MAJOR STOCKHOLDER / PRESIDENT / CEO (by default!!)

THE *REAL* BOSS (aka) TUCKER

My Thrill-a-Minute, Lipstick-on-the-Maalox-Bottle Life!

Have undertaken the impossibly unrealistic, ill-advised, and certifiably insane adventure of attempting a permanent migration of all the atticabilia from my  folks' estate -- and if 24/7 custody of a spirited, unpredictable, calamity-prone gadabout (affectionately known as Dad) wasn't already challenging enough in itself -- my dubious role as custodian of multiple lifetimes of treasurables from a seemingly endless and very colorful genetic cocktail of chaotic DNA donors can often become equally as stimulating! Seems like whenever I start deluding myself into feeling reasonably confident that I'm finally making progress in organizing all the curious estate-abilia, I invariably stumble upon still more inventory in some dark secluded cul-de-sac or unsuspecting little cubby hole tucked back beneath the convoluted eaves of the folks' huge triple attic (or tri-level cellar!) almost as if the boxes have mysteriously multiplied and borne offspring when no one was looking! Seems the architect had a rather strange fetish for triplicating -- yup, three attics and cellars; a trio of bathrooms/porches and stairways leading to the next floor of the tall tri-level super-structure! Hmmm ...never could stop myself from secretly speculating about what other odd, less obvious threesome activities he might've favored?! In any event, ever since undertaking this thankless insurmountable task, I often awaken abruptly from a sound sleep wracked with anxiety and trembling from tacchycardic attacks -- my pounding pulse rapidly racing to the annoying accelerated rhythm of a frenzied, fast-forward rendition of Julie Andrews' irritating little ditty, "SuperCalaFragalisticExpialidotious" while in a profundly perplexing, profusely perspiring state, I frantically try to ponder the true meaning of the frightening fragmented nightmares about being doomed to flounder around for all eternity through the mounds and pounds of buried baubles and assorted oddities until I become just another sordid fixture among the findings! And other times, I simply find myself amusingly considering that perhaps the "Hokey-Pokey" is what it's really all about! The punch line, is that I've also been exceedingly fortunate in being blessed with endearing incentives disguised as lengthy strings of minced expletives and threats of bodily harm lest I demonstrate a concerted effort to make my inventory inundated home somewhat more habitable! And this, my friends, is but a thumbprint -- a mere incidental addendum of the sterling contributions to my consistently compelling life experiences -- notwithstanding my reality-show-gone-ridiculously-wrong occupation ...but I won't even dare to go there!