A Ventriloquist's Dummy Talked Me Into Marriage.

 

I Weaponized Clinical Depression For A Psychological Warfare Start-Up: The Beginning....

 

America desperately needs more PSYCHIC immigrants, illegal or otherwise!

 Recently, there has been a lot of hubbub about the type of people immigrating to the United States Most of the talk is about who we shouldn’t let in. I’m here to tell you who we should welcome.

Plain and simple, we need to encourage more people with psychic powers to come to America. According to studies I have seen, we are not producing enough psychics domestically to meet 21^st century demands. Soon, other nations that value paranormal powers, like Russia, Nigeria and Romania, will surpass us in the number of psychically talented citizens they possess.

And that scares the hell out of me.

The solution? We need to encourage foreigners with mystical abilities to move here A.S.A.P., to make up for our domestic shortfall. America needs to do this in order to maintain a leadership role in UFO research, fortune-telling, ghost-hunting, ESP and other vital endeavors. This is a national security issue of the highest order. We must take action now, to keep our beloved nation safe from a surprise psychic attack launched from foreign shores.

What the incentive should be, I leave to persons more knowledgeable about such things. Perhaps it should be on a graduated scale depending on the psychic ability under question. For example, overseas UFO experts might receive a $10,000 bonus to move here, while crystal ball readers only get $2,000 cash, because we already have a sizable number of European gypsies in run-down urban strip malls.

Above all, psychic immigrants should receive instant U.S. citizenship, without the usual red tape. Case in point: right now hundreds of experienced South American Chupacabra fighters now languish in border camps, when they could be gainfully employed preventing the hideous night beasts from infesting U.S. soil.

IMHO this is an emergency situation. Lady Liberty needs to welcome foreign psychics with open arms, whether they arrive here via land, sea, air or the astral plane.

I’m afraid that we face total destruction in a psychic Pearl Harbor or 9/11 if we do not act.

And, regardless of race, creed, color or political persuasion, that is frightening for us all.

Signed,

Heatherleen Glade

Lawyer still trick or treating at age 45.

I have a sweet tooth the size of Alaska. That’s why when Halloween rolls around I break out the shopping bags and go begging.

Some people may say I suffer from a case of arrested development, but where on the law books is there a statute of limitations on trick-or-treating? I should know—I’m a lawyer.

At forty-five, it’s not easy to pretend I’m a kid. I’m five-ten and two hundred-plus pounds. In addition, I have the beginnings of a bald spot on the top of my head and a case of five o’clock shadow that’s impossible to disguise.

But I’m nothing if not ingenious. Last year I taped wrapping paper and ribbon around some cardboard boxes and went as a stack of Christmas presents. All you could see of me were my baby blues through the eye holes. The optical illusion created by my arrangement of presents made it impossible to figure out my true height. I netted thirty pounds of candy after tossing out the fruit and related junk.

One advantage of trick-or-treating at my age is that I have a longer stride and can cover more ground than the typical nine-year-old. Plus I keep an up-to-date database on the best and worst neighborhoods for candy that includes the number of lit and unlit porch lights, pumpkin sizes, types of treats and so on. Each year, I eliminate homes that have been declining in two or more categories and upload the results to my computer.

I couldn’t pull off a successful night of begging without it. For instance, there’s a rich financier a few blocks away who always has full-size Hershey Bars. Consulting my computer before going out, I’m reminded that the financier’s maid and butler alternate at the door. Knowing this allows me to hit the house twice, if I time it right.

As far as getting caught, the closest I ever came was three years ago at my parents’ house. My mother seemed to recognize my voice when I yelled “trick-or-treat!” But she’s elderly, so I just grabbed and ran before she could put it all together. Boy, were my underarms wet.

But the best part of Halloween for me is the rest of the year. I can’t tell you how satisfying it is to offer a client candy from the Wedgwood jar on my desk, then pop some into my own mouth. With only me knowing my Halloween secret.   

As told to Doc Paranormal

Adjunct Professor-At-Large

Edgar Allan Poe Community College

President Biden to create 60,000 "family wage" ghost hunter jobs.

President Biden is preparing to stimulate the American economy by paying living wage salaries to 60,000 ghost hunters across the nation.

An insider told me, “It’s high time these volunteer ghost trackers are rewarded for their selfless duties. Most now hunt spirits in their spare time, often forced to spend entire nights away from their families in their noble quest to reduce the nation’s growing plague of restless ghosts.

“America’s volunteer ghost hunters are working under dangerous conditions in derelict mental hospitals and abandoned 5-star hotels. Yet, they have nothing to show for their labors but strained marriages and angry bosses when caught napping on their day jobs.

“It’s also a tremendous financial burden for them to purchase the necessary tools of their trade, including EMF meters, EVP devices, thermal devices and cool-looking black t-shirts.

“President Biden is well aware of these heroes’ plight. Therefore, he is funding 60,000 family wage ghost-hunting jobs. Money to lease Class A office space, new uniforms and vehicles is included. In other words, the taxpayer dollars given to these first responders will be immediately spent, stimulating the economy at large.

“In order to keep the price tag reasonable, the President has also ordered the Secret Service, DoD and ATF to donate every black Chevy Suburban they can spare, along with surplus flashlights and batteries.

Reported by Doc Paranormal

Tree sitter: my wonderful, horrible night in an enchanted forest.

 Dear Doc Paranormal:

I swear what I’m about to tell you really happened, even though I was alone at the time, one hundred and fifty feet above the forest floor. Holding on for dear life to a massive Douglas fir.

I’m a tree-sitter. You know, the kind of crazy person who climbs a big tree and stays put in order to protect the old-growth forest. Crazy, at least in the eyes of a general public that thinks clinging to the branches of an immense fir in order to save it is insane.

I’d never considered tree-sitting until I lost my publishing job in San Francisco. Living costs there are, of course, sky-high. A deal-breaker when you’re unemployed. So when I read about a protest at a proposed logging site (which I’m not going to identify, for reasons you’ll soon understand), I figured, “What the hell.” It was a good excuse to escape a hectic town I could no longer afford anyway.

I left all my possessions with a friend. Half a day later, I was in a world of giant trees and happy people. The dramatic change was a kind of high—a hit of Mother Nature’s Ecstasy, you might say. Before I knew it, I was being roped up to a platform one hundred fifty feet high in the branches of a grand, distinguished fir.

The protester I was replacing greeted me with glazed eyes and a beatific grin. But a shiver went through me when she tried to speak and only spittle emerged.

Little did I know I’d soon be struck dumb myself.

My first hours alone in the canopy were a wonder of soft breezes and swaying limbs. I had never before felt so serene. But as twilight fell and the stars came out, I got paranoid. Crippled with stress, I’d roll off my tiny wooden platform when I fell asleep. Only after roping myself against the massive trunk in a perpetual hug was I able to relax and close my eyes.

Two hours later, I awoke with a start. The tree’s limbs groaned. The wind had picked up, I thought. Thank god I’d tied myself down.

Then I screamed. The disturbance was actually a phosphorescent stream swiftly traveling up the tree, over my body and into the night sky. I was petrified. I wanted down. But I was teetering one hundred and fifty feet above the forest floor, with no help from below until first light arrived. I had to gut this out on my own.

I took a deep breath only to be startled again. The phosphorescent stream was composed of recognizable beings—rabbits, bears, owls, even insects! Thousands upon thousands of them were shooting past me to the treetop and the twinkling infinity above.

Slowly, imperceptibly, terror turned to wonder. I started to blubber and cry. Yes! I had been granted a privilege few before me had ever experienced. A lucky few, like the tree-sitter I’d replaced—the young woman who’d been rendered speechless by the magnificence she’d beheld.

I was being overwhelmed by the spirits of deceased forest creatures, heading skywards to their Next Destination. I had entered the bloodstream of the life cycle itself.

I now stock shelves in a grocery store in a small Oregon town. Don’t talk (can’t really). Smile a lot. My co-workers call me The Mute. But I don’t mind. My only ambition is to put together enough money so I can return to the Enchanted Forest.

Because its towering pines offer deceased wild animals’ safe passage to the world beyond ours, where they cavort to their hearts’ content, free from the encroachment of man.

Cut down the old growth and we slam the door on their highway to the Other Side.   

Sincerely,

Anarki      

   

I accidently sprayed my guardian angels with RAID!

To Doc Paranormal

From: PN in TN

This all started in late March when my husband Bob and I began using our back porch for barbeques—and even a bracing breakfast or two.

We live on a lake in east Tennessee and we both love fresh air—although I must confess to being squeamish about bugs. That’s why we have a screened porch instead of a cedar deck.

Anyway, we were relaxing one night after a meal of grilled tri-tips and Bush’s baked beans when an unusually persistent swarm of bugs began assaulting the screen. It was dark and hard to tell what they were through the screen.

My heart skipped a beat because they didn’t seem to be flying at random. It was as if they were aggressively trying to get in, like a hungry dog banging at the door.

And the sound they made wasn’t that of mosquitos, flying beetles or gnats. It was more like a weird kind of singing—the distorted, staticky kind you hear on a distant radio station when a storm is coming your way.

Knowing how much I hate bugs, Bob grabbed two cans of Raid—one in each hand—and began mowing the insects down. That’s when—and I swear this is true—the screaming began.

(Sorry, I need to pause here for a moment to regain my composure…)

…Anyway, I thought Bob would laugh when I said I heard screams.

But his face was white as a sheet.

Trembling, he replied, “You must have been reading my mind. Those were screams. Millions of tiny screams.” He looked with disgust at the cans of Raid still in his hands. He heaved them into a corner.

The night suddenly silent, Bob carefully opened the porch door to examine the creatures he’d just killed. But he found nothing, nothing at all. No carcasses—only a light evening dew on the grass.

Now, I’m going to throw you a curveball. I’d been trying to get pregnant for twelve years when this happened. Bob and I had attempted everything. We were so desperate we’d even flown to Switzerland where I underwent experimental treatment.

But shortly after the tiny creatures visited that night, I felt something stirring inside. I secretly took a pregnancy test and was overjoyed when it was positive. My doctor confirmed it and I gave birth over the holidays.

Bob and I now firmly believe that the buzzing creatures he sprayed with Raid were actually tiny guardian angels. They had arrived in a swarm to bless us with a child.

Thankfully, a few of them were able to fly through the poisonous cloud, although Bob made a back-of-the-envelope calculation that he had caused several hundred thousand guardian angels to die a horrible death.

Bob’s been diagnosed with PTSD. He whimpers in his sleep.

I can’t watch a Raid commercial today without weeping uncontrollably.

We gained a baby and lost our souls.

Note from Doc Paranormal;

While the veracity of this tale has yet to be determined, caution should be exercised when using insect spray during the Spring and Summer bug seasons. The risk of collateral damage to unknown entities outweighs the benefit of a mosquito-free picnic, IMHO.