Letters from Readers: Mickey D. (II) (Part 2)

Dear readers, we wish very much to fulfill our implicit promise to share Mickey D’s latest letter.  After all, this is, with high probability, his all time most legible letter.  Unfortunately, we cannot fulfill that promise this week, because of the conniving actions of one wily lawyer, Lian Ya, or, to anyone who falls for her convenient alias, “Lilly”.  Needless to say we were not taken in by that alias, or at least not for so long that it would matter and be a point of embarrassment for us.  Anyway, in lieu of Mickey D’s latest letter, we are fully prepared to make good on an un-implicit, and certainly never explicit, promise, that we in truth never made, to anyone, least of all you dear readers, to publish in it’s mercifully abridged form the letter we received yesterday from our newest blog staffer, and first in-house legal consultant, and LAST in-house home healthcare worker, regarding dubious compensation disputes over rendered “home” healthcare “services”, about which we will be meeting in televised small claims court this week, to settle the question of the legal status of in-house home healthcare workers in the office, and whether or not swindler’s rights are applicable in this situation, but mainly regarding, in a small addendum on the bottom of the last long winded, elitist, prickish page, our Mickey-D-letter-based questions which we put forward in a piece of lost correspondence, and cannot recreate word for word, and on principle will not paraphrase.

As you very well know, but are unwilling to admit, the performance of multiple daily enemas was not negotiated in my contract, and should not have been stipulated by surprise on my first day in the office.  Per section 3b of aforementioned contract, I am entitled to…

It goes on in this insufferable manner for quite some time, without making any point whatsoever, and entirely despite the fact that Luke ate all copies of the “aforementioned” contract, thus rendering it null and void, as per section 7d of addendum 1 of said “aforementioned” contract, which Luke did not eat.  So stick that shit up your ass, bitch!  Now make with the enemas, damn it!

Anyhoosiewhatsits, the letter finally gets back on topic towards the end, where in her very dirty, seedy, distasteful, unscrupulous, legal, slutty capacity, rather than her far more esteemed and cherished erstwhile capacity as the office enema bitch, at which she has chosen to turn up her nose, she clearly writes:

There are no legal grounds for preventing your blog from publishing Mickey D’s letters in their entirety. There are, however, ample grounds to prosecute practically every justice system worker who has corresponded with you regarding his letters. I strongly suggest you get all the appropriate federal agencies involved to bring these deviants to justice.

What you have to understand, dear readers, is that this term “appropriate” is in fact a dead giveaway of her own wicked and vile and slutty deviancy.  As we investigated Whitey Tighty and his many colleagues in the correctional system jerking circles, it became clear that the term “appropriate” along with several other terms, some of which include abortions of the Latin language, and REAL ABORTIONS, are actually codewords used to cover up their deviant sex rings, jerking circles, and other abominations of non-consentual guard vs prisoner sexy time, and yes we meant “vs” not “on”.  So we will have to let her go, at least in her capacity as legal counsel; she is free to stay and render enemas unto us, if she chooses thusly.

Given this revelation, we will go ahead and post Mickey D’s entire letter as soon as we have finished reconstructing the words occluded by all of the ejaculating dick and balls doodles that smell to have been drawn with sausage grease and acne puss, and that did not appear on the pages of his letter until we accidentally put them too close to a 100-wat bulb.

The universal symbol of sexual frustration or lack thereof and everything else too.

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Should Have Called It Circleville

A man and wife awake in a strange town. This town happens to be a town that should have been called Circleville, but as it happens, it is in fact called Centerville.

“Oh, okay, strange,” says Man to Wife, who responds:

“Yeah, strange.” She then proceeds to find it strange, just as the Man had surmised.

The Man and Wife explore their immediate surroundings, only to find absolutely nothing to their liking.

“Well, fuck me in the arse,” says the Man, affecting a British demeanor temporarily as a means of entertaining Wife, who responds:

“That’s not funny, and I’m not amused,” in a very affected British accent. She laughs, but it rings hollow.

“I can’t help but notice how hollow your laugh rang in my ears, Wife.” The Man fails to notice many people passing by as he speaks to Wife.

“I can’t help but not notice all these people about whom I do not care at all, Man,” says Wife to Man.

“Yeah, strange,” says Man to Wife, but in a tone that rings hollow. Suddenly, Man wonders where all of this is going. Wife senses his dissatisfaction, only to be herself dissatisfied.

“I wish everything was more to our liking, Man,” she says.

“But since it is not and never will be, let us pretend as though nothing is to our disliking, Wife.” Man passes some white bread to Wife, who readily accepts.

a story as old as truth

“This white bread is much to my liking, Man,” she says to Man, who agrees in kind.

“Sometimes, I wish that I were white bread, in order that I may wish all things to be more as I were,” says Man to Wife.

“There is nothing at all ambiguous about this thing you wish, Man,” says Wife to Man. Man nods in agreement. As he does so, white bread falls from his face. “It appears to me, Man, that you have gotten what you have bargained for,” says Wife to Man, who nods in agreement, loosing more white bread slices from his face.

“Perhaps, Wife, I have been remiss to recognize myself and yourself as simply white bread,” says Man to Wife, who nods in agreement, loosing more slices of white bread.

“Perhaps, Man, you are correct to realize that both you and I are simply slices of white bread,” says Wife to Man.

In the distance belches are heard, as white bread loaves sit in circles and debate in silence on the counter.


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Nach’yer Daddy’s Straight Gin to Brandy-VD Movie: One

We here at the blog are not under the influence, to produce award-winning, triple A-list blockbusting, family video chart-hitting, Dutchtowning, Cannesing, Sundancing, Holly-Wood inducing films, of booze. And to prove, despite the strong metaphorical whiff of hard stuff on the breadth of our drawling, stuttering, hiccuping sentences, it, we will now insinuate that we are capable of, in the face of our many critics’ vapid critiques’ various criticisms of our many works, producing a work such as that with which your daddy is not familiar: One.

Let us qualify, before we begin One, One with descriptions of One’s qualities, which are most fitting for one to understand One. For, if one were to understand One, there could only be 1 understanding of One for one to understand; I will enumerate this understanding 1, from now on to be referred to exclusively as “It,” with the Roman numeral equivalent for Arabic numeral 1, which is of course the Roman numeral “I.”

It is imperative to understand the ambiguities inherent in the very discussion of this topic. This is the key to deciphering the imperative understanding of this very discussion: that it must be, indeed. That this must be said must have been said by now, for It is so, so, so, very very so imperative.

Alright alright alright, fine. One is not It, and it is not So. It has come to our attention that So is not so defined as It, nor shall it be so defined. Accept It as So! One is coming and So is It…

1 of 1 treatment(s) for whiskreenplay one of One:

Plane 1 meets Bird.
Plane 1 woos Bird.
Bird falls for Plane 1.
Plane 2 meets Bird.
Plane 2 seduces Bird.
Plane 1 loses Bird.
Plane 1 fights Plane 2.
Bird looks away, disinterested.
Plane 2 crashes.
Plane 1 wins Bird.
Bird meets jet engine.
One-Love, Plane.


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Letters From Readers: Mickey D. (II) (Part 1)

Over the last month we have been sitting on another electrifying letter from our jolly good chum, Mickey D. He was being held at the Fransdorf Area Bare-Minimum Security Correctional Facility during the months from March 2016 through August 2017 for his felony Publicly Indecent Terrorism, which was lately downgraded to misdemeanor Public Indecency on account of his improved personal hygiene habits and three straight months without getting his penis out of his pants at inappropriate times. At the beginning of September he began serving the remainder of his sentence at the Luberating Acts Super-Maxway House for the Recently Less Imprisoned.

His latest letter details the unusual circumstances surrounding his “release.” Unfortunately, it contained a great deal of sensitive information about the genitalia and masturbation habits of various prisoners and staff that we suspected might be inappropriate and probably even illegal to publish without the corresponding image archive, which certainly cannot be compressed enough to allow for download on any modern internet bandwidth in less than two years. However, we just received word from our mail department of an “official letter” of “Quid Approprio Quo” having been sent from none other than Mulberry White, the Fransdorf Area Correctional System director. This letter purportedly details emphatically how appropriate it actually is to publish exclusively the text of Mickey D’s letter on the Wilderness of Mirrors Blog, provided of course that we first perform certain equally appropriate and indeed legal acts of a “Quid Quo” nature for his half-breed son-in-law. Therefore we conclude that Mulberry White, or “Tighty Whitey” as the prisoners of the Fransdorf Area Bare-Minimum Security Correctional Facility affectionately call him, will have most definitely and readily given us permission to publish the following letter, which follows in the following words, as follows:

Hi fellers it’s me, Mickey, and by that I actually mean MICKEY, do you hear? Are you reading this right now, you liberal butt plug D-bags? Douche faggots like yourselves going around calling me…

We interupt this blog post to bring you a breaking and entering development of this story, originating from our mail department and barging its way into the headquarters of the Wilderness of Mirrors Blog right now as we dictate the words of this very long sentence that just seems to go on and on and never stop, even though, as we all know, it must, so that we can deliver the following hot copy of the breaking news, transcribed by Agnes O’Houlihan, transcriptionist extraordinaire, which follows, as follows:

Allen ends the dictation and joins Evan, Luke, and Noah who have met and are Mexicanly standing off an intruder in their midst. The Penal Head Master, or Head Peter, of the Luberating Acts Super-Maxway House for the Recently Less Imprisoned, a tall, dominating, leather-clad woman named Alice Hadreanus, according to the tag on her studded choke chain, silently and dominantly proffers two letters addressed to Allen, Evan, Luke, and Noah.

Evan takes the letters and reads the titles.

EVAN: This one is called “Letterium Formalium de Introductus” and this one says “Formal Proposition of Quid Inapproprio Quo.”

Together the gang reads and discusses the contents of the letters in hushed tones. I, Agnes O’Houlihan, transcriptionist extraordinaire overhear puzzling snippets of their confabulations such as the following words, as follows:

NOAH: … inappropriate? …
LUKE: … but legal or no? …
EVAN: … ceremony of affirmed innapropriatude? …
ALLEN: … petition of appropriate recognizance …
LUKE: … the fuck does this mean?!

As their confusion and frustration rises with just a dash of elation, the formation of consternation among them bares some relation to the escalation of the volume of their proclamations.

ALLEN: I think this means she would do that right now!
LUKE: Who, Alice?
EVAN: Fuck yes, Alice, right here in H.Q.
NOAH: In front of Agnes?

Alice nods.

Without further discussion the gang, now entirely engorged by flights of imagination, begins to furiously remove their clothes, but their disrobing is abruptly discontinued by an incoming telegram.

ALLEN: I should get that before we begin, don’t start without me.

Allen, his shirt fully unbuttoned, and his ass-optional chaps’ ass flap fully unflapped, reads aloud the telegram.

ALLEN: It’s from Skid Mark, Whitey Tighty’s half-breed son-in-law, to us. It says “Wilderness of Mirrors Blog Bloggers, please disregard with extreme prejudice Alice’s offer of Quid Inapproprio Quo, hereafter referred to as the Offer, lest it be deemed highly inappropriate by the Court of Appropriate Gestures. Alice Hadreanus, hereafter referred to as the Offerer, has not obtained the necessary and appropriate Note of Confirmation of Appropriate Delivery, thus rendering the offer, immediately and forever after, inappropriate.” It goes on for several pages.
NOAH: Wait, so we cannot finish with Alice?
EVAN: It would just be inappropriate I guess?
LUKE: She’s writing something new.

Alice has turned to a table, and begins writing with a pen and parchment that were apparently concealed on her person, although everyone, including myself, Agnes O’Houlihan, transcriptionist extraordinaire, failed to witness how this was possible. The gang appears to have become shy of their near nudity and they redress themselves. After several minutes Alice turns to the gang and hands a new letter. Evan takes it and reads the title.

EVAN: This one is “A Formal Notice of Pulling Out.”
ALLEN: What does that mean? Clothes on or off?

The gang engages in another huddle of hush-toned discussions of this new letter. As this goes on Alice leaves headquarters unnoticed by the gang. Finally the gang, now fully clothed, returns to the central conference table. Allen resumes dictation.

We here at the blog apologize for interrupting the Mickey D. letter. We consider ourselves entirely baffled by a shocking series of events, which has just transpired here at headquarters. We plan to include a transcript of these events for your edutainment.

At this time we are uncertain about the level of authority held by the Court of Appropriate Gestures, and we have chosen to cease and desist posting of the Mickey D. letter until we have consulted with an actual practitioner of the actual law. Please be patient, you bastards, this will only take a few weeks to straighten out.

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Excerpt from “Monk on the Mat” (working title)

Note: The following is a short scene from our latest feature-length screenplay, set in early twentieth century Chicago.



The BOY enters the outer room of LORENZO MARTINI’S office. Two POLICE OFFICERS and SQUEAKY are sitting in various chairs, drinking martinis. Fast talking can be heard through the inner office door. FO DONG, the secretary, looks up at the BOY.

FO DONG: Ah, greetings mistah boy man! What can I do for you?

BOY: I’m looking for Mr. Martini.

FO DONG: Martini? Yes! I do so.

FO DONG moves to the liquor cabinet to prepare a martini.

SQUEAKY: Hey, kid! Ain’t she a peach? Gee, I don’t get why the chinks get such a bad rap ‘round here.

OFFICER 1: Hey, don’t be so quick to conclusions, Squeaky. No doubt she’s a fine chink, but only one fine chink. Why, China town down past forty-seventh is chock full of Chinks with less manners than this Chink.

The BOY, amazed by the speed at which these men speak, is unable to get a word in edgewise. 

SQUEAKY: What are you meaning to be saying to me right now? Am I to judge all chinks to be crude just because of some crude chinks down in Chinky town?

OFFICER 2: Naw, it ain’t like that. I think what my associate is trying to say is that the actions of one chink ought not to be viewed as representative of chinks as a people.

OFFICER 1: That’s right. When you judge all chinks by the actions of just one chink, you risk forming conclusions on faulty grounds.

OFFICER 2: You see, it’s all a matter of sampling size, Squeaky.

OFFICER 2 finishes his martini and eats the olive, then examines the toothpick.

OFFICER 2: Say I buy a box of toothpicks and the first one I take out is broken.

OFFICER 2 breaks the toothpick.

OFFICER 2: Should I throw away the box?

SQUEAKY: Why, of course not! You can’t let one bad toothpick spoil the bunch.

OFFICER 2: Quite right.

OFFICER 1: Deucedly so.

OFFICER 2: It’s the same with chinks.

SQUEAKY: But that’s what I’m trying to tell you coppers. This chink is downright hospitable.

FO DONG walks toward the BOY with the martini, but OFFICER 2 takes it.

OFFICER 2 Thanks, doll.

FO DONG, confused, returns to the liquor cabinet to prepare another martini.

OFFICER 1: Quite right, Squeaky. The compliment’s valid, but you’re givin’ it with the  back of your hand.

SQUEAKY: What do you mean? A compliment’s a compliment in my neck of the concrete Congo.

OFFICER 2: You’re sayin’ that this chink’s better than most chinks, ‘cause most chinks are rotten.

SQUEAKY: No, you got it all wrong. Hey, what about you, kid? You think by my sayin’ that this chink’s good that I’m really sayin’ most chinks ain’t so good? Or is it fair to say that callin’ chinks slime ain’t fair ‘cause there are fair chinks out there, such as is the case with this Miss Dong here? What I mean to be askin’ is, is Dong the exception that proves the rule, or are you a fool to buy the rule because of the exceptions? Hey, speak up, kid. Whadya say?


BOY: Uh, are all of you waiting for Martini too?

OFFICER 2: I got martini two right here.

OFFICER 1: I’m on three myself.

SQUEAKY: Whadya, a couple of featherweight fruits? I’m christening the maiden voyage of martini five over heres. What about you, kid?

BOY No, no, I want Mr. Martini.

FO DONG: I have your Mr. Martini right here.

LORENZO MARTINI bursts out of his office.

LORENZO MARTINI: That’s my name, try not to rub too many holes in it. It’s gotta last me a few more years, but not too many what with all the crazy, messed up, seedy low-lifes I have to wrestle a paycheck out of every day.

LORENZO MARTINI takes the martini from FO DONG and downs it in one gulp.

LORENZO MARTINI: Thanks, doll, how ‘bout another round? Hey, speakin’ of low-lifes,  here’s one with a face so ugly only his mother could smack it upside the head.

SQUEAKY: Hey, now.

LORENZO MARTINI:  Don’t hey me, Squeaks, that stuff’s for horses. Why, I wouldn’t even feed it to you, seeing as you’re only a horse’s ass, and there ain’t no creature on God’s green earth that eats ass-first. Am I right, fellas?

Everyone laughs except for SQUEAKY, who is annoyed, and the BOY, who is utterly confused by their rapid speech.

SQUEAKY: You sure can talk fast, Lorenzo Martini.

LORENZO MARTINI: And straight. Speakin’ of straight talk, let’s get straight to it. You got my money?

SQUEAKY: That depends. I want answers, and I don’t think these blue boys should get a free show. Why are they here, anyways?

LORENZO MARTINI: Don’t think too hard about it, you’ll muss up your toupee. I got answers for any mug with cash up front. So why don’t you play by the rules, bub?

SQUEAKY: Alright, alright, take it easy.

SQUEAKY hands LORENZO MARTINI a fat wad of cash, which he starts counting rapidly. As he counts, FO DONG hands him a martini, which he drinks in one gulp.

LORENZO MARTINI: Thanks, doll face, but I wanted a side of martini with my olive. How ‘bout it?

FO DONG takes the martini glass back to the liquor cabinet to prepare another.

LORENZO MARTINI: Alright, you’re paid up, Squeaks. That just leaves Chicago’s finest donut holes over here.

The officers give LORENZO MARTINI wads of cash, which he begins to count rapidly.

OFFICER 1: You better have something for us, Lorenzo Martini.

SQUEAKY: Hey, what’s the big idea? Why the group session?

LORENZO MARTINI jumps into a monologue spoken so fast that everyone struggles to keep up.

LORENZO MARTINI: Listen, fellas. You’re all here for the same thing, and I’m the  guy who’s gonna give it to ya, straight, no chaser. Squeaky clean, you think the old lady’s been fooling around with some handsome stranger, and you want to know whose been log jamming her sawmill while you’re at your girlfriend’s house, pretending to be working. That’s right, I know it. These boys know it. But that’s not all I know, so stay tuned. You pencil-pushing donut detectives want me to do your job for you and find out who the sorry sack of stupid is who hit up Luigi’s fine, upstanding, tax-paying pizzeria on the corner of thirty-forth and Dixon evening of Tuesday last. Well, news flash, you billy club bumpkins, your perp’s standing right under your fat snouts, drinking my suds and perpetrating the air we’re breathing with his  guilty stink as I speak my piece. Speaking of pieces, he’s about to pull one out of that goofy zoot suit right now, so watch out.

SQUEAKY backs into the corner and draws a gun.

LORENZO MARTINI: Hey, but what do I know, except the future. Joke’s on you, Squeaky, ‘cause I bet you haven’t noticed that six-shooter of yours is about six bullets light. I emptied it last night, just like you emptied that cash register last Tuesday. You thought you were so smart dressing up like clown and  covering your tracks by smoking a different brand of cigarettes. You sure fooled these dunce caps by dumping the cash into dough at the bakery on thirty-second and Fletcher, then dressing up as a different clown and robbing it clean of all its rolls, only to give them away to local street urchins and tramps, who have been on your payroll for years! Yeah, it was the perfect crime, except for one thing, me, Lorenzo Martini, the finest, damnedest, fastest talking private eye in all of Chicago this side of Factory Way, and the other side, for that matter. I knew it as soon as I  saw the receipt for clown makeup in a dumpster on the north side of Jackson, just two blocks from the bus garage you been sleeping in for the past three nights to throw the cops off your trail. Stick a fork in him, piggies, this one’s done!

SQUEAKY: You got it all wrong! None of that made any sense!

OFFICER 1: I’m afraid it’s your word against his, Squeaky, and only one of you is the fastest talking private eye in all of Chicago, any side of Factory Way.

OFFICER 2: He’s right. Lorenzo Martini’s testimonies have sunk bigger ships than you.

OFFICER 2 slaps handcuffs on SQUEAKY and begins to lead him out of the door.

SQUEAKY: But how did you empty the bullets from my gun?

LORENZO MARTINI: That’s easy. I noticed the gun on your nightstand while I was porkin’ your old lady last night. So now you know.

SQUEAKY: Damn you, Lorenzo Martini! I’ll get you for this!


LORENZO MARTINI: Hey, I’ve heard that one before.

FO DONG hands LORENZO MARTINI another martini, which he drinks in one gulp.

LORENZO MARTINI: That really hits the spot!

LORENZO MARTINI smacks FO DONG’s butt playfully.

LORENZO MARTINI: And so do I. Now get the hell outta here, doll face. What about you, kid, what’s your story?

The BOY is still overwhelmed by the sheer speed of LORENZO MARTINI’s speech.

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The Sport of MEATBALL, Chuck

FullSizeRender (1)

MEATBALL is to be played with 1 sphere of raw red meat, with the sphere’s radius coming as close as possible to 7 Spaniards’ inches without reaching or exceeding said 7 Spaniards’ inches. Raw red meat sphere should be as close to perfectly balanced as possible without being perfectly balanced. Raw red meat sphere should contain the flesh of as many different species as possible without exceeding too many, not including insect species or made-up species. Raw red meat should be ground, Chuck. Area of play is to be an unnatural pit with a minimum diameter of 35 Spaniards’ inches. Maximum diameter must not exceed span of the contiguous 48 states of the Union. Natural sinkholes are not to be used as pits of play, and the Transnational Executive Commission of Sport of MEATBALL Commissioned Executives Spanning the Nation does not condone the use of unsanctioned natural pit formations for the conduct of the Sport of MEATBALL’s execution.
The conduct of the Sport of MEATBALL is as follows:

  • The game is to be played by 7 teams.
  • Possible winning combinations of teams include not less than 1 and not more than less than 3.
  • The number of players on each team shall be between 5 and 7 but shall not be precisely 5 nor shall not be precisely 7.
  • Game begins as Meatball is tossed vertically into pit of playfield. First team or teams to gain possession of Meatball are to take a number of not to be non-standard bites equal to the proportion of an inverse relationship between the bites taken and the bites not taken by the teams currently in place to take possession after possession is given freely to them. End of Round 1, Chuck.
  • The total weight of players is to be measured. Measurements are to take place at the beginning and end of each round and periodically through each round and throughout each round.
  • Begins Round 2 Beginning Ceremony and Feast, followed by Round 2 Beginining. Wild dogs are released, Chuck. Total number of wild dogs to be determined on a game-by-game basis as laid out by the Number of Wild Dogs Subcomittee and Special Executive Committee of Wild Dog Number Determinations. Upon the vanquishment of final player by wild doggery, winning team or teams is or are determined by total time spent standing and or exclusive or by total raw red Meatball meat weight gain. Dog meat weight and or uniform meat weight gain not included in victory condition but added to total overweight time.

The Sport of MEATBALL Etiquette (SportoMeatibequette) is as follows: Played correctly and thoroughly, game should consist of oozing and sliming, as well as boozing and grinding. All men, women, and children can and should play. The sport shall be played only. Muscles should begin oozing various plasmoids about a third of the way into the match, and should continue through all sets and games. The bigger the muscle, the more purple and green the ooze can and should be. In order to more thoroughly enjoy the Sport of MEATBALL all participants shall ensure that oozing is a hindrance to enjoyment.

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On Location Reporting: The North American Hypernormal and Pararegular Fair

The North American Hypernormal and Pararegular Fair is put on every total-eclipse-of-the-sun for the five days leading up to the eclipse and the day of the eclipse. It is a time when the enthusiasts of the hypernormal and pararegular communities come together to celebrate the blotting out of the bright spot in the sky called the “Sun” by the Frisbee-of-cheese-like spot in the sky called the “Moon.”

This is a tradition that dates back to the European total solar eclipse in 1961, when the two communities decided to set aside their differences and come together to form a stronger coalition against the paranormal community.

At that time it had become clear that the so-called paranormal community would completely shadow both the hypernormal and pararegular communities. It was causing the few who do hear of the communities to instantly form misconceptions, which was perhaps the worst part of all.

“We just want everyone to know how normal we are,” said two young women named Jessica, amongst attenders on the first day of the fair. They wore identical “hypernormal” tea-shirts, tight pony tails, pink laced sneakers, and gray sweat-pant-legging-things.
“You could almost be identical twins!” I told them.
“Identical twins would be more pararegular actually, we just look a lot alike because we’re both so normal.”
“Okay. So, this is something we’re all a bit confused about that we’d like to get straightened out here today. Do you believe in ghosts, Jessicas?”
“Well,” they started, taking turns with each sentence in voices so identical I could not tell which sentence came from which person. “That is often a tricky question, but by most polls it is actually true that it is normal to believe in the existence of some kind of afterlife spirits, but to be honest we don’t believe in anything more specific than that.”
“Okay, so have you seen a ghost?” I asked curiously.
“Oh, heavens no!” Jessicas said. “That would be unbearably unusual.”
I finally noticed a difference in their appearance and said, “honestly, the only way I can tell you apart is that she has a  freckle on her temple,” gesturing to the young lady on my left.

As she began to blush Jessica hugged her, covering her face, and turned her head to me to say “you don’t have to point out her abnormal quality! Do you want me to start telling you everything that is abnormal about you!?”


In another section of the fair, on the evening of the first night, I enjoyed a meal with Rond, the proprietor of the pararegular half of the fair.
“[The worst part] of all this is that since paranormal basically means totally not normal, everyone assumes that pararegular means totally not normal, but we’re not using the para prefix in that way. We’re more like what a paramedic is to a medic or a paratrooper is to a trooper.”
“So you just try to be regular before everyone else gets there?”
“Yeah that’s a really good way to think about it. For instance, my parents were also believers in the pararegular. They believed the name Ron and Ronda would merge into the unisex name Rond, and so that is where my name came from.”
“So you’re basically trend setters?”
“God dammit!” To make a long story short here, Rond was hoping for a “soy sauce burger” and the McDonald’s we were at had not complied, saying they “wouldn’t do such a thing.” “My apologies. What were you asking?”

You know how it feels super awkward to say the same sentence twice with the exact same phrasing even though the other person doesn’t remember or didn’t hear you the first time? Well that was one of those situations for me, and so I apologize, but I did change the phrasing of this question in a way that perhaps turned out more offensive than the carefully chosen original question.
“Would you say you’re trend setters then?”
“God dammit!” Rond looked at me furiously. “How could you even suggest that I would say such a thing! I will say no such thing just so you can get a little sound byte!”
“No, no, you misunderstand me…” but Rond had already left the table and headed across the street to a Chinese restaurant, presumably for soy sauce.

I finally got my question answered on the second day when I met Rond again by chance.
“Rond!” I shouted across the crowd, waving. “If you’re not a trend setter what are you!?”
Rond looked puzzled at first, but then came over and said, “Oh, are you honestly trying to figure out what we are about? Sorry, since it seems like inevitably human society will degenerate into perpetual gotcha journalism, I sometimes forget that is not already the case. Errr…what was your question again?”
Carefully choosing my wording this time, I said “if you are not a trend setter, what are you?”
“Oh! The difference is that we don’t try to ‘set’ anything, we are just following the trends of the future! We try to predict what is coming and we live as the first ones in that new regular.”
“Aren’t you worried that you might mispredict the future and accidentally set a trend that shouldn’t have happened otherwise?”
“Not at all, we are nowhere near popular enough for that to ever happen.”

Not a trend setter

So that just left me with one question, which I had answered on the day before the eclipse started. At a panel titled “Dealing With Paranormal Enthusiasts Directly,” I cut to the front of a line to ask my question.

“Hi everyone, I am Allen, as in the Allen from the Wilderness of Mirrors Blog,” at which point everyone in attendance got up and cheered with thunderous applause for what seemed like a minute and twelve seconds. One panelist said “may I just say, that even though I don’t like much of your content, because everything you say on your blog is very abnormal, your blog is still so popular that liking your blog is one of the most normal things a person can do. It is so fantastic…besides for all the content.” Another replied, “well this is where we of course differ. I don’t care for the blog, but the content, especially the content brought back from the future, is so valuable that I absolutely love your content, despite the current popularity of your blog. Anyways, Allen, please continue.”
“I am just trying to figure out what any of this has to do with a solar eclipse. I have to fit it into a single blog post you know, and so far I’ve wrapped up all the other threads but I don’t see a way to wrap up that one yet.” A silence fell over the crowd as they looked at one another in puzzlement. An elderly man came to the front of the line and took the mic. “We had hoped no one would ever notice this when we started the fair…but the magical black cat is out of the bag now.” He drew a long breath, sighed so deeply there was feedback in the mic, then took another long breath and continued. “The eclipse is actually very popular among the paranormal crowd, and we were doing this fair for centuries before you guys. This was all a practical joke that got entirely out of hand.” At that time a bunch of witches descended onto the scene and flashed everyone with some kind of spell that knocked them out. The elderly man and I were the only ones left standing. “Well I guess this will be the last fair then,” said the elderly man, drowsily.

The next day I celebrated the solar eclipse with the paranormal crowd, who, unlike Jessicas and Rond, agreed with me that the moon must be some kind of hoax, making the eclipse that much more mysterious.

Wait a minute… is the moon actually a gigantic eye!?

A witch kindly offered to send me back in time when it was over so that I could get this scoop in before any of it happened. I explained my trepidations about time travel, given our previous adventures. But she assured me it would be safe in small doses, so I accepted, and thus you are reading this before any of it transpired.

Unfortunately the witch was not entirely right. After I came back several fresh new particles of light came with me, and are now sitting in a jar in my laboratory under lock and key. Heaven help us if they are used again.

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