There are some things that I will never understand, supposing I live to be 100, and I suspect that this may be the case with you, as well.

One is how a bunch of wire coat hangers left hanging in an orderly, untangled fashion in a closet can, once you turn your back, morph into a hopelessly intertwined snarl of metal from which it is impossible to select a single hanger without causing its associates to clatter defiantly to the floor.

Another is how an electrical extension cord, coiled smartly on a shelf or draped from a hook in storage, will invariably tie itself into multiple complex knots the minute a guy attempts to unfurl and make use of the damn thing.

If ever I have managed to extract a wire coat hanger from a bunch of its clinging contemporaries without wreaking havoc in the coat closet – usually when I am trying to sneak out of some lame public gathering, unnoticed – the occasion does not immediately spring to mind.

As well, the complicated configurations that an electrical cord can tie itself into when I try to put it into play cannot be found in any Boy Scout knot-tying manual. We’re talking more combination sheepshank/hangman’s noose here than simple half-hitch or square knot. More super-deluxe surgeon’s knot with carrick bend tendencies than basic unadorned bowline.

There are other mysteries in life that also defy logic, many of which involve the gullibility of the human animal. Exhibit A concerns the radio ad that airs every so often beseeching listeners to part with a not-insignificant portion of their money to have a star in the galaxy named after them.

It beats me why anyone would choose this route to acquire a piece of a galactic rock, since all a guy would have to do to accomplish the same end is step out into his back yard on a starlit night, point to a shining orb that catches his fancy, thump his chest and shout triumphantly into the void, “I hereby name you Old Dawg Star and claim you for my own, henceforth and forever more. Cosmic travelers be forewarned: Trespassers will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law…”

Would one own any less a piece of the Milky Way or have any less pride of ownership if he did the job himself rather than pay some faceless slick-talking dude big bucks to promise to do it for him?

But I’ve plowed that ground before. Ditto, with those equally laughable Nigerian scam letters that pollute the Internet to troll for greedy suckers eager to share their life savings with some allegedly deposed member of royalty in Lagos. Help me spirit my family’s fortune out of the country before the bad guys get wind of things and lop off my head, and I’ll split a king’s ransom with you, the e-mailer promises. Just send me your bank account number and I’ll handle the details.

The newspaper carries plenty of items that baffle, as well: An article about a Midwest newspaper apologizing to readers for referring to the town’s official Christmas tree as a “Christmas tree,” of all things, rather than as a more politically correct “community tree.”

A photo of congressional bigwigs participating in the Capitol Hill lighting of what appears to be a well-decorated Christmas tree but which the caption informs readers is, in fact, a “holiday tree.” The season for such American Civil Liberties Union-inspired nonsense is upon us.

The week’s pick of the litter, though, may be an Associated Press story telling of a St. Louis candy maker who markets his tony chocolates with the slogan, “treat yourself to good health,” and a straight-faced claim that the bite-sized candies contain ingredients “linked to improved cardiovascular health, lowered risk for certain types of cancer, a reduction in body weight and a slowing of the aging process…”

A spokeswoman for a Washington-based consumers group said the outlandish claim amounts to trickery in trying to get customers believing that the chocolates are the answer to their health problems.

Perhaps. But, to me, the real trick would seem to be finding anyone numb enough to cough up $15.95, plus sales tax, for a package that contains just seven tiny chocolates. Here in Maine that would come to $2.39 per each. Granted, that’s not as much as a gallon of heating oil costs, even after the old-fogy discount has been figured in. But in his defense, the oil man has never claimed that a dose of his high-end fuel will lower your cholesterol as quickly as it will your bank account.

NEWS columnist Kent Ward lives in Winterport. His e-mail address is olddawg@bangordailynews.net