The Old Round-About

My pal (since grade school!) and I like to frequent the neighborhood brewery. It's never too crowded, the beer is good, and the bartenders know our name (like Cheers!).

There's a crew of regulars there every Saturday we go, and if we don't know them by name, we secretly give them nick-names (you know, just like in grade school): Slim, The Geek Squad (always playing Dungeons and Dragons) and my personal favorite, Dahmer.

"Dahmer" is particularly scary. Every time he's there, he's sporting a skin tight t-shirt (with what looks like blood stains), is always by himself (probably because by the looks of it, he hasn't washed his hair in over a month), sits alone, muttering, looking at his reflection in the front mirror, undoubtedly looking for his next victim.

But the regular I want to talk about is a self-proclaimed witch who has been a thorn in Doug's side for some time. (We'll call her "Griselda" because if I used her real name, she might hex me). She lives on Doug's street and I quickly figured out they'd been going at it for a while.

One Saturday, she approached Doug and started bragging about how she was responsible for the new speed bump on their street. Of course Doug hates the speed bump, so they argued about it (as "frienemies")at great length.

Another time she called Doug "feral" and yelled at him to wear his damn motorcycle helmet. Once, while sitting at the bar, Doug pompously stated, "The kitchen is my wife's and the rest of the house is mine." Behind the bar (and I'm not sure why she's given privileges to get her own beer; maybe she has the employees under her thrall), Griselda turned around, shaking her head and said "There's SOOOO much wrong with everything you just said." (On this point I had to agree with the witch.)

But, by far, their biggest point of contention is the old roundabout. Everyone who lives on that street were asked if they would support a roundabout (which is ridiculously pointless and would do nothing but back cars up on their quiet, low-traffic, suburban street). Naturally Griselda was all for it. And just like their cat and dog relationship, Doug hated the idea and actually campaigned against it by telling all neighbors to just say "NO."

Flash forward to two Saturdays later...At the brewery Griselda approached Doug again and immediately they renewed the ol' roundabout argument. 

After 20 minutes, I'd had enough of their pointless bickering (like our two opposing political parties trying to change each others' minds).

Exhausted, I finally said, "Are you two STILL going around about about the roundabout?"

Relieved the witch started laughing, I heaved a sigh of relief. And as of now, I STILL haven't been turned into a frog.

Boys and girls, it's probably not a sound idea to piss off a witch.

While on the topic of witches, I'd be shamefully negligent if I didn't hype up my book trilogy, Tex, The Witch Boy. It's got everything: thrills, chills, spills,  mystery, suspense, bullying, witchcraft, romance, humor, horror, fried chicken, and the woes of high school. Get 'em here!

Happy Horrorween!

Hey gang! It's that time of the year! Kids will be getting sick from too much candy, eggs will be splattered, pumpkins destroyed, and I'll be cowering in the darkness while terrifying little varmints pound on my door demanding candy. Also, the Orangeatan in charge is edging us closer and closer to mass insanity and the end of the world.

So let's unlax with some great horror films. You're welcome!

Okay, here are the must not horror films I've seen in 2025 that need to be avoided at all costs: Megan 2 (I refuse to type the cutesy title). I liked the first one, but this second one is like a terrible episode of Westworld in its' last crummy season. The Conjuring: Last Rites? Sigh. Been there, done that. It's time to quit giving these debunked charlatans screen time. While the first Conjuring was great, they've milked the series for all its worth. And why in the world is it 2 hours and 15 minutes long? Don't even get me started on the awful Terrifier series. If gratuitous torture and gore is your bag, have at it. Him is kinda pointless and a bore. And I Know What You Did Last Summer is just a blatant money grab and an insult to fans of the first couple films in the series.

Whew.

Now to the good. By far, the best horror films of the year are Sinners, Weapons, Heretic, and Oddity. Even if you're not a horror film fan, all of these films are fantastic and possibly even classics. Only time will tell. (And after Heretic, I want to see Hugh Grant become the new Vincent Price and forget about all of those namby-pamby rom-coms).

Together was good, if ultimately goofy. Companion is an excellent sci-fi thriller, not really horror. And Bring Her Back is pretty good for the most part.

And I'd be remiss if I didn't mention Cobweb. Okay, sure, it's a 2023 film, but I stumbled across it and found it to be the scariest movie of the year. No idea why this hidden gem has eluded me nor why it didn't top peoples' best of the year lists, but watch it.

But finally, the movie I want to tell you about, the one that's not only my fave horror film of the year but maybe favorite film of 2025 is...(drum roll)...Good Boy.

I don't want to give any spoilers, but do you love dogs? Do you love horror films? Then whaddaya waiting for? It's the horror film tailor-made for you! And the lead actor deserves an Oscar (but I think he'd appreciate an Oscar Meyer wiener more. Such a good boy!).

Okay, got that out of my system. You've all got your homework and today is Halloween so you better get busy.

But while I'm thinking of Halloween and wieners, check out my horror (and sometimes dark humorous) book of short stories, Twisted Tales From Tornado Alley. There's a story called Halloweenie Roast that's perfect for the season. (And if you think I was kidding about cowering in fear at the "angelic" cherubs trick 'r treating at my door, you'd better read it NOW and thank me later.)

Highway Blowout!

Have you guys ever had a blowout on the highway? Now, I'm not talking about the kind where you suffer the after effects of eating Taco Bell, but rather the nerve-ratcheting, terrifying, car-shaking kind where a tire just blows.

Last weekend, I was zooming down the 8-laned highway to visit my daughter (usually just an hour's drive), bringing the car up to 70 mph. I was nearing the exit to a smaller highway, when my car starts shaking.

My first thought, of course, was "hmmm, we're having an earthquake." Then I thought, "wow, they really need to repave this stretch."

Soon enough, it became quite apparent that there was something wrong with my car. I think the people passing me, yelling, honking, and pointing at my tire was my first clue.

Okay, I know what you're supposed to do: pull over on the shoulder and change it (or call triple AAA). But there really wasn't a shoulder to speak of, no room to change it, and I didn't relish the idea of trying to change a tire with thousands of cars racing by me just inches away from my back.

So I did the next best thing: kept driving on it, attempting to make my exit that was within sight, just a quarter mile away. 

"C'mon," I muttered, "we can do it."

Everyone and their father (ESPECIALLY your fathers) will tell you that driving on a flat tire isn't the right solution because you'll ruin your wheel and perhaps do even more damage to the car. But I persisted.

The car rattled, shaking like a blender. Soon a constant thwapping sound seemed to be following me: thwap, thwap, thwap, thwap, thwap... Then...a very scary sizzling sound.

Something started to smell; something burning. Then the inevitable metal grinding into pavement sound came next. But here was my exit! So close, yet so far away.

People were shaking their heads, speeding by me, honking, using one-fingered salutes (you know, typical good citizens) while I had no recourse but to carry on, acting in my best oblivious Mister Magoo manner.

Finally...the exit!!! I felt like an idiot as I thwapped onto the exit and then had to wait at the light with a lot of cars in front and in back of me. My plan was just to fix the tire on the ramp (or just off of it) but then like a message from God, a sign beamed in the sunlight. "Discount Tire!" Huzzah! I figured, why not? It's only about a quarter mile away. Meanwhile people are still honking and pointing at my tire as I slowly ground my way toward my lucky break.

I thwapped my way into the Discount Tire parking lot. I just stopped the car, didn't bother with a parking spot. I raced into the store, hoping to get immediate relief, and...there was a line of about five people with tons more sitting around, clearly disgruntled.

When I finally got waited on, the clerk came out to take a look at my tire. And promptly laughed. "Wow," he said, "I can't believe you made it." The tire was nothing but tatters, the wheel resting on the tarmac. But the good news was he didn't think the wheel looked damaged and said I was lucky.

After waiting in the tire store for three hours, I didn't feel so lucky. But I resumed my journey. What normally took one hour took four hours.

Later, I was telling my daughter and her boyfriend of my harrowing experience. I felt validated when the boyfriend said, "Yeah, I would've done the same thing." 

So let this be a lesson to all of you. Your fathers were WRONG about driving on flat tires!

Speaking of making bone-headed decisions, have you guys read my Zach and Zora comical mystery series? Well, why not? Read about Zach, a very dumb but lovable male stripper, who does nothing but make bone-headed decisions which more often than not, makes him a murder suspect leading to his (usually) pregnant, sleuth sister to bail him out of trouble. Check 'em out here!

Suffering Side Effects!

Lately I've been plagued with extremely vivid dreams and nightmares. So realistic, I practically believe they're happening in the "real world (you know, the "real world" where "reality" shows provide a blueprint for the way young people behave.)" 

Now don't get me wrong. I'm a big fan of dreams, the nuttier the better. But most of these are nightmares, usually exploding in an orgy of sudden violence with me at the center of it. And they always feel real. 

So I asked my wife if this could be a side effect of the new drug I'd been prescribed, a weight loss tablet.

She researched it, and yes, that was one of the side effects.

I'm not fond of the diet pill in the first place. It's as big as a horse pill and when I began taking it, it'd get lodged in my throat and I'd end up hurling it back up again. I told my wife, "No wonder it's a weight loss drug." Eventually I got the hang of it, but dread when I have to go up to four throat blockers a day.

Anyway, I digress... I began wondering about the other side effects associated  with the drug. For instance, lately I've been urinating every two hours, just like clockwork. Again, I looked into side effects from the horse pill. Sure enough,  I'd found the culprit. J'Accuse!

Another fun "possible" side effect is the drug may cause seizures. Yow! So, let's get this straight...I may be on the floor having seizures, foaming at the mouth, and biting my tongue, but hey! I'll sure look nice and svelte while doing it!

Other side effects include constipation, nausea, headaches, dizziness, elevated blood pressure and severe allergic reactions. Oh, and it may cause suicidal thoughts.

By golly, this seems like the perfect drug for me! The only thing missing are further disclaimers warning of chronic laziness, internal bleeding, the desire to punch strangers in the neck, permanent resting bitch face, overnight changes into "Karen" behavior, and Trump Derangement Syndrome.

Basically, if anything is wrong with me health-wise, I'm blaming it on the weight-loss drug.

I'm reminded about a trip to the pharmacist some time ago when my doctor prescribed a drug for anxiety. Outside the pharmacist's window sat a huge guy who looked like George R. R. Martin, hat and all. 

He says to me, "I couldn't help but overhear about the drug you're asking for. I used to take it...until I realized IT'S DESIGNED TO TURN YOU INTO A LUNATIC!"

Looking at this guy screaming in the pharmacy, I thought that drug ship had long ago sailed.

But what do we expect when our top governmental health official has proclaimed Tylenol is evil and kids shouldn't get circumcised because it causes autism?

It's like you just can't trust drugs anymore. Let's Make Drugs Fun Again!

Speaking of side effects, poor Shawn Biltmore is experiencing the worst kind of side effect from a bite: lycanthropy. Read all the terror, horror, mystery, and dark humor of Shawn's tale in Corporate Wolf, the only (that I know about, natch) corporate satire about werewolves!

My College Roommate

Jerry on the left at my wedding

I had several college roommates. The first one looked like John Denver ("far out!"). Then there was Johnny Cook who eventually (secretly) quit going to classes to start working at a gas station. He'd leave dirty greasy fingerprints all over the walls and light fixtures.

But my favorite college roommate was Jerry who I'm still friends with, but rarely see (probably for good reason; the last time I invited him to go to a brewery, he nearly got thrown out for his usual "Jerryatrics."). But he was a good friend, my best friend in college.

There was a downside to palling around with Jerry, however. He was morbidly handsome. Everywhere we went, girls swooned over him. I never stood a chance. "You look like Mark Harmon," I heard all the time. Eventually I had to start hanging out with uglier guys to even the playing field.

But Jerry showed me the ropes at KU (i.e., the bars) as he had a prior year experience and we had many great times. So I tried to repay him in different ways. Once I gave him an old English paper of mine (I had got an "A") to which he copied word for word. Somehow the professor gave him a "D+." Weird. But Jerry being Jerry, he showed the professor my paper and demanded a regrade (apparently he wasn't worried about plagiarism). Eventually his dad got involved and all hell broke loose. I believe he flunked the course but stayed in school.

Another time, I came home for lunch and found Jerry panicking on another paper on a book he had read. I asked him what it was about and what he wanted to say about it. So I knocked it out for him over my lunch hour. This time he got a "B+". Not bad considering I'd not read the book.

Soon Jerry and I and our various comrades began taking spring break vacations to Florida and other notorious party spots. On one particular drunken night, the eight of us retired to our 12th floor room, bodies strewn everywhere. Jerry fell asleep out on the deck. When he awakened, he looked into the room and spotted me laying at a strange angle. Immediately he freaked out and thought someone had cut my head off. He started screaming at people down in the street to get help because someone cut my head off. Soon hotel security came with cops and another friend answered the door. They weren't happy. Mercifully, I retained my head and managed to sleep through the entire ordeal.

But the good times with Jerry outweighed the bad. And we were inseparable for years. Time and kids catch up to all of us as does the worst inevitable offender: adult responsibility.

Jerry Nowadays

As far as roommates went, Jerry was the best and I could definitely have done worse. Take my poor suffering brother, for instance. His first roommate at K-State was a guy with the unfortunate moniker of Spencer Pickle. They had stacked their beds bunk-bed style and Spencer kept my brother awake every night by shaking the bed while pursuing..um...self-pleasure. He'd yell "Spencer, cut it out!" Spencer did but would inevitably start whittling on his bed post. My bro had to go sleep in the break room on more than one occasion. Then there's my nephew. He got stuck with a crazy guy who doesn't talk, is rarely spotted, and goes to his room and cries out strange noises.

Nope, I was lucky to be roomed up with Jerry.

Speaking of Jerry, I co-opted his tragedy from high school for my book Tex, the Witch Boy. The character that's based on Jerry was run over in the school parking lot intentionally by a bully. Several of his fingers became detached and he had to have his hand wired up in the air for a long time, thus fooling many teachers into believing he was asking a question. All of this and more is detailed in my book, Tex the Witch Boy available here!

The Ultimate Mom Jeans

By now, everyone's witnessed "Mom Jeans." Whether on Saturday Night Live's commercial parody for mom jeans or various moms sporting them, or Heaven forbid, even your own mother (and maybe even wife).

For those very few of the uninformed amongst you regarding this nightmarish fad, mom jeans are high-waisted denim jeans that were once considered fashionable in the late 80's and early 90's. Many people (usually under 40) see them as frumpy, unflattering and outdated.

And I'm hear to tell you the ultimate mom jeans horror story.

About twenty years ago or so, my mom started wearing jeans. She had never worn them before, had no interest in them. She was the June Cleaver type who fancied sensible dresses and later, slacks (along with tons of makeup and lots of caustic hairspray that used to set tears to my eyes).

So one day, out of the blue, she suddenly started wearing jeans. They never fit her very well, rose high up over her navel (the way my dad had liked his pants) and were unflattering in the extreme. 

I took a closer look. They were designer jeans. Then all of my worst fears collided in a kaleidoscope of terror.

"Mom," I gulped, "are those...are those...my jeans?"

She laughed (something I didn't feel like doing) and said, "Yes. How do you like them?" She twirled as if on the runway showing off a fashionable gown.

"Um...why are you wearing my jeans?" My voice sounded like I had a mouthful of pudding.

"Well, Stuart, they were here. And they fit." Again she gave an impish smile.

I didn't feel like raining on her extremely frugal parade by telling her decidedly no, they do not fit, not one bit. I tried to shrug it off as impossible a task as that was.

Now, I don't know if any of you have had similar situations, but I would imagine not. The feelings I experienced were odd: it was sort of humilating and emasculating in a weird sense. Here was my mom showing off her new-found (and extremely cheap) jeans as I sat there in horror realizing they were the same already outdated designer jeans I wore in college. The same ones that I had dated in (amongst other activities) many times. I don't know if my sudden avalanche of gut-churning anxiety came from the fact that my old jeans fit (more of less) my mom or the fact THAT MY MOM WAS WEARING MY JEANS. Either way, I feel it would give today's MAGA gender-label-fearing folks a fright.

Brrrrr.

I had long forgotten about this nightmare until last weekend when I was out with my brother and his daughters. Suddenly it came back to me like a paparazzi's lightbulb flash.

"Hey...did you know Mom used to wear my jeans?" I suddenly lobbed out there like a grenade. We were drinking beer so I thought everyone might get a kick out of it.

I was right. Too right. My brother freaked, told the girls (who weren't listening at the time) and laughed and laughed.

He said, "I always wondered where they came from and they never fit very well."

So. Youngsters, heed my advice: when you move out of your parents' house, take your old jeans with you and destroy them at the first possible moment. This is crucial to your future mental well-being.

Now that I have your attention about all things ridiculous, I may as well pimp out my most ridiculous books, the Zach and Zora comical mystery series. Start with book #1, Bad Day in a Banana Hammock and proceed (with caution) from there. If ludicrous situations, bizarre characters, comical hijinks, and murder mysteries are your bag, join the cool kids and buy 'em here.

The Ultimate Insult

A while back, I had a very restless, insomnia-filled night (that's not the unusual part of this true, traumatic tale). When I finally bumbled out of bed, I had only logged about three hours of sleep. So I was in a bad mood.

"I didn't sleep last night," I grumbled by way of saying "good morning" to my wife. "I feel like ca-ca poo-poo."

"Good morning to you, dear."

"What's good about it?" I snapped. "Where's the granola? WHY don't we have any granola? And where did you put it this time?"

"I didn't put it anywhere. If we have any, it's in the carb cabinet where it always is."

"And why are there so many damn packages in the foyer? It's like an Amazon warehouse! I can't even move!"

"Stuart," my wife replied calmly, "stop it. You're acting like our president."

Wow. That one took me aback. The ultimate insult, worse than anything I could imagine. Throwing tantrums worse than our wonderful president? Unthinkable. And it hurt. Badly. But the truth often does.

After thinking about it a while, I realized she was right and I was slinging my grumpiness at her. Caught in the crosshairs of my ire, we'll call it "friendly fire."

"I'm sorry," I said. "I'm tired and I didn't mean to take it out on you."

But while walking away, I grumbled, "But my tantrums weren't nearly as bad as Trump's."

While thinking of men behaving badly, my book Secret Society immediately came to mind. We have more serial killers running around than clowns coming out of a clown car. And wait until you meet the bad guys! Check out all the fun, thrills, suspense, mystery, and very dark humor in Secret Society, available here.