They say there is a part of your brain that develops with age that is essentially a safety cover over the “DO STUPID SHIT” button. This story is probably the best scientific evidence I have for the existence of such a brain-part. It involves a post office.

There was a post office about a mile from my house. My goal (for reasons I’d rather not go into) was to figure out a way into the bowels of that post office and somehow mail a letter from inside it. Naturally, step one was reconnaissance. SPOILERS: I never made it past step one.

I emailed the director of the post office, posing as a college student doing a project on the policies of government institutions post-September-11th. They told me it was against policy to give individual tours, but I guess I am a pretty persuasive emailist because they eventually caved in and scheduled a day. In the meantime, I decided to do my own snooping.

You see, I was doing parkour at the time. For those of you without the internet, parkour essentially boils down to skateboarding without a skateboard. You roam around the city, looking for things to jump over and climb up and infiltrate because it’s the closest you can get to being a ninja without being required to actually end lives. The night before my scheduled tour of the post office, I parked my car in front of a grocery store across the street from the building and put my skills to the test.

The building was almost twenty feet tall, which was way higher than I could jump, even as a fucking ninja. But there was a ten-foot wall that branched off from the side of the building where the outdoor generator was housed, and if I could get on top of that wall, I could make it onto the roof.

It turned out that ten feet was also higher than I could jump. I threw myself at the wall over and over, kicking up it at the last second and reaching for the top. And over and over, I missed the lip and fell back to the ground. I lost count of how many times I tried, all the time being watched by a lone man at the bus stop across the street. I wasn’t worried about the guy at the bus stop. I mean, who the hell takes the bus in Los Angeles? He was clearly insane, and his testimony would not be trusted.

But finally, after eleventy-million tries, I caught the lip and pulled myself to the top. I wandered around on the roof for a while, I guess looking for a Mission Impossible-style skylight to lower myself through, before giving up and heading for the parking lot. The builders of the post office had made the best of LA’s rolling hills by digging into the side of one, which meant that the parking lot was a whole story lower than the sidewalk I’d stood on to make my run at the building. To get down to it, I had to drop back off onto the wall I’d come up, climb down into the enclosure with the generator, grab a chainlink fence, scale it across and over another chainlink fence (with barbed-wire all over it), then jump down into the parking lot itself. I did this successfully, because I am a champion.

There was not much to do in the parking lot, as is typical of parking lots. I made for the loading dock, to see if someone had fortuitously left a door unlocked. No such luck. Through the plexiglass windows of the double doors, I noticed an official announcement on salmon-pink paper:

ATTENTION:

BE YOUR PERSONAL BEST

I viewed it as an encouragement.

I turned around, and noticed a suspicious-looking fixture on the ceiling of the loading dock. It appeared to be a security camera. I belatedly pulled my shirt up over my face, and inched closer in an attempt to allay my fears. It turned out to be nothing more than a broken light socket. I uncovered my face, embarassed at being so paranoid. I heard a helicopter in the distance.

“I bet it’s coming for me,” I laughed. And you know what?

IT WAS.

The sound of rotors was suddenly RIGHT UP ON ME, and a spotlight swept the lot like the vengeful eye of Sauron himself. I cowered in a corner of the loading dock, being totally screwed. There was no place to run. The back corner of the loading dock was the only place I could hide. It was only a matter of time before the SWAT team arrived. I should also mention that I had just come from bussing tables at a fancy restaurant, which meant that I had been sneaking onto the property of a government building wearing all black. As I sat there, waiting to be arrested, I felt my life unraveling the way I had when I was six and my mom discovered the pair of underwear I had stuffed behind her toilet instead of taking it the extra ten feet to the laundry hamper. I was caught. I was helpless. I was already being digested by the labyrinthine cloaca of justice.

Then the helicopter went away. Then it came back. Then it went away again, and I waited twenty bladder-taxing minutes to see if it would come back again. As soon as the twenty minutes were up, I ran. But one does not simply run out of the post office. I sprinted across the lot, jumped eight feet up a concrete wall and grabbed the chainlink fence, scaled it up and over the barbed wire, into the generator enclosure, kicked up the ten-foot dividing wall on the first fucking try, and absconded. As I passed the front of the post office, I saw a police car idling out front. Either the police car didn’t see me, or they didn’t find anything suspicious about a dude dressed all in black strolling leisurely down a sidewalk that could only have come from an auto junkyard, a freeway offramp, or the motherfucking post office. I made it to my car, and drove home with my eyes glued to the rear-view mirror.

The next afternoon, I had my scheduled tour of the post office. In case of any security footage of the previous night’s events, I got a haircut for the first time in months. In an hour, I went from this:

To this:

My tour was quite informative. For example, I learned that the US Postal Service has its own police force, called – appropriately enough – the Postal Police. I also learned that the Los Angeles Postal Police headquarters were DIRECTLY ACROSS THE STREET FROM THAT POST OFFICE. It’s not like it’s hidden either. I took a look after my tour, and there is a bigass sign out front that says “THE MOTHERFUCKING POSTAL POLICE ARE RIGHT FUCKING HERE ASSHOLE WHAT ARE YOU DOING” (the expletives are mine. Also some of the other words.) Some dude could literally have just looked out his office window and seen me doing my thing. Given that little tidbit of information, it’s a god-damned miracle I’m not in Guantanamo to this day.

This story is why I am terrified of teenagers. There is a time in every human’s life where we will basically just do anything we are physically capable of doing, up to and including breaking into the post office. Or maybe it’s just me. Maybe I’m just The Biggest Idiot In The World, and my magnum opus occurred somewhere back around my 17th birthday. Whatever the truth of the matter, what’s important to remember is that you should NOT ATTEMPT TO SNEAK INTO THE POST OFFICE. They DO have helicopters, and they have NO QUALMS about using them. Which really just makes me wonder why the mail doesn’t come quicker.

Hey guys, a bunch of arcane shit happened on my server over the holidays and I just got done putting out all the fires. Sorry I missed an update on Saturday. I hope you can find it in your hearts to forgive me.

Except no, fuck that. I’m not sorry. I’m not your dancing monkey. I started this website three years ago because I knew a lot of myths I was really excited about, and I wanted to yell them into the internet. It was fun. It was a fun, dumb thing I was doing on a free blogger site. People started paying attention, including some very influential people, and suddenly I was earning ad revenue and selling t-shirts and owning my own server space. I developed a “web presence.” I even got a book deal through this site, and that has been a phenomenal opportunity. I had a really great time writing that book, and I’ve been humbled and elated by the response to it, especially recently.

The problem, though, is this fucking update schedule. The whole time I’ve been writing this blog, I’ve been reading other people’s blogs and webcomics. I’ve watched creator after talented creator stop making art and start making product, because that’s what the internet demands. I’m not writing anymore, I’m “creating content.” I can’t think of a more efficient way to kill passion.

Many of you have probably noticed that I’ve been kinda reaching recently. Every week, when Saturday looms up, I no longer think “hey, I get to come up with a myth!” I think, “Aww fuck. I’ve gotta read another fucking myth.” That’s shitty. Nobody wins in that situation. I feel like a hack, and you guys get to read hack writing. So I’m making a change.

See, I noticed something when I wrote about my experience at the shop-along. People were excited. It started a discussion. And it was fun to write. Really fun. So fun, in fact, that I want to do more of that stuff.

This site will still update on Saturdays, but it won’t be myths for a while. Instead, I’ll tell you stories from my life. I’ve had a lot of shit happen to me, (like the aforementioned shop along, as well as this and this), and I think you’ll find it amusing. Think of it as another kind of mythology. I’ll still post myths when I come across one I’m really passionate about, so please continue to send me your recommendations. One of my favorite things about having this site is that you all have taken it upon yourselves to educate me, both mythologically and critically. All I ask is that you bear with me while I try something new.

Much Love,
Ovid

Hey jerks

I am taking a break for this week
because my brother was inconsiderate enough to produce offspring
and now I have to go make friends with it
in order to do this I have to be in smogg city, California
where I do not own a computer
in fact I am typing this on a computer I found
and I have to go now because i think the owner is beginning to notice it’s missing

Love,
Ovid

S’been a while
so i figured I’d dig out my copy of Grimm’s
and defeat any remaining hope/optimism you have left in your spirit
after this long and brutal winter

speaking of long and brutal winter
this myth takes place right before one
in Germany
which i think has pretty brutal winters
I was debating this with one of my friends yesterday
and we eventually decided
that neither of us know very much about germany
anyway the season is important
because this is the season a mouse and a cat decide to become roommates
right, yes
a mouse
and a CAT

now I will grant that there have been more unlikely fairytale living arrangements
but generally when i am apartment hunting
i like to make my decision based on three main requirements
1. Cheap rent
2. Easy access to public transit and grocery shopping
3. Relatively free of my natural predators
mouse has failed point three by a long shot
no kind of public transit is easy-access in old-times Germany
and i don’t care how cheap your rent is dude
you are LIVING WITH A THING THAT PEOPLE BUY SPECIFICALLY TO KILL YOU
but at least there’s a grocery store nearby
here’s how I know:

the first thing these two idiots decide when they move in together
is that they should get an emergency food stash
so that during the long brutal winter
the cat doesn’t uh
forget who her friends are
and the wintertime snack of choice in Germany
is a GIGANTIC TUB OF FAT
yep just fat
this explains things to me about german cuisine
so they buy this fat
but they don’t have a refrigerator
so they store it in the next best thing
a church
based on the foolproof logic that no one will ever steal anything from a church
so uh

ANYWAY
about two days pass and the cat gets hungry
and instead of eating her roomate
she does the considerate thing
and decides to sneak back to the church and chew the fat
with the priest
so she can sneak past him and chew the actual fat she has hidden in the church
[lol]
in order to do this she has to tell the mouse a brilliant lie
so she is like Mouse, hey
i gotta go to the church cuz uh
one of my sisters is having a baby and it’s getting baptized
i’m sposed to be the godmother or something
mouse sees nothing wrong with this
because he is a mouse and is lucky to even know how to talk

so the cat goes and eats the fat
and then comes home
and the mouse is like how was the baptism
and the cat is like good good
and the mouse is like what did they name the kid?
and the cat is like uh
Top-Off
yeah
Top-Off
and the mouse is like uh that’s a weird name
and the cat is like yeah well
they thought it would be really funny if she ever goes to mardi gras
or becomes a stripper
you know
stuff catholics do
and mouse is like oh ok that makes sense

so pretty soon the cat gets hungry again
and instead of BUYING GROCERIES
with the money I have NO IDEA HOW THEY GOT IN THE FIRST PLACE
she decides to steal more fat
so she’s like uh hey mouse
my slutty sister just squirted out another baby
i gotta go watch it be named
and the mouse is like yeah yeah ok
and then when the cat comes back all fat
he’s like what was THIS one named?
and she’s like uh
Half-Gone
and mouse is like what
that is not on the list of saint’s names I am pretty sure
and cat is like no no no you’re wrong
have you never heard of Saint Half-Gone, patron saint of dumb?
really mouse, I would think you’d be more familiar

so of course the cat gets hungry again
lies about another baptism
and goes to the church to finish off the fat
then she comes home and Mouse wants to know the kid’s name
and you would think she’d have put more thought into it this time
but nope
she’s just like “All Gone”
and Mouse is like that is DEFINITELY NOT A NAME
and Cat is like aren’t you forgetting about SIR THOMAS ALLGONE
INVENTOR OF THE LIGHTBULB?
and Mouse is like that’s Edison
Thomas Edison
and he hasn’t even been born yet
and Cat is like You mean he HADN’T been born yet
that’s why I had to go baptize him, DUH
and Mouse is like okay fine

so all that has happened
and it isn’t even winter yet
wait wait wait
….
okay, now it’s winter
and predictably
since neither of these animals goes to the grocery store
they run out of food pretty quick
and mouse is like okay well it’s a good thing we bought that fat
let’s go chew on it so that you don’t chew on me
and the cat is like uh
sure!
great idea!
so they go to the church
and they find the empty fat-bowl
and the mouse
(and get ready guys
this is that great part in all the grimm’s fairytales
where the evil malefactor is gruesomely punished
and the put-upon protagonist is rewarded with gold bars and blowjobs)
gets eaten by the cat.
Um.

So the original teller of this tale
at least as the brothers Grimm have recorded it
tells us that the moral of this story
is that this is just the way of the world
but I think the moral of the story is a little subtler than that
I think the moral of the story is
don’t be roommates with a storyteller
because they think this is how the world works

the end.

Today’s myth was written and sent to me over a year ago
by none other than the sexy ghost of Rapunzel
and I am posting it now because it is Christmas time
and therefore appropriate
and also since it is christmas time i am busy seeing family and getting drunk and shit
so uh
your regularly scheduled myths will return in 2013
unless i get bored of family shit and start back up sooner
but probably
2013
ANYWAY HERE’S A STORY ABOUT A RAD DUKE:

So there’s this guy Wenceslas and he’s a duke
Duke of Bohemia out in what is now Czechoslovakia
This is pretty sweet, seeing as how he is in charge of of all the 10th century artsy people
Anyhow
He and all his courtiers are all sitting around on St. Stephen’s Day
All you UK folks know what that is- us Americans call it Boxing Day for some reason
Either way, it is December 26th and since no one has any presents to return, they are all chilling and enjoying all their Christmas leftovers
It is really freaking cold, and because this is 10th c Czechoslovakia there is like 15ft of snow outside
Wenceslas looks out the window and he’s like “Hey artsy courtiers, who’s that old guy in the sackcloth with the long beard scrounging for firewood? I do not remember seeing him in the pottery shed or at any of the poetry readings.”
His page is like “Oh yeah, he’s this poor old dude who lives at the foot of the mountains near St. Agnes’ fountain– hey that rhymes!”
Wenceslas is all “Spare me your rhymes! We cannot have hermits going hungry in my duchy! Fetch a lunch box! We are taking this guy some of our sweet Christmas leftovers!”
So the page gets the Tupperware and the picnic basket and he and Wenceslas go out in the 30-below weather to bring this old dude some leftovers
Now again, this is 10th c Czechoslovakia and their Bohemia hand-woven organically dyed wool cloaks are just not cutting it
The page is like “Hey um sire? I am kinda freezing back here and the temperature is dropping and it’s so windy I think I may have left my tights standing in the snow behind me…”
Wenceslas says “Tosh! Just step where I step, keep moving! That’ll warm you up. Now hush. You’re building character.”
So the page follows in King Wenceslas’ footsteps and GUESS WHAT?!
The footprints are actually HOT.
This guy is owning so much piety and righteousness that he is BURNING HIS WAY through the 15ft snowbanks!

And that is how take-out was born.

The end.

Hey guys
so remember a million years ago
when I used to sell shirts?
WELL GUESS WHAT
AS OF TODAY WE ARE KICKIN’ IT OLD SCHOOL
by which i mean I AM SELLING MORE SHIRTS
in authentic retro BLACK AND WHITE
so GO BUY SOME!
(myth will go up later)