For some odd reason, I always seem to come in the possession of strange objects, either through my own curiosity or some random chain of events set in motion by fate. My closet and drawers are literally overflowing with ancient artifacts with little or nothing known about their origins. Most of the various knick-knacks are just harmless old junk, but a few of them are different. I truly believe in my heart of hearts that some of these items have been cursed by their long dead owners, or otherworldly space demons that are using us as mere pawns until their destructive return comes to pass. I'll fess up and admit that I did pry a few of these objects from skeletal grasps and mummified fingers in long forgotten graves during the dead of the night, but if I didn't get them for myself they would just end up in some boring museum gathering dust instead of taking bubble baths with me on Monday nights. Speaking of baths, I've been using a brand new blue towel for the past week, and after I dry myself, I've been getting blue fuzz all over my body. Normally this would not bother me much, but the fuzz seems particularly attracted to my penis, making it look like a mini-grover, and causing me much distress. I just had to get that off my chest because I tried telling my wife several times but she is ignoring me right now for some reason.
Along with my grover penis, strange things are afoot at the Frolixo household. I can't tell myself anymore that the direct correlation of unfortunate events with these objects are just a coincidence. Though my intentions were good when I liberated these items from their cold resting places, I am now paying the price for my actions. The mystery and strange events that are taking place can no longer be ignored, for I am at my wits end and feel the need to share my grief. Such is the life of a pack rat with a heart of gold.
Aztec Figurine of Unqenchable Thirst
This little bowl-haired fellow looks harmless enough, but somewhere inside this ancient carved wood lies the troubled spirit of a Aztec warrior that's probably still pissed off for trading his gold necklace for a smallpox infected blanket. I came into possession of the piece (that I call "Norman", or "Norm" for short), when I was traveling in Mexico during spring break looking for some cheap pot and body shots. As I sauntered down the beach on the prowl for a passed out girl that I could cop a feel from, I spied a raggedy looking tent that was selling strange looking wares. Thinking I might be able to score some weed, I wandered inside. It must've been killer dank buds because I walked out a few hours later not remembering what had just taken place, and with an Aztec statue under my arm. Just then I had the unqenchable urge to drink a lots of alcohol, and promptly headed off to the bar to get trashed.
Ever since that queer night I have been affected with strange and sudden urges to consume vast quantities of alcohol until I am a blubbering mess. I sit at home late at night polishing off a mini-keg of beer while sitting on a wooden crate that I found in the back of a Walmart that was full of clock radios. Directly in front of me on my dresser sits Norman, watching me drink with unwavering dark eyes. Sometimes at night I hear whispers of Aztec drums, and the cries of sacrificial lambs being slaughtered to appease the sun god. This always prompts me to get dressed and take a trip the the local 24 hour grocery mart to pick up a pack of tallboys, after which I proceed to get drunk and play online war games until I go into a blind rage after getting continually killed by my Korean children opponents. Finally my friends and loved ones invited me to Chuck-E-Cheese for fun and games, but it really turned out to be an intervention about Norman the cursed Aztec doll of alcohol. I was extremely angry and disappointed that I didn't get to play air hockey and play in the balls, so instead I dropped all my friends and now spend every evening cradling Norm in my arms and pouring pure grain whiskey into my eyes and ears. It is a curse I have learned to live with.
Cymbal Monkey of Mild Discomfort
I came into the possession of this strange item after winning a large pot at a high stakes poker game. At that point I had cleaned out the prior owner's winnings, and the monkey ended up in the pot as his last desperate hope to get back into the game. Needless to say I won the hand, and the funny looking cymbal monkey was now in my possession. Once I got home, I popped a few batteries in and let him clang away into the night as a victory celebration over my spoils. Norm was invited as well, prompting me to break out the JD and do a couple of shots. Fun times were had by all, and by "all" I mean myself and two inanimate objects.
The next morning I woke up with the most annoying itch all over my body. It had seemed that I had broken out in a mild rash over the course of the night. It was no matter since I was planning to stay indoors that day and watch Footloose on VH1 for the 10th time in the last month. The cymbal monkey joined me on the love seat during the viewing, and merrily clanged his cymbals whenever Kevin Bacon would start dancing. The weird thing is that after the movie I was afflicted by a slight pox on my chest. Since these skin aliments have never happened to me before, I was convinced the monkey and his damned cymbal playing were causing me the grief. With all my might I tossed the pesky primate out of my 3rd story window. Instantly after I was rid of the foul thing I felt relief, and retired to bed.
The next day I went to my door to get the paper and was horrified to find the cymbal monkey at my door with a note attached to it that turned out to be a ticket for littering. Since getting rid of this cursed object seemed impossible, I decided to keep it and just invest in soothing topical creams. Incidentally they made a movie based on my story called Merlin's Shop of Mystical Wonders. Please rent it today to learn more about the potential evil of cymbal monkeys in your area.
Novelty Sign of Woe
When I was wally gathering about in northern Michigan last month, I happened to come across an extremely quaint and downright adorable novelty shop that was selling various Indian style wares. The owner was a old Native Indian who spoke at great length about the history of each item, and something about the wolf spirit or some shit like that. One of the items that caught my eye was a sign that was decorated with a squirrel feasting on a nut snack with the words, "Welcome to the Nut House". For some reason the old Indian was ill at ease when I mentioned my interest in the item and told me that I would probably be better off getting a teepee key chain. This, of course, piqued my curiosity even more so the Indian told me the tale of the nuthouse sign.
Legend has it that his ancestors used to make these signs for fun and merriment around the nomadic village. Then the white devils came with their thunder sticks and firewater, bringing woe and sorrow over his people. The novelty signs that were previously used to create amusement now were used as grave markers for the hundreds of thousands that would perish in the years to come. Some think that the spirits of the once brave warriors are now bound with these signs, and whoever keeps them in their possession will have terrible dreams and ill fortune. I bought it for $12.99 after some tough bartering.
The old coot was right, I did have terrible dreams after buying the sign, and my fortune was less than ideal. Guests who would come over and see the sign would be very pleased at its pun, but once they left I could feel it looking down at me with a sinister glare. Finally I became tired of it and planted it in my backyard. Within no less than three days, a cherry tree sprouted from that very place. I was extremely happy and thought maybe I was wrong to think the sign was cursed. But after the cherries ripened, the children around the neighborhood gathered around the tree and feasted on its honings. Every single child become horribly ill and some even vomited in little red splatters. I really shouldn't get that mad because this is just the Indian's way of getting revenge against the white man for stealing their land, but I went back to the store and burnt it down in middle of the night just for principle.
Baby Ladybug of Ultimate Evil
Some things are best left be. There is an evil in this world that slumbers under ice and stone; a darkness undisturbed for eons of time, waiting patiently for some foolish soul to free it from captivity. I was such the fool when I volunteered for my uncle's expedition to the Antarctic to explore a mysterious crater found near Devil's Pass. I should've known better, but my conventional wisdom was overshadowed by my willingness to miss 4 months of work.
We found it there, frozen in a solid block of ice, deep within the recesses of an ancient temple we discovered in the lowest depression of the crater. The temple was covered in arcane runes that man had never laid eyes on before, and they caused our guide to go mad, performing the rock opera "Tommy" in the snow while we grimly moved on. What kind of creature blends the form of a baby child into that of a beetle? The sight sickened me, yet nevertheless we carved the baby ladybug out of ice, and loaded it onto our sleigh, much to the dislike of our dogs. Out of the 20 man expedition, only myself and half of my uncle returned alive to tell the tale. Never try to ride a polar bear.
The baby ladybug now rests in my study along with my collection of Marvel's "What If" comics. So far it has not caused any ill tidings or general mayhem, but I am ever aware of its presence. I think it was left here for a reason, and one day its purpose will be revealed. When that day comes, you better pray, for none shall go unscathed.
You may think that with all these curses that my live is a living hell with no value whatsoever, and that I would be much better off if I killed myself and erased all memory of my existence. You might be right, and I will have to seriously consider that option. Thanks for reading, and see you next week!
Angry and hopeless Trump voters take heart: there is a man who is out for justice for America.
People can't stop talking about this Donald Trump character. He's said a lot of crude and hateful things over the years, and demonstrated a tremendous lack of judgment, discipline and decency. If you ask me, he's not fit to be our president. In fact, he's not even fit to be mayor of Buffoontown.
Nightmares Fear Factory is BACK, baby!
The Something Awful front page news tackles anything both off and on the Internet. Mostly "on" though, as we're all incredible nerds.