This is going to seem very strange if you don't read the first two parts:
Part 1
Part 2

The tiny engine in my sedan whined as I drove quickly along the highway toward home. The loud banging from the trunk had ceased. I guess that David Blaine must have gotten tired of struggling.
I'm not generally one for kidnapping, but I have to admit that, the couple of times that I've done it, it was a rush.

At any rate, I didn't feel the least bit guilty about this instance. I had presented Mr. Blaine with a fair deal, which he rudely declined. I couldn't accept his response, so I used a little chloroform persuasion. So, there I was headed back home, David Blaine in trunk, with big marketing plans for an underground storage company. I couldn't help but smile as my car chugged along.

"What are you smiling about?"

I nearly lost control of the car, I was so terrified. I looked in the rear view mirror. David Blaine was sitting casually in the back seat looking back at me.

"How the hell did you escape the trunk?" I asked, bewildered.

"Dude, I'm David Blaine," he replied, smuggly.

I felt stupid. I don't know what made me think that I could restrain him.

"Where are we going?" he asked me as he sat back and made himself comfortable.

"We're going to Kansas, where I'm going to chain you up and bury you in an underground vault, from which you won't be able to escape."

"Are you stupid?" was all he said in response.

I pulled the car over so that I could talk to him, threw it in park and turned to face him.

"Look, I really need you to do this for me. It's the only way that I'll ever be able to match the level of success I once had," I tried to appeal to his charitable side.

"You kidnapped me, man. . ."

I paused for a moment to contemplate my options. There was only one thing that I could do.

"Look, it's Chris Angel, and he's ripping off one of your tricks!"

Of course, in typical fashion, he turned his head, leaving me an opportunity to render him unconcious. I hauled back and nailed him in the head as hard as I could.

It didn't work.

"Why did you hit me? That's pretty messed up, you know. . ." he said as he rubbed the side of his head.

I just silently threw the car back in drive and continued the trip home.

"Wow, how'd you actually get David Blaine, and what happened to the side of the head?" my friend from MitchHole Storage asked.

I assured him that he didn't want to know the answer to either of those questions.

"Did you put the fliers up that I made and spread the word?" I asked him.

"Oh. . .sure. . .I put the word out, man. There should be a big crowd," he said.

He did, in fact, put up the fliers. The only issue was that he put all of the fliers up in one place. The worst fact was that that one place was his grandmother's recreation center. Within a couple of hours, the yard was-for lack of a better word-infested with wheelchairs and oxygen tanks.

"Ok," I said to myself. "Let's do this." I took a deep breath, and made my way out to the crowd, with David Blaine in a sack on a wagon trailing behind.

To Be Continued . . . again again. (Man this story's getting stupid long. as well as just stupid)

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I've Got Sloppy Handwriting. . .

It's true, I do have sloppy handwriting. Almost illegibly sloppy. I get by, though. People can generally get the jest of my intended message, after asking “Is that an ‘L’ or a ‘5’?” a couple of times. All through school my teachers would complain, and even some times lower my grades on papers because of it. I was one of the couple of kids that everyone knew in class that the teacher would give the stinkeye when she suggested typing papers for neatness. Little did she know that my ongoing feud with printers as a race, due to their “do what I want” attitude. Consequently, I seldom printed anything. I would venture to guess that by now you’re wondering why I would talk about something so pointless. Right now, you’re probably saying: “Hey nimrod, you spend like. . .90% of your day typing now! Why should anybody, especially you, care about your handwriting?”I’m going to be honest with you, I’m not so sure that you’re speaking to me in the type of tone in which I would appreciate being spoken to (a little preposition explosion for ya, there). Ok, here’s the point in this little stream-of-consciousness nonsense: Sloppy handwriting has character. Someday I’m going to be famous for . . . something. It’s simple mathematics, really: Someday, my handwriting will become a font. Some geeky fan of whatever the hell it is that I will do someday will slave for hours over a hot laptop to meticulously recreate my every script idiosyncrasy. It’s going to be like Comic Sans MS with a touch of Papyrus and a whole lot of attitude.

You’ll see. . .