to hunt humans, you know, and saying, like, they should drink people blood instead of animal blood and stuff."

Anklefoot recalls often hearing loud arguments coming from the Cullen home. "Bella used to scream at him, and be all like, 'you're just a pasty-faced sissy' and stuff. He usually ended up running out of the house and driving off. It was way sad 'cause I could see he'd been crying."

Bella, who is no longer seen publicly, said in a brief phone interview that, "Edward turned out to be a major freaking disappointment. Once I saw the power of the night, the path became clear to me, and I realized it was not a path I could share with him. His constant brooding and all that time spent on his hair are the traits of a weakling, and not conducive to the inhuman lifestyle that calls to me in the dark hours."

Edward, speaking with great difficulty due to the damage done to his face, blames the collapse of their short-lived marriage on Bella's response to her tremendous weight gain while pregnant with the couple's unholy spawn.

"Bella was always a mite meaty in the drumsticks even before we married," he says, "and while she was carrying, she really packed it on. Afterwards she just couldn't seem to lose the extra weight, and somehow that was my fault." Edward adds that Bella believed drinking human blood would help her lose weight, and that she was angry he wouldn't physically or emotionally support her nocturnal predations.

Divorce proceedings have been delayed while doctors and cosmetologists try to determine if Edward's disfigured features will just grow back on their own, or if reconstructive surgeons and emergency hairdo specialists will need to be called in.

Suspicious Decoration Found

A bounty of happiness, or a feast of horror?

The overnight appearance of an unusual object at a local grocery store of what at first look appears to be a festive Cornucopia, or "Horn of Plenty," holiday adornment may in fact be an alien birthing pod.

A team of scientists and heavily-armed personnel from The Facility, a research center affiliated with Random Musings, is on its way now to investigate the mysterious and potentially hazardous artifact.

"It's the size of the thing which alarms us," says Dr. Quentin Bloor, director of The Facility. "We're hoping it turns out to be nothing more than a harmless and grotesquely oversized decoration for the holiday season. But if it indeed proves to be another birth pod, we have the proper paperwork which, if necessary, permits us to quarantine the area and neutralize with extreme prejudice any potential threat to the well-being of the populace as a whole."

Robert "Rock" Abslab, head of security for The Facility, is guardedly professional about what they may find at the scene.

Retain this chart for future reference

"We've seen this kind of (censored) thing before," Abslab says. "Small-town store, big (censored) weird decoration shows up, nobody gives it a second thought. No one asks, 'who the (censored) put that up?' They just figure the boss probably set it up after hours or something and forget about it. Nobody (censored) questions anything, and the next thing you know we gotta drop a fuel-air bomb on a whole (censored) town to clear out a hive of face-eating E.T.'s from the Omega Centauri galaxy before they can spread to the rest of the planet."

After calming down, Abslab conceded that the object could turn out to be just "some Godawful decoration someone's wife made in her craft class for Thanksgiving," adding that what he's thankful for this year is that one of The Facility's roving field agents happened to go into the store to buy coffee and called the object in "before the (censored) thing busted open and spewed an alien freakshow of death on unsuspecting shoppers."

Dr. Bloor is advising citizens to remain calm and not go shopping until the situation can be professionally assessed.

Decor for the Deranged

How it Sparkles and Shines!

Just in time for the holidays, this charming gender non-specific cherub is ready to wing its way into your heart and home through any door or window you've left open.

You'll screech with delight when faced with this 10" high faux-bronze angel of enchantment on your mantle or bookshelf. Just don't breathe too hard though, or you'll risk aspirating some of the presumably non-toxic magical glitter that coats the sculpture's entire surface and rubs off at the lightest touch!

Trust us on this one folks! Once they've caught a glimpse of its whimsically tarnished buttocks, even the most jaded and cynical family member or guest in your home is sure to have their heart, soul, and last vestiges of sanity carried away in this solemn-faced sprite's basket of delights.

Order yours today!

Reg. Price: $39.99
SALE: Two for $79!
Display only in well-ventilated areas away from small children and pets. May cause seizures when viewed under certain lighting conditions.

The Insomniac's Companion

Your time has come

In stores now! Not only will this stylish and state-of-the-art clock keep track of the ever-dwindling moments of your life, it will also project them in enormous, bright numerals onto the ceiling of what should be a relaxing sanctuary from life's challenges: your own bedroom.

It's the perfect nighttime accessory for insomniacs! Why make that extra effort of rolling over on one side to squint at an ordinary alarm clock to see what time it is now when you can simply stare, wide-awake, at the ceiling and calculate how many hours of sleep you could theoretically get by on if you could only just doze off either very soon, or at 4 AM . . . whichever comes first.

But wait, there's more!

Not only does this technological marvel beam the passage of time onto the ceiling, but also the current temperature of both the indoor and outdoor environments of your pre-dawn world. No more guesswork! Now you'll be able to tell at a glance if you will soon be dragging your exhausted body out of bed to face the icy embrace of yet another bitterly cold morning, or the early promise of an oppressively hot summer day.

Additional features include the ability to pick the alarm sound you'd rather have alert you to the fact that any brief engagement with sleep you may have had is now over. Select from: "Prison Break Siren," "Enraged Mechanical Bird," "Cascading Pots & Pans," "Incessant Maddening Buzz," or "Chorus of Jackhammers." You can also choose the built-in AM/FM radio option, if you'd prefer to be startled out of your sleepless reverie by irksome popular music or the strident voice of your favorite talk radio show host.

This fantastic clock is also programed with a choice of six soothing sounds of nature that you can listen to in a futile attempt to lull yourself into sleep while fantasizing that you're relaxing on the sand of a "Pacific Island Beach" you'll probably never visit, or surrounded by insects in a "Peaceful Woodland Clearing." Other nature sounds include: "Ceaseless Rain," "Howling Coyote Serenade," "Unnerving Jungle Noises," and "Vaguely Electronic-sounding Waterfall."

Don't wait a moment longer, for as you well know, time is running out! Don't let another night of fretful tossing and turning go by without this functional and elegant nightstand companion. Start dwelling on the relentless march of time tonight, and get yours today!

Available in finer mall kiosks and major department stores everywhere. 

Mutant Monkeys Escape

Staff at The Facility were evacuated early this morning amid strident alarms and warning bells following the discovery of an apparently unauthorized opening of a box of research animals, which have since vanished. In addition to the missing specimens, the disappearance of an unnamed shipping clerk is also under investigation.

Well. This can't be good

"This is devastating," said Dr. Quentin Bloor, director of The Facility. "Those creatures were vital to our on-going research of, well, certain projects I'm not at liberty to discuss at this time. MacGreggor is going to be livid. Just livid, I tell you."

Dr. Bloor said that the six escaped lab animals, which are described as a cat-sized species of genetically mutated monkey, were sent to The Facility by field explorer, Professor Rand MacGreggor, from a location which in Bloor's words, "doesn't have an easily understandable relationship with ours in the current model of the time-space continuum."

Security teams continue to hunt diligently for the escaped animals, which are thought to be hiding in the maze of air ducts that serve the vast underground research center. Robert "Rock" Abslab, head of security for The Facility, is confident that the animals pose no risk to the public, noting that the research center's containment systems are "pretty (censored) solid." However, he does recommend that civilians be vigilant until all specimens are accounted for and asks that they report the sighting of anything resembling really big bats, as Dr. Bloor is of the opinion that the lab animals may have developed rudimentary wings while in transit.

Artist's conception of one of the missing specimens

When asked by concerned family members of the missing employee, Abslab admitted they have "no (censored) idea where the shipping clerk is," but are operating on the assumption that since the clerk's shoe found at the scene "doesn't still have a (censored) foot in it, we're guessing that he's probably just out having a (censored) smoke break somewhere." He further adds that, "if and when we find that (censored), he's going to have some pretty (censored) serious questions to (censored) answer."

At this time, the answer as to why ferociously carnivorous lab animals were allowed to be shipped to The Facility in a cardboard box remains as elusive as the missing animals themselves.

This report was contributed by The Facility, a science and research organization affiliated with Random Musings.

Eye Floaties. No Longer a Problem.

Eye Floaties. This is what mine look like

For a number of years now I've been troubled by an eye condition known as "myodesopsia," or what is more commonly referred to as seeing "Eye Floaties." If you have this, then you know what I'm talking about: Little blobs or squiggly strings that swim across your field of vision like a cloud of gnats, especially when looking at something like a bright sky or a computer screen. No matter how hard you blink or rub your eyes they're still there.

Mine have been so maddening at times that I've seriously considered thumbing out my own eyeballs just to make the damned spots and specks and squiggles go away.

If you don't have this condition, there are no words to adequately describe how crazy-making it is. If you are an Eye-Floaty Sufferer, then you know exactly what I'm talking about, and we can commiserate safely.

Reconfiguring the Floaties

If you have this condition odds are that, like me, you've spent a fair amount of time Googling key-phrases such as "eye floaties cure," "get rid of eye floaties," and "God kill me now." I'm guessing you've found the same answers as I have. Sorry.

Apparently there is no real "cure" unless you're willing to submit to expensive treatments that may, or may not, actually work, and which may, or may not, be what some mainstream Opthomologists consider "safe." In other words, "Yeah, you could try this and it might work. On the other hand, your eyeballs could collapse and stream down your cheeks like runny eggs, plunging you into permanent darkness."

Adding Technical Embellishments

That's the bad news.

The good news is that I've figured out a way to make this condition, if not more livable, at least more entertaining. It takes a bit of extra mental focus, but I think the results are worth the effort.

The idea came to me one afternoon while driving down the road minding my own business, and trying not to think about the fact that my lunch hour was over and I had to go back to work in the Seventh Circle.

A car had been riding my tail a little more closely than I liked, then passed me and immediately slowed down, so suddenly I was in the position of tailgating them. I hate that.

Target locked on

As I glared in silent rage at the car, the driver of which was now tapping his brakes like he was approaching a dangerous curve, I noticed that I was seeing a particularly egregious eye floaty superimposed over the vehicle's rear window. I immediately thought, "Hey, it's like my own personal Head's Up Display Targeting System!" I concentrated. With careful eye movements, I found that I could place the floaty anywhere I wanted on the offending vehicle.

See you in Hell, mister

With a little effort and imagination, I began to reconfigure the shape of the floaty: first visualizing it splitting into two separate components, then bringing those shapes together to form a circle with a plus-sign in the middle. "Okay. Now we're getting somewhere," I thought. The addition of a few more technical details brought the HUD into full functionality.

Now to take care of the vehicle in front of me . . . .

Hold it. Hold it. Acquiring target. Target locked on. Arming missle. Fire. Target destroyed. Lane clear. I am now free to proceed.

You wanted to see me, boss?

Thinking about it now, it seems to me there can be endless applications for this exercise in creative visualization . . . .

Saying Goodbye

Goodbye, Old Friend

Men, I know this won't be easy to hear, but if your underwear have reached this state of disrepair the time has come to discard them and move on.

It's time to be honest with ourselves and admit that at this point they're no longer even comfortable. This once favored friend has turned foe in its old age, and has taken riding up on us to new levels – sometimes even all the way up to our armpits if we're not vigilant.

Throw them out, and throw them out now.

Stop telling yourself that you could save them to use as a cleaning rag in the garage. No. Stop clinging. It's not manly, and you're just postponing the inevitable.

If you're really having trouble letting go, take a pair of scissors* and sever the band. Not only will this symbolically mark their passage to The Great Underwear Drawer in the Sky, but will also render them completely unwearable and prevent you from putting them on just once more "for old time's sake" before getting rid of them for good.

And then the emotional healing can begin.

Next time: "How to Buy New Underwear for Yourself."

*If you're married, as a safety precaution I strongly recommend not using your wife's kitchen shears for cutting up your old underwear. Trust me, this will not be viewed favorably.

Sour Memories

We have something for you, son.

I couldn't have been more than six or seven years old when my parents awakened me from my sleep one night and tried to feed me an eyeball.

To this day I have a clear recollection of my Mom shaking my shoulder and saying, "Steve! Wake up! Wake up, honey!"

I remember groggily saying something along the lines of, "Hunh? What? What's wrong?"

"Here," Mom said, as she pushed her hand closer to my face. "Eat this."

I remember seeing her hand coming toward me through the darkness. By the dim glow of my Humpty Dumpty nightlight I could see something small, round, and shiny held between her fingers.

"Ahgh! No! What is it?" I shouted.

"It's an eyeball," Dad said from somewhere in the gloom. "Come on now, son. Just eat it."

When I felt the cold, wet, object touch my lips I panicked, which I think was understandable. Thrashing and shrieking, I struck my Mom's hand and sent the gelatinous orb sailing out of her grasp. Tears streamed down my checks as I struggled to comprehend the horror I was experiencing. An eyeball! My parents had apparently gone insane while I was sleeping and were trying to make me eat an eyeball!

The closet light came on then, providing stark illumination to my childhood bedroom. My parents stood by the side of my bed, their expressions an odd mixture of amusement and disappointment.

Just kidding, son. 

"Pull yourself together son," said Dad. "It wasn't an eyeball, it was just a peeled grape."

"That's right, honey," said Mom. "Just a peeled grape. Stop crying and go back to sleep. It's okay. We thought you'd think it was funny."

As they turned out the light and left my room I recall hearing Dad say, "Where'd the grape go?"

"I couldn't find it. I think it may have gone into the heating vent," said Mom.

"Great," Dad said, with a tone of sarcasm, "That'll smell good later."

That was over 40 years ago, and the experience still comes to mind every time someone offers me grapes. My parents, of course, deny the event ever took place. To their credit, they do a pretty good job of acting like they have no idea what I'm talking about, but that's often the case.

Toilet Humor. Seriously?

I'm Here to Save You

This is the men's room toilet in the basement at some soul-destroying place where I once worked. Grotesque, isn’t it?

Yet, somehow, it has a twisted type of porcelain beauty that a man could come to really appreciate for its sublime unsanitary glory and brazen display of sheer uncleanliness.

Monkeys take better care of their habitats.

It’s magnificent in it own way – an edifice of genius evolved through years of neglect to test human will and caveman sensibility. Reduced to this primal level, no one who might ever willingly use this toilet would care what position the seat was left in by the last user. Up. Down. It simply wouldn't matter, because if it was in the wrong configuration, they would instinctively correct it to suit their needs and wouldn't make a big damn deal out of it.

A man lacking resolve and fortitude having no other choice than to take a seat on this particular toilet might rush in quickly, his jaw set in grim determination, eager to be done and away from this vessel of potential contagion that an unfair universe has set before him in his time of need. He might feel compelled to try to fashion a rudimentary seat cover from scraps of toilet paper before being seated. He might even attempt to hover.

The man who has strode barefoot through the primitive fires of proto-human initiation, one who has survived the tests, would enter this restroom calmly, perhaps with a newspaper and a cup of coffee. If he was running late and needed to multi-task to save time in the morning he might even bring a sausage or bacon-filled breakfast burrito.

This man understands that paper seat covers are for fools because the real danger in his world is not from germs but rather from triplicate forms and pie-charted monthly sales reports thrust in his face by demonic supervisors. He intuitively knows also that a breakfast burrito is the perfect food for eating without a plate because it can be balanced perfectly across one knee while he reads his paper, and as long as the filling isn’t still bubbling from the microwave everything will be just fine.

Fear of contagion and filth? Ha. The man who embraces the chaotic slide toward simian devolution dances joyously with the germs and latent viruses found here and in similar, and sometimes worse, places knowing that their assaults against his immune system only make him more powerful.

When the inevitable super-mega-ass-kicking virus rolls across the globe in a feverish wave, those who were unafraid to plant themselves firmly on these unwashed thrones of tribulation will watch as those around them whose immune systems have been left sissified and weak by a lifetime of germophobic behavior succumb to a host of ailments too horrible to describe. In this time of biological cleansing they whose white blood cells, through constant training, have become like Norse Berserkers will suffer only some mild congestion and minor aches and pains that are easily treated with a nice dark beer or a shot of good Scotch.

And when the planet has been allowed to become untidy again, these neo-humans, these Germ-Whisperers, with their godlike immune systems will arise to create a new society in a world that is not only considerably less crowded, but also mercifully free of hand-sanitizing gels and unnecessary household cleaning products.

Yankee Doodle Damage

Just in time for pre-election year madness, or as a final sign that your mental faculties have at last entirely deserted you!

You'll find yourself alternately doubled over in fits of uncontrollable laughter and trembling with patriotic awe in a corner with your knees drawn up to your chin when confronted with this plush life-size symbol of America's greatness. Comes complete with giant soft feet for creeping silently down dark hallways, and huge polyester-stuffed hands for muffling cries of dissent.

Includes whimsical closed-circuit camera "eyes" and super-sensitive microphone "ears" to record every household activity and conversation with a direct relay to our own quality-assurance agents, making it the perfect Homeland Security mascot. And now, at just $24.98, you can afford to put one in every room and closet of your home so that no matter where you go, there he is! Made in China.

My Bad.

I blame myself and you should too . . . blame me, that is.*

This was my fault

After several months of careful consideration, I've come to the conclusion that everything is, in fact, my fault. I'm sure this discovery comes as no surprise (and perhaps somewhat of a relief) to the legions of blame-shifters and buck-passers everywhere who for years have been stridently asserting that nothing is their fault, ever.

From minor individual goofs, to major catastrophes worldwide, I am now stepping up with pride to accept full responsibility for everything that goes awry on our planet. Soon the shrill battle cry of accountability-shirkers everywhere will no longer be, "It's not my fault," but rather, "It's Steve's fault."

Misjudged a curb and twisted your ankle? My fault. I should have embarked on a global letter-writing campaign years ago demanding that city leaders mandate all curbs be set to a uniform height, constantly maintained, marked with reflective paint, and manned by guards reminding you to watch your step. I neglected to do that, and I'm very sorry. It wasn't because you weren't paying attention to your surroundings that you're hobbling around in a walking cast, it's because I was slacking off on my duties.

Probably a bad idea

Global economic meltdown? Yeah. That's my fault too. I was probably misguidedly trying to save my money for inevitable rocky economic times rather than being a good consumer and rushing out to buy every shiny new piece of whatever in a desperate and futile attempt to fill that terrible empty hole in my soul with material possessions. Or is it the other way around? No matter. Regardless the cause, it's my fault. And I'm fine with that. That's just how I roll.

I'm even going to take the fall for the weather.

Considering it's the the first week of November, the mid-morning weather was remarkably pleasant today for this part of the world. Blue sky, sun, mild temperatures. While at work I overheard a young couple saying that they were going to take advantage of how nice it was and drive to the park to enjoy a picnic. I remember thinking, "Gosh, that does sound enjoyable. I wish I was going to do that."

In less than an hour the wind picked up and the sky darkened with rolling clouds. The temperature fell rapidly. Snow began to fall, and within moments it was like that scene in the movie "Legend" where Lily touches the Unicorn and as a consequence plunges the world into darkness and winter.

I'm sorry I ruined your picnic

It wasn't my intent to wish a blizzard on those hapless picnickers, and I certainly don't remember touching a Unicorn, but the blame is mine regardless. It was my fault they didn't check the forecast, which predicted snow in the afternoon. I should have warned them. The guilt gnaws at me.

I swim in blame. I wrap responsibility around myself like a cloak of furry anguish. I am the sin-eater, the scapegoat, the whipping boy. Lost jobs, lost loves, forgotten responsibilities, dead car batteries and slip-and-fall accidents. I willingly bear the brunt of every nuance of misadventure.

Perhaps things could have been different if my parents had hugged me more often or if my grandfather hadn't had such an apparent genetic affinity toward bourbon, but as it is I am the willing resting place for the moving finger of fault.

Act now though, dodgers of personal accountability, as my blame chambers are filling up quickly. Throw it all onto me before it's too late and I turn into a virtual trampoline of accusation, bouncing responsibility like a deranged parrot onto shoulders more deserving than my own.

(*At the urging of my attorney it is incumbent upon me to note that he indicates there are subtle differences that could be argued in a court of law between "Blame" and "Liability" and any charges brought against the so-called defendant [hereby known as "Steve"] and the plaintiff [hereby known as "Whoever"] would be immediately dismissed amidst loud jeers of derision.)