I just got back from Florida to help Le Mar and Benny drive back to Washington. That’s where I’ve been since I last posted on here, so no complaining.
Marc just graduated from the Art Institute of Ft. Lauderdale, and this is award-winning demo reel. He won first place with it.
This weekend sees the release of the next installment of the Narnia franchise, and I would be remiss if I didn’t provide a word of caution that many would otherwise easily overlook. For those of you who are in the process of raising your own children, please, for all you hold dear and precious, do not let your kids anywhere near wardrobes. It’s not happy times and wondrous enchantment with chatty animals and daring adventures. It is scary and dangerous, and it’s people like this Lewis guy that screw the rest of us over by adding to life’s miseries with his twisted imagination.
People get hurt in wardrobes. Broken nose. Stomach cramps. Heatstroke. Hypothermia. Asthma. Diabetes. Appendicitis. Munchausen syndrome. The list goes on and on. Almost one month after the first Narnia film came out, it was reported that over 200,000 children had gone missing, most of them last being seen near a wardrobe. What are the chances that they wandered into some magical kingdom in the back of a wardrobe to be greeted as royalty by furry, socially-interactive creatures?
More likely they were harassed and humiliated by mutant animal freaks that gave them noogies and Indian burns, and threw loads of water balloons at their heads. That doesn’t sound fun. These Narnia films are purely fictitious, and I would be seriously disappointed if you took them to heart. Breathtaking, fairy tale lands don’t exist in the back of wardrobes. Perilous and deadly ones do. It’s time to wake up and realize the kinds of lies we are subjecting our children to.
I have done all I can do. I have laid out the statistics and evidence for you to examine as carefully as I have. The rest is up to you. And I don’t think I even need to say this, but if the wardrobes are not for your children, they’re certainly not for you either. Be careful.
I appreciate all the kind comments and support given to me over the ordeal I suffered with my fraudulent parents. It was almost too much to bare, but I now have some exciting news that I wholeheartedly believe will turn Lady Luck’s head back my way. I will try to contain my excitement.
Since my desktop PC was taken from my apartment, I was forced to pull my old laptop out of storage to use. When I first started it up, it automatically logged me into my old email account. After spending a few minutes sifting through a legion of emails, I came upon one from a Mr. Aku Kalia sending me greetings from Nigeria.
It turns out Mr. Kalia is a head office branch manager at Access Bank PLC and has requested my assistance with the account of a recently-deceased client, by the name of Engr Hix Wheeler. The man was filthy rich, but Mr. Kalia has been unsuccessful at locating any next of kin to pass on the 12.5 million dollars he left behind. Unless he finds a relative to inherit the money, he will be forced to surrender it all to the government, according to their laws.
Here’s where my fortunes are dramatically reversed: Aku Kalia has devised a plan to present my name as the next of kin, and transfer the 12.5 million into my bank account to hold for a period of time. He will then graciously permit me to retain 40 PERCENT for myself while I send the rest back to him.
Incredible! I don’t know how Aku tracked me down out of all the Wheelers out there in the world, but I am so grateful it happened to be me. This could not have happened at a better time, and now I will have so much money I won’t know what to do with it all. $5 million!
All I needed to do was send Mr. Kalia my banking information (account number, routing number), my address, my occupation and position, my telephone number, my date of birth, my full name, my Social Security Number, and that’s it! Very soon $12.5 million will be joining the rest of the money I have in my account.
And to think that I never would have found that email in time if the Golpenhogsals wouldn’t have robbed me. I am equally glad I had not yet officially changed my name to Golpenhogsal.
Who wants to borrow some cash?
Mr. and Mrs. Golpenhogsal flew into Seattle last Friday night. I arrived at the airport two hours early to pick them up, and spent most of the time shaking like a leaf in my car because of my nerves.
What would they think of me? Would they recognize me? Should I shake their hands or hug them?
I need not have worried at all. It was a joyous reunion when we found each other at the baggage claim area. We embraced. Papa Golp tossed me into the air and caught me in his arms. I did the same to him. They cried. I cried. They laughed. I laughed.
I had the greatest, most amazing night of my life, and wished it would never end. We went to the circus and ate cotton candy, and Papa Golp won me a Tony the Tiger stuffed animal at the ring toss. We went to a square dance hall, and Mama Golp promenaded and sashayed me all over the place while Papa Golp stomped his feet and slapped his hands together.
Not wanting the evening to end, I reluctantly brought them back to my apartment so that they could settle in and call it a night. I fell asleep with a smile on my face. When I awoke the next morning, I quietly showered and dressed for work. I couldn’t wait to come back later and spend another wondrous day with them. I left them in my apartment with a whole list of activities they could engage in until I returned in the early evening.
But when I finally came home later, my world came crashing down around me. They cleaned me out, took every single thing I owned, and hightailed it out of there.
My bed… gone. My loveseat… gone. My TV, desktop, dining table, rug, refrigerator, Xbox 360, limited edition Fox Mulder action figure, shower curtain… all gone. Tony the Tiger… from last night… gone.
I have been beside myself. All attempts to find or contact the Golpenhogsals has been fruitless. I think that maybe they weren’t really my parents after all. They told me they lost the birth certificate, and I had just assumed the birth certificate Brett and Gayle Wheeler have for me was a fake.
Oh, how cruel the world be. Will someone bring me some glue that will repair a heart broken to pieces? I feel as empty as my home.
Every night in my dreams, I am visited by this hulking, monolithic four-armed monstrosity. He enters my abode, eats all of my food, pokes me in the eyes, pees all over the clothes in my closet, and then leaves. It is rude.
I was left speechless a while back when my brother, Benny, told me about a reoccurring dream that he had been having which completely mimicked my own. Benny made a 3D model of the creature, and it is exactly the same as the one I see when I sleep. I did some research and learned that many people dream of the same being.
Benny submitted this to a 3D character model contest, competing against 10,000 other participants, including some of the video gaming industry’s most renown artists. He made it through the first round, and is now part of 400 remaining entries.
Here are samples of other models he’s done:
Many of you have inquired as to the reaction of my previous family following the revelation from my biological parents that I am their true son. Surprisingly, all of my siblings have appeared to be as excited as me by the news. They have been supportive and encouraging toward me embracing my new life and not looking back.
My parents refuse to confirm the story of Mama and Papa Golpenhogsal on how I was separated from them as a child. They are determined on convincing me that it is a wild hoax, and that I should not be so gullible to fall for it. I understand their reaction though since I was their favorite son and all. They want me to stay. In fact, my dad has recently been sporting a new look that is strangely reminiscent of my new dad. I think he is trying to confuse me. The white beard and shiny head is such a hip look.
They both look so happy and jolly and wise. Am I being hasty in my eager exuberance to proclaim myself Golpenhogsal?
My California parents arrive this week, and maybe once we meet in person, I will know which path I must tread.
Perhaps if I stopped carrying this fortune around, my better judgment would return.
Shot in Tampa, Florida during the summer of 2004.
Since I first announced my true heritage, I have been in constant contact with Mama and Papa Golpenhogsal (they asked me to call them Barbara and Skip since we would be meeting as adults but I insisted on “Mama” and “Papa”). We have already learned so much about each other.
Mama Golpenhogsal loves to eat trout for breakfast. She nearly made it to the Olympics as a gymnast in 1960 which were held in Rome. A severe case of gangrene in her feet prevented her from going. Her favorite hobby is to paint insects.
Papa Golpenhogsal was once attacked by three bears out in the wilderness on a hunting trip. He survived by poking them all in the eyes and rubbing mud in their noses so that they couldn’t find him (he swears this is a true story, but I already suspect him of being a purveyor of tall tales).
They have lived in California all their life, managing the family vineyard after inheriting it from Grandpa. After years and years, Papa finally convinced Mama that they should join a nudist colony, and they’ve never looked back.
So after talking with them on the phone every night for three weeks, they are coming to Seattle to meet me. I am a little nervous about it, but also excited.
