If this is what passes for "news" these days -
and it is - we have better things to do with our time than fretting about what "reporters" are hearing from their imaginary friends. Seriously, the news gathering process now reminds us of a clueless Frankenstein's monster trying to pluck music notes out of the air before going on a mindless rampage.
Not that we'd recommend torches and pitchforks as a remedy. Although it's
said to be a good idea by unnamed sources speaking on behalf of an anonymous insider.
JUST A LITTLE FILLING...
Considering the fact that nothing in the news actually looks like "news," we're at something of an impasse when it comes to padding today's post to a reasonable length. To that end, here are random bits of flotsam related to what's going on around stately Jarlsberg Manor.
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MUNCHIES - While preparing our home for a social soiree, we discovered some odd "rippling" of the paint on one section of a wall. Giving it a gentle poke, our finger more or less disappeared out of view. Uh-oh. Yes, it was an active termite infestation (we personally saw the little bastards) which necessitated injecting powerful, Earth-destroying toxins around the entire periphery of our home. Which, at $1200, would be really painful if it weren't for the facts that A) Greta Thunberg would hate our use of toxins and B) based on their behavior, we're pretty sure the termites were socialists.
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FUNGUS AMONG US - A couple of weeks ago, a faint scent of mildew wafted through the bathroom closest to the editorial offices of
Stilton's Place. Our strategy of "hoping it will just go away" fared no better than our identical hope for Barack Obama's administration, and following the same pattern the stench soon grew to unacceptable levels. Acrid fumes of mold burned our throat, and we couldn't find any signs of mold or moisture leaks - though it seemed likely that the problem was inside a wall which contains plumbing pipes.
Unable to track the problem further, we hired a plumber who had a specialized tool which allows one to
actually look inside walls. That tool, it turns out, is a saw.
Four "windows" were cut into the wall, and moisture was discovered on some of the pipes - but there was no smoking gun discovered. So now we have mold smell (which we're allergic to), holes in the walls, and a renewed dedication to "hoping it will just go away."
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US TREACHERY DEPARTMENT - Many months ago, we reported to you that we'd accidentally failed to file a financial statement with the IRS on time, and so had sent it in four months late along with a letter of apology. The form, a 5500-EZ (ha!), simply states how much money is in your personal self-employed retirement account. This is an
information form only - no taxes had been missed and no payments were due. Essentially, we were just sending beans to keep the beancounters from getting bored.
To thank us for our honesty, the IRS sent back a letter saying that we were being fined $5000 for a late filing. There is an appeal process, which we unsurprisingly jumped on. But here's the punchline: after nearly 6 months, we just got a letter from the IRS saying "Sorry, we're really, really busy so we haven't been able to get back to you in a timely way. Just keep waiting, and we'll add the accruing interest to your fine." Bottom line: we're being fined $5000 for being four months late, but the IRS is much later than that...and suffers no consequences. And this is why we drink.
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STILTON'S PALSY - You may recall our mentioning that we'd developed a mild case of demonic possession which caused us to wake up each night kicking, flailing, and occasionally punching ourself in the face with a hostile and uncontrollable ninja fist. We showed video footage to a neurologist who helpfully observed that it looked like "violent seizures." We did not, however, have the sound turned up on the video because we'd added the song "Shakin' All Over" from The Who's "Live at Leeds" album. Because that's how we roll.
Fast forward to today and, after having the condition for roughly a year without any successful medical diagnosis, we're claiming naming privileges: the condition is now "Stilton's Palsy."
It's gotten significantly better over time. We're not performing Broadway musicals every night, but still have a lot of weird, lower-grade shakes, head bops, and twirling limbs (all completely painless, though annoying as all get out). Also, the condition now manifests itself during daylight hours in periods of high stress, much to the delight of anyone in our immediate proximity. Happily, the condition is apparently harmless and, two weeks from now, may get us out of jury duty if we make the judge nervous.
