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.