The Wizard of Blahs!


“Elsie Dadoriano”.

I was 26 years old and I had just heard those words roll off of the lips of the woman I had always thought was my mother.

A few weeks prior, I had been researching my family history, tracing my family’s roots in Africa, when I kept hitting a dead-end.

There was no trace of albinism in my family.

The Filipkowskis are all black. Every single one. Except me.

My “mother” had always explained this to me by stating that I was a black albino. I had inherited the gene from my Uncle Dennis, who had died when my mother was a small child.

I had heard many conflicting stories about “Uncle Dennis” from the members of my immediate family.

“Oh, Uncle Dennis? He died in a calculator fire,” said my cousin Geoffrey.

“What the heck is a calculator fire?”, my nine year-old self asked.

“I don’t know, shut the hell up,” replied Geoffrey.

Some said he was a pilot for Eastern Airlines, though my exhaustive search of that now-defunct company’s records turned up no traces of him. In fact, I could find no mention of him anywhere.

I was also told that he had been a lifeguard at Jones Beach. When I questioned why someone with a pigment deficiency would choose a profession that was conducted exclusively under the blaring rays of the sun, I was given the familiar retort of “I don’t know, shut the hell up.”

To that end, how come the sun didn’t burn me as easily as most albinos? Why was my hair brown? Why did I have perfect vision? It just didn’t make sense.

After years of lying, my mom just gave up trying to explain all the incongruities in her story.

“You’re not an albino, you’re adopted,” she said. “But that doesn’t mean we don’t love you like our own!”

Sure it didn’t. Nobody loves an adopted kid as much as a regular one. Everybody knows that. If I was going to be loved like a regular son, I was going to have to find my real mom.

So, armed with the name of my birth mother, I started my search over from scratch.

After just a few days, I received some heart-breaking news: my mother was dead.

Elsie Dadoriano had disappeared and been officially declared deceased just months after giving birth to me. Thanks to the Freedom of Information Act, a simple request for documents at my local town hall had turned up the chilling fact that I was all alone in the world.

I returned “home” to my “family”, a broken man. It just wasn’t the same, though. Sunday church services no longer seemed so boisterous. That evening, my Aunt Jenny’s peach cobbler wasn’t quite as sweet. As I finished my last bite, I realized it might be because she wasn’t really my Aunt Jenny, after all.

I needed something to take my mind off of things.

I didn’t have many hobbies, but it had always been my dream to set a Guinness Book of World’s Records record.

If you’ve ever skimmed through this book, you know most of these records will probably never be broken. I wasn’t about to swallow 8,000 clothespins or run a mile in 23 seconds or whatever.

I needed something that was easy. I racked my brain as I drove to work. I parked in my assigned spot. “Eric Filipkowski” it said. It occurred to me that I would have to have that changed to say, “Eric Dadoriano” pretty soon.

As I sat in my car, I wished I didn’t have to go into work. I wished I could stay in my car all day.

I wished I could stay in my car, if not forever, for months at a time!

Great Scott! That was it! I would live in my car!

What could the record be for that? A few days? Weeks? Months, at most? I could do that.

I sprang into the office, a completely revitalized man.

I was no longer just “Eric Filipkowski: former black albino.” I was “Eric Filipkowski: future world record holder!”

People asked me what was going on, so noticeable was my change in demeanor, but I was hesitant to share my idea. I believed it to be that good and original and I didn’t want anybody stealing it.

At lunch, I could no longer contain myself. I confided in my best chum, Walter Pittstall.

“Good luck with that, I hope you’ve got 26 years to kill,” was his reply.

My heart sank. 26 years? How did he even know that?

“They just did a story about it on the news, the lady who did it lives just a few towns over. Elsie Dadoriano’s her name, I think.”

I couldn’t handle this roller coaster of emotions. First, I found out I’m adopted. Then I found out my real mother was dead. Then I found out my mother was actually alive and she stole my idea for setting a world’s record. I couldn’t take it anymore!

I made sure that Walter had the correct name. He showed me a newspaper clipping he had taken. There it was. The name of my real mother. No picture, though.

I grabbed the clipping and ran for the door. I shouted something about explosive diarrhea to my boss and was gone in a flash.

I zipped through the streets of my small town at a pace that would make my hero, Jeff Gordon, jealous. Within minutes, I was flipping through a phone book in the middle of Apple City Square searching for her name. Unlisted number.

“Damn it, Mom!” I said in frustration. I started asking random people on the streets and they were able to direct me easily to their most famous resident. It was just a few blocks over!

I slowed my pace, gathering myself. I straightened my hair and tie; I wanted to make a good impression with my new Mommy.

The townsfolk had told me I was to go to the corner of Benson and Hudson streets. They said when I got there, I would know what to look for. But all I saw was a filthy homeless woman living in a broken down… junked-out… car.







My mom is homeless! Gross!

I ran for my life.

I went straight home and begged my parents to take me back. I wanted to be Eric Filipkowski again. I wanted to be black again. I wanted to be an albino again.

To their credit, they took me back with open arms and promised to try and forget the whole business, though, if I push their buttons, they’ll sometimes drop a sly, “I don’t know, shut the hell up, Dadoriano,” under their breath.


  1. I don’t know. They’ve lied to you before. I don’t think you’re really adopted. Just look at that Nappy head. I bet you like chicken, too.

    Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go apologize to Al Sharpton.

  2. I’m sure it’s been taken. All the good names have. That’s why we’ve got people naming themselves after characters in 80’s movies and stupid bullshit like that. Man, I hate music.

  3. my 2 favorite band names ever (both bands that played locally when i was in college):

    Taco and The MoFos

    Buster Hymen and The Penetrators

  4. But officially, the worst band name ever: Strawberry Alarm Clock. Either that, or Fall Out Boy. Way to ruin The Simpsons, jackasses.

  5. Yeah, why do people do that? I’m talking to you, “the Fratellis”! Leave our childhoods alone. I can’t imagine those dipshits are even old enough to have been around when that movie came out. Why does everyone suck but me?

  6. You reminded me of the douchebag scene now, still brings tears to my eyes. They called it Old Yeller on account of the mustard water, so sad. I think I know his cousin That Wanker.

  7. Butthole Surfers is also a name which is quite offensive to me, because I don’t think it’s proper to mention surfers in mixed company. They shouldn’t be exposed to the public. They are always smelly and smeared with shit, and sometimes they get these warts on them that bleed when you scratch them.

    On the other hand, Kajagoogoo rawks so hard!!!!!

  8. Umm, hello? I believe this whole “worst band name” argument was settled a long time ago. Doesn’t anyone remember that 1985 movie where Hoobastank and Enuff Z’nuff engaged in a deathmatch in the Thunderdome? I think Tina Turner was involved somehow. Anyhoo, they all killed each other, and there was also a really big retarded chap in a mask who got shot with some arrows. Two bands enter, none bands leave.

    “Time counts and keeps countin’, and we knows now finding the trick of what’s been and lost ain’t no easy ride. But that’s our trek, we gotta’ travel it. And there ain’t nobody knows where it’s gonna’ lead. Still in all, every night we does the tell, so that we ‘member who we was and where we came from… but most of all we ‘members the man that finded us, him that came the salvage. And we lights the city, not just for him, but for all of them that are still out there. ‘Cause we knows there come a night, when they sees the distant light, and they’ll be comin’ home.”

  9. Scott Baio, correct me if I am wrong, but I believe what you are trying to say , is that your moms and dads is definitely comin’ home soon and when when they sees the distant lights is still on in your bedroom after 9 p.m. yous is busted. ? Am I way off base here?

    Damn I could have sworn you were an alboner Eric, that sucks.*

    *GAH. I swear I am going to stop coming here for my news one of these days. It’s like there’s always some bad event, some wretched story!

  10. Scotty: I notice you do speak the language when it’s convenient. ?

    Also, speaking of language, my goodness, did you have to use the word ‘hell’ . ?

    Some of the language you hear on these programs lately, I tell you. I feel it’s to maintain a culture of fear. Esp. Erik and all of his psychological violence depictions.

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