Monthly Archives: March 2013

An Ancient Secret of Stonehenge Revealed

Stonehenge. It may be that the name conjures up images of a circle of large stones and the strange humans known as Druids chanting and dancing around fires into the wee hours of the morning. But is it accurate? What do we really know about that stone monument and the people who built it?

Recently an expedition of archaeologists funded by the University of Bristol in the U.K. discovered a cave in Alveston. Living in the cave among bones and artifacts dating back to thousands of years before the Roman conquest of Britain, was an ancient man. He claimed to be more than 6,000 years old. Upon a cursory medical examination and with his Social Security Account Number of 000-00-0001, this seemed to be the case.

Because of my extensive background interviewing people in stage 3 comas, I was approached to conduct an interview with Zol’Khuxon of the Sarin Tur, or Ralph as he preferred to be called. Last Tuesday, I met with him in his Alveston cave. He offered me a drink of some type of gray liquid that I declined.

My first question, obviously, was how he managed to survive for so long in good health, both physically and mentally. “No processed foods and avoiding any news about the Kardashians” was his answer. Since very little is known about his people, I asked if he could tell me something about Druid history. Pouring himself a stone cup of the gray liquid, he nodded and sat on a rock across from me.

I began by asking if it was true that Stonehenge was constructed by a people who had consumed too much high fructose corn syrup. He shook his head “no”and told me that even before the Druids or the Big Mac, an ancient race of people discovered a worldwide energy grid and assigned certain focal points across the globe as hubs for electromagnetic energy. The catalyst to one day consolidate and unleash the energy was located at the Stonehenge site. Activation of a relic called the Antikythera Mechanism at this catalyst site would trigger a terraforming of the earth, effectively destroying all forms of life, with the exception of primordial bacteria and Cher.

I mentioned to Ralph that his history lesson was straining credibility, particularly since an ancient race that could potentially terraform the globe couldn’t even invent buffalo chicken wings. He smiled, then chuckled. Puzzled, I looked to him for an explanation. “Just a joke I thought of,” he said. “What did the Mage say to the Moonkin when he refused to duel?” I shrugged. “You’re just a big chicken!” he said, and doubled over with laughter. Druid humor escapes me.

His laughing fit over I wanted to get back to the subject, so I asked how the large stones, some as long as 30 feet and weighing 25 tons on average, were mined 20 miles away in Marlborough Downs and transported to the site. A serious expression crossed his face. He said he would tell me what he knew of the secret if I promised that he would never have to be a guest on The View.  I agreed; he nodded and began.

Ralph’s said an ancient race of swine possessed the Antikythera Mechanism and, in an effort to centralize the massive electromagnetic energy, had erected two previous henges: Strawhenge and Stickhenge. Both had been easily blown apart by marauding, halitosis-afflicted werewolves. The swine decided it would be futile to rebuild a third time using rutabagas, so they scrapped the Mechanism and sought out new lands where they eventually evolved into lawyers.

Ralph and some fellow Druid tribesmen, anxious to get away from their wives one night, made up the excuse that they were going out to dance naked around a fire and recite chants from the Necronomicon. Instead, they went drinking.

“After a few horns of goat’s milk vodka we decided it would be fun to rebuild the henge of the ancient swine race,” he said.

“Goat’s milk vodka will do that to you,” I replied.

He said this time it would be out of stone in case the marauding wolves ever passed through the area again looking for a good time.

The rest of that night was lost to drunken stupor and it wasn’t even St. Patrick’s Day. When they woke up in the grass the next morning, they had no idea how they cut the massive stones, transported them or put them in place. Curiously, though, they all had double hernias.

I had a sense that it was time to conclude the interview. I thanked Zol’Khuxon “Ralph” of the Sarin Tur for his time. Before leaving, he added one last footnote to his tale. When he went back to Stonehenge later in the day to look for his drinking horn, on one of the huge stones he saw inscribed “Kilroy was here.”

As I exited the cave I asked what he would do now that mankind had become aware of his existence. “I’m going to Disneyworld,” he replied.

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Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore

Alice passed away last week. She was ninety-three and had been my mother-in-law for nearly thirty-two years. Physically, her systems had been failing the last few years of her life. It became increasingly difficult for her to get around even with a walker and my father-in-law spent most of his waking hours caring for her. But her mind and sense of humor were as sharp as ever. She exchanged quips with me as she lay struggling for breath with an oxygen mask strapped to her face.

All children were her special love. She never missed sending a card to any of her children, grandchildren or great-grandchildren for birthdays, holidays or special occasions. She never missed any of this son-in-law’s. I’ve saved all her cards.

Alice especially loved babies. Some years back my wife bought her a doll resembling a real baby in appearance, weight and feel. She named him Alex and treated him like a living member of her family. Not in a weird, spooky way, but fondly like my granddaughter treats one of her baby dolls—except without always pulling off his clothes leaving him naked, one of my granddaughter’s favorite things to do. Just before she died, my wife asked if she’d like to take Alex with her. “Oh, no,” she replied. “I couldn’t do that to him.”

Over the years she’d requested the song “That Wonderful Mother of Mine”* to be played at her funeral. My wife went to the church and discovered that the tune wouldn’t be allowed even as exit music after the mass. She was told if notes from that song should ring out within the walls of the church at any point in or around the liturgy, the church floor would most likely crack open issuing forth Satan and his hordes of demons, creating a scene resembling “A Night on Bald Mountain” from Walt Disney’s Fantasia. Disappointed and not wishing to unleash Armageddon on the world, she took Mom’s sheet music and left.

Here are a few lines from that old song, which now cause a tear to run down my cheek:

          I pray ev’ry night to our Father above,
                   for that wonderful mother of mine.
         I ask Him to keep her as long as He can
                  that wonderful mother of mine.
        There are treasures on earth
                 that make life seem worthwhile,
        But there’s none can compare
                 with my dear mother’s smile.
        . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
        You’ll hold a spot down deep in my heart,
                till the stars no longer shine
        Your soul shall live on forever,
               on through the fields of time.
         For there’ll never be another to me,
               like that wonderful mother of mine.

Goodbye, Mom.

*©1918 Warner Brothers, Inc.

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Requiem for the Twinkie

By now, unless you’ve been living in a cave or are a member of Congress, you are aware that our all-American Twinkie has gone the way of the dinosaur, with the extinction of both the result of giant asteroids crashing into the Gulf of Mexico. Twinkies had been getting a lot of bad press in later years, so I think it’s about time someone took a stand on the Twinkie. I’ve tried before but the cream always squished out all over my feet and I didn’t like hearing their screams.

You may not realize that Twinkies were actually discovered in Egypt in the tomb of King Thutmosis III. When his mummy was unwrapped in 1881, a Twinkie was discovered lodged in his throat, leading some archaeologists to conclude that he may have been murdered, a Twinkie being the weapon used to asphyxiate him. They performed additional tests, which indicated the Twinkie was not a weapon at all but a food item with a half-life approximating that of uranium-235 (703.8 million years). With that discovery, the archaeologists concluded the King’s death was probably accidental.

Just about every member of the scientific and archaeological community wrote off that conclusion as drivel, which it was. The test results, the Twinkie’s chemical composition, and other related scientific data were ignored until, by chance in 1930, the data was reexamined by a Hostess baker in Schiller Park, Illinois, near O’Hare Field, while he was attempting to develop a more volatile airplane fuel. Because he had only attended barber college and was recently diagnosed with advanced myopia, he made a minor misinterpretation of the scientific notes and created a Twinkie in his lab that, besides being a highly unstable explosive when exposed to air, was quite tasty—except for the skunk cabbage cream filling, also the result of misreading on his part. He modified the composition slightly to ditch the skunk cabbage and stabilize the cream filling so that a Twinkie would only explode when dropped from a height greater than 3 ft.

This proved to be his eureka moment. With its good taste and retention of the U235-like shelf life, why waste any more time on aviation fuel? The Twinkie could be marketed as a non-biodegradable snack food. He never realized that he had misread the scientists’ notes (he never realized, either, that barber college would do him no good stuffing Ho-Hos at Hostess). He just figured King Thutmosis III was probably trying to launch the Twinkie like a giant spitball to blow up a camel, but inadvertently inhaled and got it stuck in his throat.

As we all know, the Twinkie became a staple in the lunch boxes of children throughout the country. I’m sure there are many patriotic Americans who would once again like to see Twinkies stapled in lunch boxes. Twinkies have also been credited with Allied victories during World War II. In combat, when ammunition for the M114 155mm howitzer was gone, K-rations were ripped open and Twinkies were used as replacement shells. It’s a matter of record that many enemy troops threw down their weapons and surrendered at the mere sight of the deadly sponge cake flying through the air.

I hope these words have been enlightening and somehow those in authority will get funding to bring back Twinkies. They need to be made available in every supermarket, convenience store and muffler repair shop in America. You can help by contacting members of Congress and first, letting them know that dinosaurs and Twinkies are both extinct and second, telling them the Twinkie is vital to maintaining America’s superiority in snack foods and weapons of mass destruction.

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