The Museum of Sudden Disappearances

MUSEUM available as an ebook at Amazon Or, for temporal travelers, PAST IS PRESENT at Amazon.

Sunday, August 11, 2019

Nookie with Lucifer?

Sex with Satan?

Are you in bed with Beelzebub?

Her sleep mask was a warning: sleep with one eye open!

Years ago, Twyla Girdlestone, 29, of Saginaw Michigan, woke to the serene sound of a flushing toilet. All was well in the world. She pictured her new boyfriend, Aldrich, taking a whiz. Next she heard what sounded like a Gregorian chant coming from the kitchen. She raised herself on one elbow, slipped off her silk sleep mask, and checked the clock radio. 3:32 a.m. Twyla looked around in the dark, reached over, and turned on the bedside lamp. What happened next spiked her blood pressure, and changed her life.

The bed sheet and blanket had been turned back on Aldrich's side of the bed. Looking down, Twyla was perplexed when she saw...


Recently, Twyla purchased a top-quality mattress made of extra-plush foams and fibers to create comfort layers designed to cradle a customer's body and relieve pressure. Who wouldn't wanna make whoopee on that?

Babies wet the bed; adults dent the bed; life goes on.

NOTE: Body impression, often referred to as body signature, is where the mattress has a slight indentation where one lies at night, on the surface.


Within seconds Twyla's confusion turned into terror. An impression was stamped on the bed, as vivid as a footprint in mud. It was a human profile of Aldrich...with anatomical accessories. The mattress suggested a forked tail attached to Aldrich's rump, horns atop his noggin, and cloven hooves for tootsies. Twyla vibrated with fear, peeling back the blanket. Oh...My...God! She beheld winged imprints tattooed onto the fitted sheet, as if leathery membranes had sprouted out of Aldrich's back.

Imagine the love of your life getting up to take a leak and you spot this on the futon. Honey, y'all gotta jumbo prob.

DEFCON 1 in the dating world

A mirror never reflects a vampire [see New England Journal of Medicine, October 31, "Reflections on the Unreflected: Myth, Monster, Mirror"]. So, too, only an extra-plush foam mattress can reveal a devil's invisible body parts, which remain otherwise unseen by the human eye. 

How could Twyla have been so blind? Although Aldrich Bronwyn Snootfield IV was totally worthless, at least he wasn't wanted by the FBI or INTERPOL. Twyla had more than a decade of dating experience under her belt. She knew that the secret to dating was to drop your standards to approximately ten miles below sea level. Even at that depth, within the Earth's crust, it would still filter out 98% of single men, denizens of the ultimate man cave of dense rock, the Earth's mantle. So Twyla expected to meet zeroes like Aldrich. Blowhards with fancy-ass names, dullards not devils. 

warning sign: your guardian angel's handprint 

Today's world is already a minefield of letdowns and dashed hopes. Now women had to ask themselves, "For fucksake, am I dating a gargoyle?" Is my guardian angel appearing in the middle of the night, leaning on the mattress with one hand, whispering into my ear, "JFC, girl! You're lying in the sack with a sack of..." Shhhhh. Don't make a sound. Or Mr. Wonderful will hear you.

Twyla stared at the mattress and recalled her mother's recent warning. "Never trust a man who calls himself Aldrich, not Al. Edward, not Eddie. Richard, not Dick. And, of course, Gerald, not Gerkoff." Formal first-name users, according to Mrs. Bertha Girdlestone, were pretentious blowbags who should be thrown screaming from helicopters into the shark-infested waters of the Bermuda Triangle.


The clock changed to 3:33 a.m. Twyla glanced at the numbers, mentally doubled them, and thought: 6:66. At that moment Aldrich slithered into the bedroom in his tighty-whities, humming a Gregorian chant while doing pop & lock arm moves. He was either dancing or experiencing a charley horse in both legs while being tasered during a 10.0 earthquake. Twyla Girdlestone would soon be officially reported missing, and never seen again.


Is Satan your main squeeze? Seriously, is your boyfriend...Beelzebub?

If you paused for even a nanosecond while reading the above, you may have an issue. You may be dating a demon.

It's Saturday night. What shall I wear? An asbestos suit.
(Meet hellacious men on America's #1 online dating site,

You may ask: "How the Hades would I know? Is he my infantile, flavorless, totally self-absorbed boyfriend...or boy-fiend? Holy smokes, I dunno!"

Thwart sulfur halitosis attack? No prob.

Although millions of men are soulless sizzleshits in polo shirts, the good news is that less than 24% are actually possessed by Lucifer. Most men collapse with beer on their breath and lies on their lips. But what if you kissed your snoring boyfriend, supine next to the toilet bowl, his feet in the hallway, his pants puddled around his ankles, and discovered that his breath reeked of sulfur? Might that give you pause? Might you say: "Oh Passed-Out Prince of Porcelain. Oh Ceramic Seer and Feudal Lord of the Floor. Oh Noble Earl of Saginaw, Michigan. Ye doth lie on the tiled floor, but doth ye lie to me?"

GPS satellite tracks shitty relationships

Women may wonder, "Where's this relationship headed?" GPS has 33 satellites littering the sky, one of which tracks relationships. Ask GPS. Say, "What's the coordinates on the location of this relationship? The latitude and longitude of love for the lovelorn...or I'd love to get my life back?" If GPS replies, "Dumpster fire, Category 5," consider yourself lucky. Pack your bags. Your life is on the upswing.

apparel for a break-up with Satan

Whereas if GPS says, "Turn left, turn right, welcome to Hell," don't fiddle with the thermostat. The heat you feel isn't greenhouse gas emissions, although a spiritual drought and a severe shitstorm is underway. So slip on an asbestos suit and scram.

PS: Whatever happened to Twyla Girdlestone? Who knows? However, years later this anonymous post appeared on a website for recovering incubus daters. The site's name? Ask Me if I Give a Sheet: Satin not Satan.

TG. Free at last.

TG? Twyla Girdlestone? Or..."Thank God, free at last!"

Sunday, February 24, 2019

#1 in the Universe


Cosmic Earthling Overlord

CEOWORLD magazine released its ranking of the most powerful people in the world. Topping the list is this power trio.

power trio

#1  Donald Trump (U.S.)
#2  Vladimir Putin (Russia)
#3  Xi Jinping (China)

A power trio is a rock-n-roll band with a guitar, bass and drums. Think Cream, Jimi Hendrix Experience, or Led Zep. The above trio frequently perform on the world's stage, but no one would describe any of them as a "song-and-dance man." Perhaps they play air guitar.

In November 2018, the world population was pegged at 7.7 billion. So the U.S. president beat out nearly 8 billion people for the top spot: Most Powerful Person in the World. But that description is misleading. It's like saying "Jeff Bezos (#6 on list) is solvent." Or Vladimir Putin -- a/k/a Vlad the Impaler -- stays in shape via defenestration aerobics (throwing critics through fifth-floor windows). Both descriptions are true, but limited. Calling someone the most powerful person in the world reveals a myopic imagination.

Consider this story from the New York Post (12/8/17).

Half of humans believe in alien life, study says

"Nearly half of Earthlings believe that we aren’t alone in the universe — and want to make contact with alien life, according to a new study..."
Yoo hoo!
Half equals 3.85 billion believers. Half also equals 3.85 billion nonbelievers. So nearly four billion people believe we are alone in the universe. There's a 50% chance they're right. If so, ipso facto, Donald Trump is the most powerful person in the universe. 

President Pee Wee?
Anyone can run for president in America. What if, say, Pee Wee Herman ran and was elected by a disgruntled majority. He would be, in the eyes of nearly four billion people, hands down, the most powerful person in the universe. If you stood outside, anywhere in the world, and looked heavenward, you'd be a tiny dot in the unending Pee Wee cosmos. All would be within the domain of President Pee Wee, for zillions of light years in any direction.
Pee Wee Herman would be the most famous, most powerful person in all creation. He alone among almost eight billion people...would bubble up to the top. Why? Because 51% of the electorate was in a shitty mood on election day.
Mr. Universe? Not quite.
Next year, Vlad the Impaler could rise to the top slot. Imagine the most powerful dude in the universe spending a few minutes each day pitching ingrates through windows or squirting radioactive material on dissenters. The cosmos would be reduced to a thugocracy.
Alas, the Universe Championship isn't just a bodybuilding event. It's the culmination of 70,000,000 frisky voters (less than two percent of the global population), with vertical middle fingers, sending a shock wave across a gazillion galaxies. 

Next time, vote as if the universe depends on it.

Wednesday, December 19, 2018

Collision, Collusion, Confusion


(a tale of total terror)

Headlights whitened her rearview mirror that night, suggesting two small UFOs weaving side to side, speeding toward her car stopped at a traffic light. She was backlit in the front seat, frozen in light and shadows. In a nanosecond, she understood this was a game-changer on a lonely stretch of road. If the other driver didn't apply the...

The oncoming truck thundered into her trunk, hitting her Bernie for President 2016 bumper sticker, turning her car into a squeezebox on wheels. Barbara Wanderly saw the dashboard roaring toward her as she smashed face-first into the steering wheel, oblivious to the tornado of metal, vinyl and glass.

Time passed. Paramedics rushed the unconscious woman to the nearest hospital. It was after two a.m. on June 16, 2015 when Barbara, strapped to a gurney, rolled out of the ambulance under a starry sky. Comatose. Adrift in a netherworld.

Later that day, Donald Trump stepped off a golden escalator and officially announced his candidacy for the presidency.

Barbara remained in a coma, and was eventually transferred to a nursing home. Months blurred by; years were a rolling fog. Until one morning her eyes blinked open. She heard a vaguely familiar voice nearby. She felt a bed beneath her, and saw a large, strange room with beeping monitors and bedridden strangers.

“Hello?” she said. Her voice sounded faraway.

A teenage girl in a blue smock appeared above Barbara’s head.

Barbara remembered headlights. “What’s the…date?”

The wide-eyed nurse’s aide said, “April 1, 2019.”

After Barbara processed that, she managed a weak smile. “Who won? Hillary Clinton...or Jeb Bush?”

Confusion clouded the girl’s eyes. She leant back, pointed at a TV set suspended from the ceiling, the source of the familiar voice.

“Excuse me, excuse me!” The speaker's right hand moved in the air with the geometrical precision of a hummingbird. “No collusion! Fake news! That much I can tell you, believe me! No collusion!" 

Barbara saw an afternoon press conference on the White House lawn. Reporters faced a president with orange hair combed in multiple directions. He was chattering about...a car accident? An automobile collusion? He denied colluding into a car full of...Russians. The police report was a hoax. "No collision, no collusion!" he said.

Barbara squinted—no, it can’t be—and recognized the new president. “Where am I?”

The girl said, “Fairfax Nursing Home.”


United States.”

Barbara felt a surreal jolt. Her hospital bed spun like a top. Was she awake, dreaming, vegetative? 

She concluded: I'm in a parallel world.

Barbara Wanderly, vowing to swim back to consciousness in a couple of years for an update, sank into the safety of her netherworld.

Friday, August 17, 2018

Salvation Tip for Spiritual Dogs

Ready? Set? Get your Pet...into Paradise

Is there room for pets in Paradise? Of course. Would you want to spend eternity without your pet? No way. Heaven would be a hell-hole without Snuffles the dog or Muffy the six-toed cat.

"So," you ask, "how can my pet get kicked upstairs to the Sweet Hereafter? Wishing it will happen won't make it so. I want a guarantee."

What follows is a visionary tip. Read it here first, at the ever educational Museum of Sudden Disappearances. This is a simple, screamingly obvious, one-step procedure. Follow it, and Fido gets a ticket to join the angels.

The key step is baptism. A baptized baby has a shot at heaven, unless the baby grows up to be, say, Whitey Bulger, or goes through life saying the world's stupidest four words, "You got a haircut." An unbaptized baby, who grows up to be a world-class philanthropist, is still out of luck. No baptismal certificate? No heaven for you, buddy boy, you're undocumented.

Pooches with proper papers 
ride this escalator to Paradise.

The same applies to pets. Dogs and cats, once baptized, are eligible for Heaven. Unless they bite the mailman or crap on the carpet, which is a mortal sin, and may result in their heading in the wrong direction. In which case they'll spend eternity in Doggie Hell, tied to a post outside of Satan's Supermarket, stranded by the automatic sliding doors, facing the plate glass windows, whining, and wondering why their master refuses to exit the store after a million years. 

Trixie last saw her master back in 992,084 B.C. Still waiting.

Satan's Supermarket is open 24/7 x eternity. Once dog owners grab a shopping cart and enter, they never come out again. This is what's in store for Fido if he craps on the carpet, and then pretends he didn't do it and dummies up with that look on his face that says, "I've been framed!" Next stop: Doggie Hell. And it's Fido's own damn fault. There'll be no leg-lifting on the Big Fire Hydrant in the Sky for him.

Bunnie & Clyde, pantry robbers, 
paying the price in Doggie Hell.

Mr. Munchie peed on the rug, then blamed the mailman.
 Now he's inmate #6789X at Hades for Hounds.

Let's move on to the nitty.

You ask: "How can my pet get baptized? Because I don't think my neighborhood church provides this service."

holy water font

Solution: buy a lawn sprinkler at the hardware store, and a whole lot of garden hose. You may have to hit several Home Depots to get enough hose. Set the sprinkler on your front lawn. Connect the extremely long hose to the sprinkler, and run the other end into the River Jordan. If Lourdes, France is closer to your shack, access that. Or simply have your parish priest come to your house and bless your water tank or water pipes.

Now you're ready to rock the sprinkler. Turn it on, and watch holy water spray the air in oscillating waves. Your job is done. Go inside, watch TV. Nature is about to take its spiritual course.

It's a hot summer day. Dogs do what dogs do. This:

"Wow, Scooter, this hits the spot! Arf arf!"

Then the news travels around the neighborhood (this is why the sprinkler must be located in the front, for maximum visibility, not the back yard). Pretty soon...

"Yo, Baxter and Toodles, this is grrrrrrrrreat!"

Baxter: "Don't hog all the holy water, Chuckie!"
Chuckie: "I ain't."
Toodles: "Are so."
Chuckie: "No way."

And then everyone is in on it.

From across the street, the McMutt family drops by. As you can see, Mrs. McMutt believes that getting spayed is a mortal sin. "Don't get spayed," she said, "get sprayed."

Catrina Scratchowski, the next-door neighbor, joins the party.

Even the neighborhood trash can inspector arrives.

What happens when our furry friends get blasted with holy water? You guessed it: Rapture. Check these photos: two neighborhood dogs ascending toward that Fire Hydrant in the Clouds. Within five minutes, as they rose like balloons, neither dog could be seen with the naked eye. 

Scooter Adams (left) and Yo-Yo Schneider:

Fyodor Dogstoyevsky takes flight.

Charles Barkley waves bye-bye.

You ask, "What if the neighborhood pet refuses to run through the sprinkler?"

Answer: this is what happens when you dance with the devil.

Hell cat (for real)

Devil dog (oh, Hell yeah!)

No sprinklers for this little dude, and now he's payin' the price.

On the other hand, this guy (below) earned his wings. How? By never amputating the mailman's leg or doggedly sniffing people's zippers. Or breaking into the pantry, eating a two-pound bag of dry rice, getting diarrhea, redecorating the living room, and rendering the house into...well, an EPA-designated hazardous waste dump.

"My name's Sparky. I never made a mess. I knew how to hold it in...all day long!"

Finally, your holy water lawn sprinkler not only offers salvation, but signifies diversity. Which explains how this little nitwit got in on the action. His name is Gerald Jitters. Mr. Jitters is adjusting the water pressure prior to his baptism.

"I got every right to be here too," proclaimed Mr. Jitters.

Gerald Jitters demanded equal access to the holy water, which is guaranteed by the inscription on the Statue of Poochie. Gerald recited from memory:

Statue of Poochie
(on Belle Isle in the Detroit River)

"Gimme your tired, your poor pets, and your chewy toys. Your huddled squirrels yearning to breathe free in a tree or on a telephone pole. The wretched raccoons of your teeming garbage cans. Send these, the homeless hounds, tempest-tost kitties. I lift my hind leg beside the golden hydrant and shout, 'Life! Liberty! And Triple Flavor Kabobs!'"

BONUS: Within 60 feet of that sprinkler, all dead grass will rise from the dirt, like Lazarus. Lourdes meets lawn care.

Tuesday, July 24, 2018

America's #1 Cliche


Can this cliche be stopped?

Hospital ER's Overwhelmed by Verbal Tic Infection

Summer is here. You enjoy a walk in the woods. There's nothing like getting in touch with nature while wearing headphones (noise-canceling, killer cans the size of hubcaps), smoking designer weed nicknamed BrainBurst, while littering beer cans on the hiking trail and sending Zenlike texts to your friends, which cryptically say: K. As you know, that ticks them off.

Which brings to mind "ticks." Ewww. The woods are dangerous, filled with ticks and poison ivy. Perhaps a barefoot walk in your silk micro briefs with mesh ventilation wasn't so smart. At least the smoke from BrainBurst repels the mosquitoes and tsetse flies. Bravo: you had the sense to leave the other designer bud at home, the one called InstaComa. Let's face it, tripping on a dead tree stump crawling with maggots, then collapsing into a doob-induced, three-day coma in the middle of bear and rattlesnake country...isn't what Joni Mitchell had in mind when she sang Woodstock

I'm going to camp out (pass out?) on the land
I'm going to try an' get my soul free
We are stardust
We are golden

But you're nothing if not sensible. Still, you ask: What's the #1 tick in America?

Here at The Museum of Sudden Disappearances, we have no idea. But we can certainly reveal the #1 Verbal Tic in America. And deep down, you already know it. In a sense, it's so obvious, it's hidden. Hidden within plain sound. It's a cyst on society's sociolinguistic tongue.

Note the glazed eyeballs, 
symptomatic of verbal tic addiction
(see Physicians' Desk Reference, page 666).

Before we mention it, beware. Once you see the phrase written here, you will make note, and remember it. The problem? You can never again not hear it. So be warned, you will hear it at least several times each after day after day after day. And each time you hear it, your psychological well-being will take a hit, resulting in an unending erosion of your psyche. Think of it as the verbal equivalent of a cattle prod, a nasty jolt to the ears. 

Still with us? You've been warned. You can stop reading and hit the Museum's exit, hit the crash bar on the door and flee. Otherwise, at the end of the day, you may start to lose your composure. You may punch your head through a wall as America's #1 Verbal Tic grinds into your ears. Because...

Come on, people. How many times have you heard " the end of the day...blah blah blah." Turn on the TV news. The radio. Hear it in daily discourse. Over and over like a drumbeat. It's the go-to mindless mantra of our times. These six words, "At the end of the day," have replaced these six words, "When all is said and done." Remember that? Remember when everyone said, "When all is said and done..." Those six words were interchangeable with these six words: "When you get right to it..."

Why is it always six words? Consider this...

Book of Revelation. The Number of the Beast: 666. What if 666 is a Biblical, apocalyptic reference, foreseeing the three dominant verbal tics of the 21st century, which will usher in endtimes? Imagine the world getting incinerated, not by nuclear war, but by a widespread, verbal tic exploding our brains. A weaponized cliche which, after you hear it for the quadrillionth time, detonates inside your skull.

At the end of the day at the end of the day at the end of the day at the end of the day at the end of the day I want to drop to my knees and flat-out scream (like James Brown, live at the Apollo) because at the end of the day I'm at my wit's end.....

How creepy is this? An actual photo of a verbal tic getting under your skin. The tic flies out of your radio while you're listening to a sobering, educational interview on NPR. The tic lands on your ear lobe, burrows in. Now, each time you hear "...(because) at the end of the day," the tic torpedoes a little further along in your bloodstream, heading for your brain.

All we need is to be needed? Is this dude serious? No. All we need is to never again hear, you know, those...six words.

Yes, even Lebron James got bit by the tic at this year's NBA Finals.

No. Caption incorrect. It should read: Lebron says " the end of the day, we were down two games, but, you know, at the end of the day it's just day's end which is at the end of the day."

If you made it this far, if you're down here reading're infected. You're aware of the most overused, verbal crutch of the 21st century. Next time you turn on your TV or radio, be warned: the tick will fly out of the speakers and head for your head. It may take a half hour. Or seconds. 

tic transmitter

How will you regain your sanity? You have one option. It's a medical procedure not covered by your insurance. Blue Cross Blue Shield does not cover verbal-tic removal. So you're gonna have to pony up the big bucks. 

This poor dude (pictured below) turned on the radio, and within four measly minutes the tic flew out and hit him in the sweet spot. Mr. Lovejoy was rushed to Massachusetts General Eye, Ear and Tic Clinic, where a surgical team succeeded in flicking the tick. Per doctor's orders, the patient can never again turn on the news.

Perhaps you ask: "What if the patient goes outside and hears someone saying " the end of the day," and is again hit by the tic, and has a relapse? 

Well, we Americans are known for our can-do spirit. Look how Mr. Lovejoy and his son, Dudley, solved the problem.  

Whenever Mr. Lovejoy and Dudley emerge from the bunker, they're always dressed in their Calvin Klein beekeeper suits. In the (inevitable) chance that someone stops them on the street, and says, "Hello Mr. Lovejoy and little Dudley! Just so you two know, at the end of the day, I am at peace because my intentions are good and my heart is pure." 

Not to worry. The Lovejoys will be protected. That verbal tic will fly from the speaker's mouth, but bounce off the Lovejoys' beekeeper masks. 

So you see, a beekeeper mask can prevent Armageddon. This blog entry ends on a positive note (after a litany of horror). Because here at The Museum of Sudden Disappearances...

...we're all about being super positive (six words).