Wearer of Many Hats

```
.footnotes-footer {
display:none;
}
```
(none)
(none)
[[module css]]
.footnotes-footer {
display:none;
}
[[/module]]
[[>]]
[[module rate]]
[[/>]]

> //Shrimptember 24th//
> 
> Now that I've actually started this natty ickle fol-de-rol-de-diddery-diary, I noticed something newsworthy about the surface upon which I so frumiously jot: this brand-new writing desk. It's the first writing desk I've used in ages. (I'd use my clipboard, of course, would that not have so rudely died in childbirth.)
> 
> And now that I get a good look at said writing desk, I can't help but notice... the riddle lied! This is NOTHING like a raven! No feathers, no beak, no talons, no gills, no antlers, no proboscis, no dead Lenore, no microscopic goblins -- in what state of mind is this confounded desk anything raven-//adjacent?!// 
> 
> ...fie on't, what am I saying? It's like I'm actually disappointed that something isn't logical. And if that's not a litmus test for what this dreary existence is doing to me, what is?
> 
> For you see, Diary Dear, if the status quo maintains its current course, your faithful Mad Hatter will be a Bored Hatter in a fortnight.
> 
> And so shall I elucidate.
> 
> Behold, yesterday: the ugly little poster child for eleventeen days ago and every day since. 
> 
> Sunrise, I get up. Brush the morning paper, comb my teeth, read behind my ears. Make twelve dozen new bootleg Stetsons out of whatever's in my pantry. Diagnose myself with erethism 14 times during breakfast. Kick the servants. Remember I haven't any servants. Cry deeply about my solitude. 
> 
> Noon. Surprise, the March Hare's got another bloody unbirthday and simply //must// have me put on a few million kettles. We sing, we dance, we judge the guilty, we convert to Eastern Orthodoxy once or twice, we kill and resurrect the Dormouse, we exchange gifts valued between 4 and 18 pounds, we recite the most lovely little poems, alternating the pronunciation of the word "poem" as either "pome," "//po//-wem," or "snail" depending on the phases of the Moon...
> 
> And by the time I sip my evening mercury and slip between my sheets, I nod off with one thought lingering in my restless mind... Is this //it?//
> 
> Of course, everything's //it//, except the its which are they and the aren'ts which haven't a there-I-am or a wherefore-art-thou. But this routine, which once oviposited such //Wonders// down the backstreets of my ear canals, has changed so frightfully little. I find myself counting down to positive birthdays instead of their negated brethren just for a change of pace. 
> 
> But due to sentient life's despicable tendency to not have everyone born at four o'clock on Squeezeday the 58th of Pruneuary -- //someone always has an unbirthday,// and I, Her Majesty's arbiter of unbirth, am always invited, and so are Marchie and Dormie by virtue of Hatter-adjacency.
> 
> And if that weren't bad enough, Marchie has //conveniently// misplaced his birth certificate!
> 
> Alack, even the East Wondia company's finest breakfast blend becomes little more than cloudy water if you have it with every meal.
> 
> ...oh, buck up, Mads. Even Quincy the Whining Pigeon can only play his Italian bagpipes for so long. No more plaintive squawking for the has-been-going-on -- now, we must ever so triumphantly shriek toward the what-is-to-be-done!
> 
> So hatcheth I a stratagem from yonder inkmarks...
> 
> Hmm... dare I refuse Marchie for to take a day off?
> 
> Oh, jam it all in the bat-flap, that's right! I sold my ability to say no to rodents so that I could buy that marble bust of Mozart mid-sneeze. Well, so long as I curse the barter system forever, that should sort itself out.
> 
> I'd brainstorm further, but alas, my current hat isn't built for moisture, and I haven't my umbrella.
> 
> So rather than risk unforgivable dampness, I'm left with the option at the very bottom of Terrence's[[footnote]](Lord Terrence McTeague the Ideas Donkey, Twelfth Baronet Crimpingshire.)[[/footnote]] left pocket.
> 
> Yes, though the idea twinges my innards a bar gyroscopic, I must venture for the first time into that most dreadfully sensible world above for answers. 
> 
> Earth. Think of it -- an entire world so viciously boring that they named it after dirt.
> 
> Alas, if there were any other way, I'd pounce thereupon most a-tigerly. A change of environs would do me a world of good, however sane it may be.
> 
> So packeth I my bags and saunter upward. With any luck, Marchie and Dormie have taken the little tent card I left on my tea-table to heart, the one that reads "I AM ACTUALLY HERE JUST INVISIBLE AND SILENT - M.H.". God knows that worked on me the last time Marchie had ptomaine poisoning.

------

> //Dismember 72nd//
> 
> My grand tour of the capital-R capital-W Real World has left me positively Shibbed, a word I shan't define until Tuesday. 
> 
> Though most of my trip has been spent in Merry England (with a few layovers in Vietnam), I have found an Earth that has changed significantly from the brochures about it that the Cheshire Cat so generously shoved up my nostrils.
> 
> For one thing, I don't seem to have landed on a fixed date in any upstairs calendar. The first world war is going on, but the seventh is starting in my hotel room.
> 
> Suppose it's only fair. After all, I left Wonderland in a hurry. Scarcely had I stuffed my 500th porcelain ostrich in my trunk before I heard the Municipal Unbirthday Siren whining away o'er the cul-de-sac. When trying to dodge one's duties, you tend to forget important toiletries such as Causality and Linear Time. Twenty sovereigns says I left them under the laserdisc player.
> 
> For another, I can't help but notice the reputation I've somehow built for myself. Apparently, there's an abject gaggle of those who would view I, Mads-et-cetera-Hatter, as... sexy?!
> 
> ZOUNDS AND GADZOOKS! Neither logic or whatever-it-is-my-brains-do-when-my-mouth-is-open can justify this tomfoolery! I, Mad Hatter, virile? Fertile? Studworthy breeding stock?!
> 
> Seeth they me //not?!// I, a gangly, ungroomed, childish, middle-aged, demented, untreated case of mercury poisoning? I, who drink from a kettle that a rodent sleeps in? I, who's most prominent depiction was voice-acted by Ed Wynn, of all people?! HAS ANYONE ACTUALLY HEARD HIS VOICE?! HE SPEAKS IN //CONTRACEPTIVES!// WHO ON GOD'S GREEN EARTH HEARS "Don't let'th be thilly!" AND STARTS //OVULATING?!//
> 
> ...do forgive me, Diary Dear, I'm only practicing sensible topics to throw wobblies about in order to blend in with the locals. The very minute I go public my usual "why won't the hieroglyphs floss with my invoices" or some such, that's when the powdered wigs toddle over with a sampling platter of Tony Blair's finest ASBOs. 
> 
> Because something tells me I'm going to be here for a long time.
> 
> For if I were to come back after neglecting my duties...  oh, come now, I got this head for five quid on clearance. So what if it's off-with? If your head //hasn't// been lobbed off, can you really call yourself a Wonderlander? I've even heard tell that Her Majesty's got a private boudoir guillotine because she can't sleep without being executed at least twice.
> 
> Still, I hope they're not //too// upset with me.
> 
> ...
> 
> (They probably are.)

------

> //Untober 91st//
> 
> What ungodly gaiety! What a pelvic conflagration unbridles betwixt my extremities! ...am I poetic yet? I am handling a considerable amount of cash in my wee ickle fingies and saying sad and Byronic sex things about it feels prudent.
> 
> That's just the joyous quicksilver that cometh with opening a bank door, entering, and then closing said bank door. I speak, of course, of the very buildings where the jolly money-havers of Merry England store all their moneys for to have.
> 
> And just smash a smattering of crumpets upon the face of me, for I have placed moneys into my possession! I -- dare it even be said? -- AM MONEYED!
> 
> (This is the part where I'd place the cavalcade of joyful noises I do make at this moment, if such a thing could be done; alas, the last time I partook in the art of musical notation, I experienced severe abdominal hemorrhaging and blood came out my Jabberwocky for a few good St. Stephen's Days.)
> 
> So, how in the EVER did I acquire such a wifeless dowry?
> 
> ...as a matter of fact, I haven't the vaguest idea, as ere I withdrew said said cash, I added such delightful tonics to my evening tea.
> 
> From the forensic evidence I've gathered, I've become a rich man from one, several, all, or none of the following factors:
> 
> * Insider trading.
> * Writing "I'm the richest little boy in the Rich Boys Bin and you WILL treat me as such!" on a quilt of cannibalised brassieres and presenting it to the nearest available bank clerk, followed by screaming at him until he took it seriously.
> * Investing in beef substitutes.
> * War profiteering.
> * Loans I shan't repay.
> * Product placement.
> * Prolonged and intense thoughts in a dark corner about having a lot of money until Aleister Crowley himself showed up and said, "By Jove, my son, that's a proper spate of Thelemic manifestation you've been having and far be it from me to see such devilry go unrewarded, ergo, I invest as I speak, now go do what thou wilt before I box your ears!" whereupon he threw several septrillion bank notes at me.
> * Embezzlement.
> * Bamboozlement.
> * Besquizzlement.
> * Whining.
> 
> At any rate, however I received this substantial fortune cookie minus the cookie, the fact remains: in its having, I've a sense of newfound fulfillment that hasn't been felt since my early days as an unbirthdologist. 'Tis a present I've received, but nothing of birthdays or their unbrethren about it! 
> 
> By God... it's as if good fortune needn't an anniversary of any sort attached to it.
> 
> A senseless and stupid proposition... which can only mean I've cruelly underestimated this world's true potential for wonder.
> 

------

> //Fructidor 118th//
> 
> Foetid.
> 
> Positively //foetid.//
> 
> The aforementioned money pile has sat in the corner of my flat in Soho for some time now. And despite the praises I've sung of said fortune, it's yet to do anything but //sit!//
> 
> Come now, we musn't get too excited. Perhaps I've yet to fully unlock the secrets of non-wondrous currency. This calls for a consultation with an expert.
> 
> Next to thee, Diary Dear, I've taken the liberty of placing several economics textbooks. I will now take a little sabbatical from diarism to consume the knowledge of these books by slamming my forehead into them repeatedly...
> 
> ...
> 
> EGAD! The books have upset my forehead most brutishly. Such betrayal I shan't leave without recompense! So shall I degrade their honour by yanking them open and staring at all their shameful inner wordy bits like some kind of sexual vulture.
> 
> ...
> 
> //Capitalism//, say you?

------

> //Rabi-ul-Awwal 57th//
> 
> It seems this is how one feels when one's father is a Jack, one's mother is an ass, and one was raised on a farm run by perverts.
> 
> Unlike all the happy little Wonderlander bank notes still remaining in my underwears, which are still happily crooning out Welsh renditions of 17th-century Italian parlor songs -- the money of //this// world does next to nothing on its own!
> 
> I say //next// to nothing, of course, because there is one condition where money doesn't need you to hold its needy ickle handypoo the whole time.
> 
> //Capitalism!//
> 
> Yes and indeed and yes, Diary Dear, there's this magic ritual called Capitalism where you draw a little chalk circle around a pile of money, call it "the Capital," make a bunch of special little names for Things and Sub-Things that said Capital is associated with, scream a considerable amount of words at a considerable amount of people -- and before you know it, the Capital starts defecating this delightful purple slurry called "Profit" that you can throw at people until they all begrudgingly agree to give you "Assets" like motorcars and inkjet printers, which you can then crossbreed to make three-wheeled printy-things that beep exorbitantly and do your homework! And it also makes something called "Stocks" which lay "Nest Eggs" so you can make breakfast out of them in a "Timeshare!"
> 
> Well, now I know what I'm going to pretend to be good at for the next million Wednesdays or so. This Capitalism thing is the closest thing to Wonder in this otherwise wonderless collection of sand and wetness and traffic accidents.
> 
> ...Which means there's a "Demand" for Wonder that I could "Supply!"
> 
> OH, FRABJOUS DAY! I'm so lucky, you'd think it were my unbirthday or something.
> 
> //SPEAK OF THE DEVIL! I JUST CHECKED TODAY'S DATE! AND YOU'LL NEVER BELIEVE THIS...//
> 

------

> //August 70th//
> 
> Oh, organized religion -- such a card, thou'rt.
> 
> Just this very morning, I had myself re-baptized as "Dr. Wondertainment" at twelve different churches, and I needed to threaten fewer zoo animals than anticipated to see it through!
> 
> Now, when I go forth to teach my pile of capital to stop fermenting and start making wondertainy-toys for all yonder childfolks, I can do so whilst wearing a birth certificate that more accurately reflects my desire to spread wonder!
> 
> Though I suppose I'm not much of a Dr. to speak of if I haven't any Dr.ate on my wall to speak of. And for one of those things, one ought to burble oneself through  academia for years on end -- while I wish to begin capitalism as soon as next week. One damned conundrum after another, say I. Phooey and phooey again!
> 
> But soft -- my brains are making another one of those "idea" doodads they make on occasion. What's that, brains? Speak up, say I, ere I grab the jolly claw hammer and spank you forthwith! 
> 
> ...Oh! Right you are! I needn't go to any colleges in the plebeian capacity. If I were to simply traipse on up the nearest available dean and/or provost's bedchamber at 1:45 in the morning, squat on his chest, tickle his wee nosey, and whisper //"twinkle, twinkle, little wreath / how I wonder what thou seeth / a degree you shall bequeath / or I'll drink your fucking teeth"// -- and it's cap and gown and the whole //Gaudeamus Igitur// and //Floreat Etona// by teatime!
> 
> Oh, higher education -- such a card, thou'rt.

------

[[=]]
+ ...

+ ...

+ ...
[[/=]]

------

> //April 23rd//
> 
> Christ, I'm tired. 
> 
> Thankfully, ten minutes with Baxter in Resolutions was enough to find the reason that the Wondertainment of America division has been in Marketing Hell for so long. (Which is admittedly setting the bar pretty low for "thankfully", but we all know how the boys in Resolutions can be.) 
> 
> Some shadowy upstarts calling themselves "The Foundation" have been treating Wondertainment's products like they're Area 51 material. 
> 
> Far be it from me to say our products are for //everyone.// We've had our fair share of product recalls. But these Foundation chumps have been pulling out all the stops -- red tape, misinformation, marketing censors, the works! 
> 
> It defies all common sense! This is the selfsame nation that has their kids playing all those video games full of corpses and prostitutes and listening to the kind of music that would make all the saints vomit with rage. 
> 
> Not that I'm //against// any of these things, of course. I'm no bloody Puritan. But the very minute that someone tries to distribute honest-to-God //Childlike Wonder// just for a change of pace, //that's// what they're going to play Cromwell about!
> 
> It's like they're burning people for witchcraft on one end of the block, and on the other end, there's a casino. "Contradiction" doesn't //begin// to cover it.
> 
> Christ, I'm tired. ...did I already say that?
> 
> Well, we all know how those Americans can be. No sense trying to change their minds. All the same, there's got to be some way to maintain our bottom line across the pond. I'm going to need all hands on deck to find a workaround.
> 
> And time is of the essence, for it might already be too late. I've heard whispers that these Foundation types might have some presence in the UK as well.
> 
> But something tells me we'll have to redouble our efforts in America before we can even think about our own protection. Over there, Wondertainment outlets are closing left and right. Half the assets we're sending them are going straight to escrow.
> 

------

> //April 24th//
> 
> Remember the overseas escrow account I was talking about? 
> 
> Somebody //lost// it.
> 
> 42.3 billion USD -- not stolen, not frittered away, just //lost.// Like fucking car keys. 
> 
> There are not enough gin and tonics on the planet for this.

------

> //April 25th// 
> 
> GOD FUCKING DAMN IT. EVERY METHOD OF TRACING MONEY HAS ELUDED US. I KNOW FOR A FACT THE ESCROW DIDN'T JUST "DISAPPEAR," LINDA!
> 
> Oh my god. Linda doesn't even work here anymore. Am I old enough to have a stroke?
> 
> If I don't find the escrow in the next week, I swear to God...

------

> //April 26th//
> 
> + WHERE IS THE //FUCKING// ESCROW?!

------

> //April 27th//
> 
> ...
> 
> I found the Escrow.
> 
> ...
> 
> It came to my windowsill.
> 
> [[=]]
> [[image escrow.png]]
> [[/=]]
> 
> Hell if I know how it could fly. How it could even breathe. There's no space for any organs, it's just fucking letters floating in midair. 
> 
> ...
> 
> It's still there.
> 
> Oh my God it's talking. I can't understand it for the life of me, but I swear it's the King's own English. Where the hell's my gun?!
> 
> I'm making some of the words out.
> 
> It says I've forgotten something. No. No, I haven't. What would you know?! You're not even a living thing! You're a bad typography joke! You wouldn't even make it as a bloody Family Guy cutaway gag! Go away! //GO AWAY!//
> 
> NO, I DO NOT KNOW WHY A RAVEN IS LIKE A --
> 
> ...
> 
> oh
> 
> oh, no
> 
> no
> 
> no, no again, no once more, and another no, more no to follow
> 
> what 
> 
> in
> 
> the name of 
> 
> the happy little name-having thing 
> 
> have i become
> 
> [[=]]
> [[image hatter.jpg]]
> [[/=]]

------

> --//April 28th//-- //dingledongletember or something 0th//
> 
> okay everybody i mean diary hello the silly me is back again please let this be the case.
> 
> found the rabbit hole. thank --god-- treacle that it's still there. i was half worried some idiot had filled it in. ...which would never happen because it's a very long way to fall down, so there was never any danger in the first place. unless there was. because that wouldn't make sense. which is good. 
> 
> which means i'm back to my old self again and it never left me and i get to fucking keep it in my safety deposit box
> 
> christ this isn't working
> 
> no
> 
> no i can't simply pretend i'm back
> 
> what will they even say
> 
> can i even go in
> 
> will it even fIT ME ANYMORE
> 
> ...
> 
> Okay, Mads. Wondertainment. Doc. Whatever I'm calling myself. Having another wobbly isn't going to fix anything.
> 
> Deep breath...
> 
> Maybe I'm not silly anymore. Maybe I'm not even serious.
> 
> Maybe I'm neither.
> 
> What if I'm a blend thereof? Or something else?
> 
> ...
> 
> That settles it.
> 
> I've brought Wonder to the Wonderless. Maybe this is only half the puzzle. Maybe if I hop down and do the reverse, I'll find the answers I've been looking for.
> 
> I'll blend both sides of the spectrum together. Come out with some secret third thing that's better than both. And maybe, just maybe, my curiosity will be satisfied.
> 
> ...
> 
> Curiouser and curiouser, innit?

[[include :scp-wiki:component:earthworm
| previous-url = https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/the-mad-three-parties
| previous-title = The Mad Three Parties
| next-url = https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/yourstrulyfirstunbirthdayball
| next-title = Yours Truly, The 1st Annual Unbirthday Ball
| hub-url = https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/the-sanest-king
| hub-title = The Sanest King Hub
]]

[[include :scp-wiki:component:license-box]]
> **Filename:** hatter.jpg
> **Author:** John Tenniel (1871)
> **License:** Public Domain
> **Source Link:** [https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Hatter.jpg Wikimedia Commons]

> **Filename:** escrow.png
> **Author:** [[*user daveyoufool]]
> **License:** CC BY-SA 3.0
> **Source Link:** [https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/wearerofmanyhats SCP Foundation Wiki]

[[include :scp-wiki:component:license-box-end]]
Wearer of Many Hats

Module Styles

Inline Styles

Includes

CSS Classes

Page Source
