Note To Reader: You will notice on the words with a silent w I have underlined the first two letters. This is your cue to pronounce the w (make the silent w unsilent you could say) for the purposes of this passage. For instance 'wrought' instead of being pronounced 'rot' as in rotten apple will be pronounced 'wa-rot' and 'whole' instead of being pronounced 'hole' will be pronounced 'wa-hole'. If I didn't underline the first two letters of these silent w words as a cue throughout the passage it's only natural to read them as we always do and out of habit leave the w silent. I believe by pronouncing the w in all these underlined words the passage will flow better, sound more w-ish (if that's an adjective!), and be funnier. So enjoy!



This wacky tale I have written should be worthwhile since it is wildly entertaining yet illustrates the wise Murphy's Law wonderfully.


When this all started, I, Wally Walden, was down in Waukegan wasting my life away working at odd jobs. I went from washing windows to welding widgets to toiling as a night watchman guarding a warehouse full of useless whatchamacallits and whatnot. I was wallowing in my misery when wuddyaknow?... who should call but my old war buddy Willard Whyte of Walla Walla, Washington! Now Willard is always in Who's Who and the Wall Street Journal, and if you google him, he's all over the World Wide Web. A real wheeler-dealer, he's a business whiz of great wealth with holdings worldwide and a net worth in the millions.

Willard said, "Well Hiya Wally! Need a favor. It will involve a winding journey that's no walk in the park and might take weeks but I only want to send guys whom I can trust wholeheartedly." He whetted my appetite by mentioning he was willing to reward me with a windfall. While it's not like I worship money, my wallet was so light I was practically a welfare case. The warranty on my Ford Windstar had just lapsed yet I needed a water pump, wheel bearings, windshield wipers, and some other whatsitsname and yet another whoosy-whatsis for it. He wheedled me some more by promising to wire me the money Western Union to fly out to his weekend retreat in Waikiki so we could discuss it further. So I figured, "What the heck? What's to lose? Why not give it a whirl? And besides, Willard sounded worried like it was wicked serious.


At the airport at Waikiki, I was welcomed by his pilot Wilhelm who had once been a wingman on a warplane and who whisked me away on Willard's private whirlybird. As we were wafting along, I watched wondrously as windsurfers and waterskiers tamed the waves below and averted wipeouts. A further ways out it was like Wow!...I witnessed a watercraft pursuing a whale! Wielding their weaponry, the harpooners waged war on the wily beast while the rest of the crew battled the weltering whitecaps. This warfare was a battle of willpower hinging on who would waver first.

I winced each time the lurching wrathful creature crashed back in the water with a pounding whump. I was wan like some worrywart whenever he whipsawed his weighty tail back and forth whamming the wooden boat since I wasn't sure it had the wherewithal to withstand another mighty wallop. But then the captain, wailing like a banshee over even the whirring of our chopper, uttered these words to his wet and worn-out warriors, "Withdraw! Before we are wrecked!" and then warned the whale, "Woe to you, O wretched monster! You have won today's battle but it's wishful thinking if you doubt we'll meet again my worthy foe!"

Whew! For a guy whose idea of a big fishie is a simple whiting, wall-eyed pike, or whitefish, this whale had me wigging out. Wilhelm, seeing me wheyfaced, gave me a few belts of whiskey which whipped me back into shape. I walk off the copter and...Wahoo! If it wasn't my other two war buddies Chief Whitecloud of the Wampanoags and Warren C. Willoughby! We whooped and hollered like wack jobs and wrestled each other to the ground playfully whaling on each other till we were winded. Then Wilhelm gave us a walkthrough of this paradise which sure was a welcome change for my world-weary soul and workaday existence.


No wellborn privileged kid, Willard Whyte came up the hard way. From whence he came it was far removed from his current lifestyle of winetastings, whitewater rafting, hunting waterfowl, sailing the waterways in his windjammer, buying Andrew Wyeth watercolors, Andy Warhol originals, and other works of art like Whistler's Mother, whacking croquet balls through the wickets with the Duke Of Windsor, and attending Wimbledon, visiting Westminster Abbey, and dining on Welsh rarebit with him later.

His father was a wanton weasel who made luckless women like his mother do wrong and work the streets. A womanizing whoremaster, he would force his poor wenches to woo men with their feminine wiles so they'd pay to make whoopee. With a stable of live wires with skinny waistlines in their wraparound skirts wiggling their hips and wigwagging their behinds and winking at men all up the West Side, he had wads of cash. With these hard-earned wages of others, the greedy wastrel treated only himself to the works. He sported a fancy wardrobe, wore wingtip shoes, and even got an antique Wolseley with whitewall tires. With a weakness for wine from which he could not wean himself, he got wasted a lot.

Willard, still a wee whelp of a lad, grew wearisome of the neglect and in a watershed moment, went off on his own. Wandering the streets, starving and wafer-thin, the wispy waif, seemingly doomed from the womb, had no ward like Daddy Warbucks around him but just woozy wobbling winos. The winsome boy learned how to turn on the waterworks and become weepy when begging so folks wouldn't withhold their coins. And with his wholesome look and whimsical manner he could charm even the worst misers. But with neither a warm bed to sleep in nor a washcloth to wipe his face, Willard nevertheless didn't just cry 'Wah! Wah! Wah!' all day but learned not to be wasteful and kept his wits about him whereby he eventually became the consummate world-beater.


Whitecloud, the wirehaired wizened old chief with the wrinkly weather-beaten face, was a man of great wisdom. Whereas his tribesmen had grown weary of naÏve white men who'd ask if they lived in wigwams or wikiups and were going out on the warpath, he withheld judgment, understanding they'd been watching too many woefully inaccurate westerns.

Yes it was he who taught our wranglers how to say 'Whoa!' in just the right tone to get a wild horse to whinny rather than neigh. He showed our farmers how to keep the weevils from the wheat saving us wagonloads of crops. He explained to the wainwrights what to treat wood with to better preserve the wheels for our wagons and wheelbarrows. And as a waterfinder, he intuitively knew where we should dig our wells.

Our whitewashed history books may have brushed him by the wayside, but Chief, that old warhorse, gave nary a whimper and just remained wistful, waggishly waxing poetically about the Wild West by the campfire. He had done well for himself hawking his wares of supreme workmanship down by the wharf by the waterfront. There were not only pretty wampum necklaces and exquisite woodcarvings but expertly woven wool rugs showing skill at every warp and weft.


Warren C. Willoughby was that lovable weirdo of whom you always wondered whether he stayed on the tilt-a-whirl too long when he was little. A wimpy weakling with too many whiteheads, the bigger weisenheimers at school would give him wedgies and call him a wuss. But those wiseasses were just jealous since Warren was a wunderkind, a whiz kid student who later became a well-known webmaster.

A wishy-washy wallflower at any wingding or wienie roast, he wasn't on the same wavelength as anyone else but didn't seem to give a whit. But I liked his wry wit and warped worldview so we became friends. He had this pet Lawrence Whelk (now there's some wordplay from your wordsmith!) but when his Uncle Dundee sent him a wallaby, a wallaroo, and a wombat from Australia, Warren didn't need Larry anymore so added him to his wonton soup and made a whistle out of his shell. He would sprinkle worms on his waffles, tune his walkie-talkies to the same waveband to talk to himself, and once when I gave him a Willy Wonka bar, he wolfed it down but candy wrapper and all!


Wilhelm led us to Willard's den, replete with wall-to-wall carpeting and wainscoting of no mere woodgrain but the purest walnut. When Willard finally waltzed in, he apologized for being waylaid and having kept us waiting. Suddenly, as if a warlock had waved a magic wand and put a whammy on him, he was still as a waxwork as a tidal wave of emotion swept over him. Then he started weeping so profusely that his waistcoat got waterlogged and said, "My word! We're together again like we've never been apart!"

"Remember how inseparable we were during wartime out in the wildlands. Whosoever spoke to me, taught me well. Whatsoever I was doing, someone watched my back. Whensoever I was in danger, someone wriggled me out of it. Wheresoever I went, someone walked nearby. But in the business world wherein I'm surrounded by a wasteland of humanity with wiseguys and young wannabes crawling out of the woodwork, my constant wariness is warranted. They're all wrongdoers apt to welsh on whomsoever they strike a deal with. I knew whereof I speak because with workmanlike precision these worthless wretches who are wormwood to me wangle writs from judges to try and wrest away control of my empire.

But Whitecloud, you who could detect a whiff of the enemy out in the wildwood quicker than any wolfhound, yanked dumb me down so hard I almost got whiplash so that bullet missed me by a whisker. Warren, you wiseacre, when I wrenched my back slipping over that whooshing waterfall, you pulled me out of those weeds in the wetlands below. It was you who devised the workout so my muscles wouldn't wither away and got me out of that wheelchair whereas the medical wizards were still wracking their brains wondering, "What'll we do?" And you Wally, when we were wilting in the heat deep in the warlord's turf, despite being so weak yourself wheezing from your allergy to all the wisteria and wildflowers, weren't willing to leave me behind. With those shrapnel wounds near my waist I could barely walk and would've died at the hands of those warmongers bent on wholesale slaughter, but you dragged me away.

When my hopes were waning, my patience whittled down to nothing, and I was waffling in doubt feeling we were just tilting at windwills out there in the wilderness lamenting, "When'll it end?", I'd remember how the fabled Wheel of Fortune blessed me with you guys. Even now when I'm wildcatting for oil wells and I get the willies that my wager is wrong and I wanna bail. I remember that we've been through worse."

But's Wednesday, Prince Spaghetti Day. So won't you join me and our waiter Wilhelm in the West Wing to eat first.


  For a guy who usually eats Wendy's burgers and Burger King whoppers and whoopie pies, this was a treat. We gorged more than any wart hog, walrus, or even woolly mammoth on not just the mouthwatering pasta but on a choice of beef Wellington or steak with Worcestorshire sauce, either watercress or Waldorf salad, plus stir-fried veggies including water chestnuts from the wok, and Wilhelm's Wiener Schnitzel. We kept our wineglasses full while we played a few hands of whist and enjoyed watermelon for dessert. Finally, like overstuffed webfoots, we waddled back to the den.


Willard disclosed that his wayward wife Wilma had run off on a whim in the Winnebago with the notorious Waco Kid. Ever since they had joined in wedlock, Wilma complained to workaholic Willard about his onerous workload. He explained to her that his whiz-bang presentations and walkaway victories didn't just happen willy-nilly but he got where he was through hours of hard work, winnowing through reams of data and wading through mounds of reports.

To make it up to her he bought her a new Whirpool washer, let her pick out new wallpaper, planted her favorite trees- wintergreen and willow- and filled them with the prettiest songbirds like warblers, whippoorwills, wagtails, and wrens to please her but kept way the noisy woodpeckers, and bought her a whippet who happily waggled his tail and said 'Woof! Woof!' and served as her watchdog. After she whined that he'd gained so much weight since the wedding that he couldn't see his weenie when he took a whiz anymore, he switched to Weight Watchers meals and took up weightlifting and then stopped eating simply whichever bread he liked but went with wholegrain. He bought her wireless speakers with the most advanced woofers and tweeters so she could blast her Muddy Waters and Whitesnake and a wah-wah pedal so she could wail along on her Flying V guitar a la Wishbone Ash. He even sent her on a wildlife safari where she could watch a wildcat devour a wildebeest.

Though she was a crazy woman, he loved her, but despite buying her whatever she wanted and sending her wherever she pleased, the little witch ditched him. So now woebegone Willard wanted us to discover whither she had gone. He pulled down a wallchart with a map plotting her potential whereabouts. The pair had since ditched the Winnebago for a Kawasaki so they could pop wheelies whereafter there were whispers they'd been sighted within the county. Alas, these were just will-o'-the-wisps wherefore Willard became withdrawn. But when we promised to search the length and width of the earth and offered a wellspring of support, he regained his will to succeed.

He entrusted us to prevent even the weeniest hint of the disappearance from leaking to the media wolves fearing it would be like lighting the wick of a firecracker and starting a wildfire causing more widespread damage to his privacy than a nuclear warhead and would disrupt the orderly workflow of his business. Willard then weighed in, "My legal wonks wished to have you sign these waivers whereby if you got hurt you would wind up liable, but I overruled and threw 'em in this wicker wastepaper basket. Instead I'll make you weekly employees not just consultants entitling you to worker's compensation if you just fill out some W-4s.


Mean as a child, Waco once found a woodchuck in the woods then threw him in the woodchipper. At school, when Sister Winifred dared call him a woodenheaded whippersnapper, he stole the nun's wimple! He also stole the woodwinds and woodblocks from the orchestra causing the school to postpone the Wagner concert. Though willowy and wiry enough to be a wingback on the gridiron or a welterweight in the ring, he shunned school sports. Once he graduated, not content to spend his weekdays toiling in obscurity as some whatshisname average workingman, he shunned business too preferring the whirlwind pace of the outlaw's life. He then let his whiffle grow out and went for a werewolf look which made him scarier than The Wolverine from the X-Men movies.

He later hijacked a truck in Wichita full of waterproof windup wristwatches according to the waybill. The Feds had him wiretapped after he developed counterfeit bills with such a convincing watermark that whomever he passed them to took it up the wazoo for thousands. Then one winter's day some carolers, seeing his wreath hanging there, walked up to his door singing Good King Wenceslas and Winter Wonderland as they were wont to do, but Waco blew 'em away with his Winchester right there in the walkway because he didn't like they way they wassailed.

Famous like Oscar Wilde for his witticisms, Waco wisecracked to the judge that whoever was stupid enough not to stay weatherbound during whiteout conditions with a windchill factor so low that if you tried to wee-wee outside you'd have an icicle on your willy, well...they deserved to be wasted. The judge wagged his finger at Waco and said, "If you want to be a clown, put on a wig and whiteface like Willie Whistle. I wish you would wake up and realize you'll have no one to eulogize at your wake if you leave nothing but destruction in your wake! Now this isn't much of a whodunnit since your whorls are all over the murder weapon, so your days of wreaking havoc and waging open warfare on society are over. It will be not just some slap on the wrist or even the workhouse for a widowmaker like you but prison.

Once there though, smart as a whip Waco picked the weeknight that was the warden's night off and the weathercast called for a windstorm so blinding even the the kajillion watt searchlights couldn't see him whish past the watchtower...and escaped! Out in the harsh wilds and wearing a not very weatherproof or watertight windbreaker, having forgotten to pack his worsted and woolskin clothing, windburned Waco stopped to build a wattle hut. He continued westerly but Woops!...was attacked by angry wasps. Suffering numerous welts, wheals, and wales, he continued westbound till he happened upon a wayfarer's inn where, writhing in agony, he begged the waitress for some St. John's wort. Wending his way futher westward, the next place whereto he came was Willard's mansion in Walla Walla whereupon he whomped on the door. Our wayworn bad boy proceeded to weave his tale of woe explaining wherefrom he had fled causing wide-eyed Wilma, a sucker for any Hollywood weepie, to become smitten.


So thrill-seeking weirdie Wilma- much like those surfers from before who'll try anything that makes 'em go Whee! or Whoop-de-do!- yearned for a life with a whirligig pace and went willingly with Waco. He had always felt all womenkind were whiny windbags but was intrigued by wild child Wilma. She even served as wheelman for his heists of Wells Fargo Bank and Washington Mutual, both huge withdrawals indeed. Meanwhile, the search by Chief Whitehorse, Warren C. Willoughby, and me, Wally Walden on behalf of Willard Whyte for his wife Wilma and the Waco Kid appeared to be a washout. Wrought-out and frustrated, we consulted Winona the Wiccan over at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry who could summon wraiths and wyverns of frightening wingspan with her white magic. The wisewoman while in some weird trance wailed "Waaalt Dissssney Woooorld" so off we went to Florida.

Sure enough there were Wilma and Waco over by the café near the Winnie the Pooh exhibit chowing on golden-fried wingdings. Taking a page from that whaleboat's workbook and much to the horror of the waitstaff, we attacked without warning with no shouted watchword but just my nod. I whanged Waco right on the windpipe and wrung his neck tighter than a winch, allowing Warren to keep whapping him until we got him right in Whitecloud's wheelhouse and Whammo!...he whopped him cold! Having whupped Waco in the fight, we took him back to the warden and took Wilma back to Willard.

We thought we'd succeeded in a major win while having swept the whole affair under the rug with a whiskbroom but were bewildered when we clicked on Oprah Winfrey a week later and saw willful Wilma in a segment called..."Wealthy Womenfolk With Wanderlust and a Weakness for Wildmen"!!

*Registered with the IP Rights Office Copyright Registration Service Ref: 426148730