My old dictionary has a great sentence to illustrate this, from a 1905 book by one Hugh McHugh called You Can Search Me: "The waiter had crowded the sizz-water into the wood alcohol."
Here's a nifty list of 85 Weird Tale-tellers. I like this list. Most of these are people whose work (music, movies, books, whatever) I sincerely dig. A few are so-so. But, hey, it's a list. That's what lists are for.
Here's the story from today's New York Times about these recent incidents. Of course, there's a reference to the most famous case of this in recent years.
This reminds me of my favorite episode of Leave It To Beaver, the one where he writes the fake diary because his real life is too boring and depressing.
Why don't people just start writing, I dunno, fiction?