Mischief Magic

It's not a rational world. What's the most irrational about our irrational world is that we pretend that our irrational world is actually rational.

Don't believe me.

I might not know you. I might never have met you. I don't know your house, apartment, cardboard box or what-ever, but I GUARANTEE that this has happened to you.

(Guarantee is not backed by financial or contractual obligations.)

You're missing something - maybe your keys, your phone, your nose-hair clipper. You're looking all over. You think you left it on/in/under the XXXX. For that reason you naturally look on/in/under the XXXX first. As it begins to drive you crazy, you start looking at places you've already looked. You look on/in/under the XXXX a second time. Finally you throw up your hands (you never should have eaten them in the first place,) and give up. You sit on the couch in a funk and start watching an old re-run of Tool Time. You don't change the channel even though you can't stand Tim Allen.

   It turns out to be a Tool Time marathon - 56 hours of Tool Time, uninterrupted by commercials.

You still don't change the channel. You are really in a funk.

After innumerable Tim Allen gratuitous grunts, your kid, significant other, neighborhood busybody comes in and sees you slumped on your couch in depression and self-hatred.

"You don't like that show, do you?" asks your kid, significant other, your neighborhood busybody.

(The busybody - who does like the show - shoves you over and sits next to you.)

"You're right!" you scream, "but I can't find my keys, phone, or nose-hair clipper."

"You mean this?" asks your kid or significant other. (The busybody pockets the item because he/she has really course nose hairs.)

"Where did you find that?" you scream to your kid or significant other. (Your busybody neighbor is already at home, plugging in your nose-hair clipper.)

It was right here on/in/under the XXXX.

You throw up your hands again (an odd form of bulimia.) Unfortunately, you can't see to clean up the mess because your busybody neighbor blew a transformer

 
(or maybe it was a Polly Pocket,) from drawing too much juice trying to clip his/her nose hairs.

But you figure that you're going blind or crazy or both. You don't blame mischief magic, and you never ask your neighbor for your nose-hair clipper back (probably a good call on that one.)

So the elves, gnomes, and Donald Segretti

are safe to do their mischief another day.

All because you don’t believe in mischief magic (and you neighbor has hirsute DNA.)

I don't know if this is magical - unless stupid is magic.