The dreaded paperbaghat is one of my many bad habits; I seriously end up wearing the damn things for a half-hour every time I leave one laying around the house, largely because it’s the only way I remember to throw them out. It’s one of those things that you can do when you live alone. Or that you end up doing when you live alone. I’m not sure which is the chicken and which is the egg in this situation.
In any case, most days I remember to take the dreaded paperbaghat off and depositing it in the bin *before* I answer the door.
Unlike, say, today when I forget I was wearing the dreaded paperbaghat and answered the door to chat with the nice missionary types who were trying to convince me that I should fear the forthcoming apocalypse or something.
-facepalm-
Stupid paperbaghat.
Sounds like a win-win to me, actually. They get the entertainment, you weird them out sufficiently that they become wary and perhaps move on a little more quickly.
And you SHOULD fear the coming apocalypse. Just not for the reasons THEY reckon. Just sayin’.
Alas, the dreaded paperbaghat did little to encourage them on their way.
And I do fear the forthcoming Age of the Puffin, ’cause that shits going get messy when the angry little birds take over.
BWA. HA. and HA!!!!
[...] this photograph was taken, but I still forget to shave roughly as often. For reasons of my dignity, I should not be trusted with a paper bag. This probably explains all that really needs to be explained about the non-writerly parts of my [...]