The Spirit of Selling

The holiday season has dropped on us like a piano out of a fourth story building. And what better way to celebrate than showing our thanks for the true heroes of the holiday season: the sales clerks.

Especially the mean, cranky and just downright weird ones.

Why I remember like it was only yesterday...

When I worked in North Kansas City, I would spend my lunch hour in downtown, shopping for the holidays. At a CVS drugstore (hey, I was broke that Christmas!), I spotted my nemesis: the rude, mean old woman clerk with an indecipherable accent from the Slavic regions or wherever. Having had very unpleasant experiences with her in the past, I decided to bypass her checkout lane and opt to stand in line behind a bunch of other shoppers at the next lane (I'm betting they, too, had similar horrible experiences with Ms. Krampus).

But, alas, she spotted me. And yelled at me as usual. "Hey! Hey, chubs! Come on over!. Nobody waiting. What're you, dumb or something?" That may or may not be what she was screaming, hard to tell with her accent, but it was too late...she'd ensnared me into her checkout line.

Immediately, she started in on the abuse. "C'mon, c'mon, I ain't got all day! Get that stuff up here. Let's go!" (Actually, it looked to me like she DID have all day since smarter shoppers than I avoided her like the plague.)

Fast as I could, I unloaded my cart. But apparently it wasn't quick enough for her. "Quit yer dawdlin'! Buy the gum or don't, I don't give the damn!"

I tried to make a little small talk, hoping to charm her with an irresistible grin, but instead I probably looked like I had to go to the bathroom.

I said nothing and hauled ass out of there. She didn't even earn a "thank you" from me, not that she ever offered one. I wondered how she still had a job. Perhaps the stress of the holidays was getting to her, but then I remembered that she was like that the year round.

To get back in the holiday spirit, I went down the street to the post office. And waited. And waited...

All during the time I inched closer, I kept my eye on my other holiday nemesis: the Oliver Hardy lookalike postal employee. But that's where any resemblance to Hardy ended. Always grumpy, always yelling, always rude, I hoped to get any clerk but him. (When I got back to work, one of my peers told me he hated the "big fat mean postal worker" so I took solace in knowing that I was not alone.)

"Next," he bellowed, looking at me. "C'mon, c'mon, you want a mailed invitation?"

Like a dog with its' tail between its' legs (or Oliver asking for more porridge), I scooted up to his nook. "Ah...um...I need to mail this package. And hope it gets there for Christmas."

He grabs the box I'd taped up, looks at all six sides, then says, "This is unmailable! You've got an old address on here!"

"Oh, well it's an old box. I'm reusing it. You know...heh...keeping it green," I said and began to work at peeling the old label off. 

Then he said, "You're just not gonna help me at all, are you?"

Although, it seemed to me like I was doing his work for him.

Our hellish transaction completed, I got outta there fast.

The next day was time for me to take my mom shopping (which I've written about before...extensively). During the Christmas season, it's extra joyous. But I tried to work up that old holiday joy that yesterday's two clerks did their best to sour.

Everything went well (ish) until we reached the checkout line in the grocery store. This short, potato-looking woman stared at us, sizing the two of us up. In another nearly unintelligible accent from a country unknown, she asked my mom, "Is zere anyzing else to help with?"

My mom, frugal as ever, said, "Say, didn't you offer some program for every dollar I spend?"

Oh boy, I thought. We're gonna be here all day.

"Yezzz! If you spend zo much money, you collect points and trade zem in for free plastic ware."

They went back and forth for a while, my mom not understanding the process (or the clerk's accent) and the potato clerk unable to explain the program in a clear and concise manner.

Finally, I intervened. "Mom, the more money you spend, the more points you get, and say if you hit 500 points, then you can get some plastic container for food."

"Well," said mom. "How do they know how much I spent? I've already spent a lot of money here. Does that count? Or is it highway robbery?"

Like a magician, the woman displayed a small pamphlet from seemingly out of nowhere. "Here, take zis. It explainz everyzing."

At my wit's end, I reached for it. Suddenly the clerk yanked it away from me. I lunged in again. This time she hid it behind her back like a schoolyard bully keeping the ball away from me.

"No," she screamed, "I zaid I'd give it to her. Not you!" She pushed it into my mom's hand. "Here."

Trying not to blow a gasket, I said, "She can't hear very well. And she won't be able to read it. She's has macular degeneration." 

"Iz she really?" The ultimate insult. Like I'm trying to steal some lousy gold-plated plastic ware pamphlet from my mother by lying about her condition. Ms. Potato studied my mom who was now holding the pamphlet one inch in front of her face and upside down, perfectly illustrating my point. 

Disgusted, I took the pamphlet of immeasurable pleasures from mom and tried not to throw a hissy-fit; a hissy-fit the likes that the grocery store has never seen before. I considered asking for the manager, but hey, it was Christmas. And I wanted to get out of there.

I dunno, gang. Does this kinda stuff happen to you during the holidays?

Or is it just me? I think it's me. It's gotta be me...

Happy holidays, everyone!

On the other hand, if you'd rather celebrate your "horrordays" in a different manner, check out all of the Grinning Skull "Deathlehem" Christmas short story collections. A perfect counter-balance to all of the Hallmark movies and cherub-faced tykes and impossibly happy carolers and endless, cutesy Christmas songs that are impossible to escape. I'm particularly fond of The Shadow Over Deathlehem (because I have a story in it), available here! Also, all of these story collections' profits go to benefit the Elizabeth Glazer Pediatric AIDS Foundation.

Cooking the Oven

You know how people say "when it rains, it pours" in reference to a streak of bad luck?  I think that is perfectly appropriate for us during the last couple weeks. Except "when it smokes, there's fire" would be even more accurate.

My wife calls it an "exciting" day. I think "horrendous" would be more apt.

A couple days ago, my wife was baking cookies for an event at her place of work. Suddenly (calmly) she says, "Oh, great...the oven's on fire." While she's taking it in stride, just another day in the kitchen, I've already hit the "panic button," ready to call 911, the fire department, the armed guard, whoever. 

My wife takes the handy-dandy kitchen fire extinguisher to it, but that didn't put it out as it was an electrical fire (the so-called "electrical element" or some such gizmo was the culprit). So my wife runs down to the basement and shuts off the power to the range.

(All of which goes to show everyone that in the case of a zombie apocalypse, my wife should be the one to take charge. But I digress...)

I said, "ahhh...aren't you supposed to cook what's inside the oven and not the oven itself?"

"Oh, shut up."

For a while, we were both stumped on how to handle such a situation. 

"Um...who do we call to fix it? Is it fixable?" I asked.

"I don't know," replied my wife, "I've never had this happen before."

In the meantime, my wife starts pulling out various pots and pans. "Here," she said, "you're going to have to improvise while you cook."

I looked at the strange proffered cooking gadgets, wondering what the hell she was on about.

"You can grill food in the small grill and nuke the rest of it." 

Needless to say, dinner was a very interesting  (and not very successful) mess that night.

The next day, my wife comes home from work and says, "I bought an oven. It'll be here tomorrow." (I guess my meal was THAT bad.)

No moss on her, I thought great, problem solved, now I can get back to cooking the way God intended us to cook.

Except it opened the door on a ton of new problems. When the delivery men finally dropped it off (on the coldest day of the year, natch), I stared at the cockamamie device, wondering what sort of strange, robotic machine has my wife unleashed?

Where's the buttons? The knobs? How do you turn the damn thing on? Timer? WHAT timer??? Calgon, take me away!!! ARGHHH!

Apparently, my wife hadn't realized she had bought a "smart" oven. And clearly it had outsmarted me in every way. It didn't help that in this day and age of "keeping it green," there was no damn manual.

As I write this warning of robotics gone amok, we've only had the oven for a couple of days and I'm still trying to figure out the basics (and creating imaginative strings of curse words in the process). 

Give me a "dumb" oven any day. 

While I've got "dumb" on my brain, I'd be remiss if I didn't pimp my Zach and Zora comical murder mystery series. Hands down, one of the protagonists is the dumbest character you'll ever read in a book, satisfaction guaranteed! (Thank God, Zach's detective sister, Zora, is along for the crazy ride to offset Zach's dumbosity.) Start at the beginning with Bad Day in a Banana Hammock and continue from there. All the books will be on the test.

Drunk Raccoon!

You've all heard of the film Cocaine Bear, right? (If you haven't, you're missing out on a very funny and creative flick). Well, move over, Cocaine Bear! There's a new impaired mammal in town...It's Drunk Raccoon (aka Trashed Panda)!

Two weeks ago, during the Thanksgiving weekend, a raccoon found itself up in the rafters of a liquor store. It fell through the ceiling tile and into the store, whereupon it decided to trash everything in sight and in the process, trashing itself. My kinda guy!

But I wonder what led up to this liquor store siege...

Did the Drunk Raccoon wake up one morning and  declare, "Eureka! By jove, I've got it! Today I shall trash the local liquor store!"

Is it a warning to humanity to take care of the earth and the other inhabitants upon it? Lest we be overrun by millions of drunk raccoons, worse than any Planet of the Apes movie you could ever imagine, enacting revenge for our careless destruction of our planet?

Or did Drunk Raccoon do it on a dare?

"I'm bored, Hank."

"Me too. Nothing to do but scavenge around in old trash cans, Chuck."

"Hmmm... I just got an idea! You see that store down there? The one where the hairless apes always go into?"

"Yeah?"

"Hank, I'll give you a day's worth of nuts and berries if you go down there and bust up the joint! C'mon! What do you got to lose? It's early morning, no people in sight, and you're already wearing a mask to keep your identity a secret!"

Silence. Interminable silence while Chuck's cognitive wheels turned. "You got yourself a deal, Hank!"

Either way, I'm still left wondering why Drunk Raccoon would decide to throw all of the bottles around and breaking everything in sight. Perhaps he "pre-gamed" with some booze before the mammalian act of destruction. Or he just panicked and went on a rampage. Whatever the case may be, Drunk Raccoon lived up to his moniker and got absolutely hammered by mixing all kinds of booze (deadly for us weak humans!).

When the store opened that morning, the first employee at the scene of the crime found Drunk Raccoon sprawled out on his belly, passed out in the bathroom (I don't think he made it to the porcelain shrine.).

Happy endings abound! Animal Control scooped him up and took him to a shelter where he sobered up and was then released into the wild. And Drunk Raccoon had quite a story to tell his grandkids.

But Drunk Raccoon's notoriety didn't end there. The liquor store created three new drinks in his honor: the Rye Rascal Sour, Midnight Masked Gin Fizz, and of course, Trash Panda Old Fashioned. Something for the entire family!

Even better, over $156,000 was raised for the Hanover County Animal Protection & Shelter by selling Drunk Panda merchandise! So put a smile on your grandchild's face this year and get him that Trashed Panda hoodie he can proudly wear in his classroom!

Well, by cracky, while we're thinking about destructive, furry creatures of the night, you may as well go over to Amazon and check out my book, Corporate Wolf. It's the satirical, darkly humorous, werewolf horror thriller that you know, you want but have been too embarrassed to admit it! Find it here!

The Great Thanksgiving Dog Search Party of 2025

Ah yes...The Great Thanksgiving Dog Search Party of 2025! I remember it like it was last week. (Well, since it was last week, I'd be in trouble if I couldn't remember it...)

There was a Fall nip in the air, a taste of the biting bitter coldness of Winter to come; leaves of gold, yellow, and brown still stood knee-high in our yard (much to the chagrin of our neighbors); and our house was filled with a multitude of delectable odors as my wife kept kicking me out of our tiny kitchen. It could only mean it was Thanksgiving.

These days, most of us have extended families, which means family members work around schedules, trying to accommodate everyone. So the first of several of our Thanksgivings was to take place on Tuesday, the 25th. My wife came up with a great idea to relieve family of the typical Thanksgiving spread: she sent out a survey asking everyone what their two fave foods were. This resulted in lasagna sitting next to fried chicken, deviled eggs coinciding peacefully with angel food cake, barbeque meat vying for room against the mashed taters, etc. (Diet, what diet? We're STILL working on leftovers.)

On Monday, my brother and sister-in-laws traveled up from Oklahoma City with their two Labrador mixes riding comfortably in the back of their van. Monday night we all gathered at our house, talking about a multitude of things including how we all agreed that in movies, people in jeopardy was no big thing; but put a dog in peril and we're all emotionally invested.  DUM-Dum-Duhhhhhhh....(oooh, real-life foreshadowing!).

Tuesday morning, our family members were to leave their dog-friendly air B&B (just blocks away from us) and join us for brunch. Then we got the text from my brother-in-law: We'll be over as soon as I find Chuck and Tilly because they escaped out of the yard.

Chuck, the naughty agent provocateur who led his sister astray.

Knowing the neighborhood better than my out-of-town bro-in-law, I joined the search, my mother-in-law riding shotgun. Up and down the mean streets of suburban Kansas we crawled (pissing off cars behind us), looking for two missing Labs. Being a nice day, there were tons of people out walking, predominantly dog-walkers. Everyone was very polite, but the dog-walkers really jumped to attention. Several times, it was suggested that we look on the local neighbors Facebook page. I attempted to get on, but was stymied by questions and a waiting period while the powers-that-be determined if I was worthy of joining.

By this time, my wife put cooking on hold and joined the search party, so there were four of us out looking, while my sister-in-law acted as the hub headquarters, calling local shelters and vets. Several times we realized we were duplicating efforts as people would say, "oh yeah, we just talked to someone else about your dogs." And every time they said they'd keep an eye out.

But then it dawned on us: how would they get in contact with us? So, my mother-in-law searched for paper, anything she could find in the car, and began tearing off bits and writing phone numbers, dog names, etc. to hand out to people. Sometimes the recipients looked at the proffered piece of napkin or cardboard box with hesitation, but most accepted it willingly.

My mother-in-law (probably the friendliest person in America) was given the task of jumping out and approaching people at parks to tell our story (I figured people would be less afraid of her than me). She made many, many friends along the way, explaining our situation (probably more details than necessary) as I grew more stressed; I could feel time ticking away like a countdown to a bomb. Tensions were high as we continued the search.

Finally, one woman walking two dogs, suggested we get on the neighborhood Facebook page again. I told her we couldn't and she said, "hold on" and checked her phone for us. Seconds later, she said, "Are these your dogs?" 

Now, neither mom-in-law nor I were familiar enough with the dogs to make a definitive identification so we discussed dog colorings, ears and appearance in the car while the good Samaritan kept holding her phone toward us.

Finally, my mother-in-law said, "That's them!" Feeling triumphant, we had a high-five moment while the woman attempted to contact the person who had captured the dogs. The person wasn't immediately responding, but it was just a matter of waiting . Fully confident, I contacted family members and told them "we found your dogs!"

Then the good Samaritan flagged us down again. "Sorry," she said, "I didn't read the full post. It's just one of your dogs. The person who caught one, almost caught the other...but she escaped."

Disheartened, I called back the relatives and told them the semi-bad news.

The search continued. Meanwhile the person who had Chuck contacted my bro-in-law and he went to retrieve him. One down, one to go.

Briefly I came home, got on the computer, and tried to get on the Facebook page. I took the survey and waited. Then Mom and I went out again, this time broadening our search area. On occasion, we'd cross paths with someone else in our search party, and go the opposite direction. Mom was asking everyone in sight, handing out our little information napkins, cardboard, whatever.

Taking a quick break for lunch, refueling, we gobbled and went back on the hunt again. Somewhere along the way, I traded out my mom-in-law for brother-in-law, where we were finally able to compare crucial information. Chuck had been nabbed at a local Starbucks, so that gave us a bit further circumference to search.

As I had grown up in the neighborhood, I started having flashbacks as to when my dogs ran away. One came home of his own volition: we just heard him enter the open garage and begin to eat his dinner. Another we found down in a ritzy golf course romping with another dog. Finally, the third didn't have such a happy ending: he had been hit by a car on the extremely busy (pseudo highway) Shawnee Mission Parkway. Which was right next to the Starbucks where Tilly had last been spotted. (Gulp!)

We kept driving around at a snail's pace, my bro-in-law occasionally yelling "Tilly" out the window and stopping every person who didn't look like a serial killer. I took a quick break and went home to check my neighborhood Facebook page status. I was in! I wrote a veritable novel about Tilly and her peoples' situation (TOO much info, I'm sure) and let the magic of Facebook do it's job. We got over 600 responses! Alas, they were all of the "sad face emoji" or prayers or good luck variety. Tilly had not been found.

Meanwhile, an hour away (and while at work), my daughter joined the search by calling every shelter and animal control in surrounding counties. Eventually, my nephew joined as well. I haven't seen this big a city wide "manhunt" since...well...ever.

At 5:30 or so, we decided it was futile to continually drive around, our thoughts being that someone had picked her up and hadn't reported her yet. (OR...someone decided to keep her.) But we were exhausted, out of ideas, and we had the entire Kansas City metro area on red hot alert (some of the people we talked to, were getting kind of sick of our double-alerting).

Meanwhile, bolstered by the power of social media, I put the same sob story on about eight sites (some of them questionable; one was like "Dog, The  Bounty Hunter {although it should probably be "Man, The Dog Hunter}," consisting of a couple of guys who would suit up and go all gung-ho when there was a dog sighting). 

Okay...truthfully I couldn't believe the outpouring of support we were receiving. One woman graciously went out and searched for the dogs on her own before enlisting her daughter in the cause, too. I sincerely hadn't seen or felt a sense of community like this since eleven years ago when an orange idiot decided to irrevocably divide our country and erode our democracy. It restored my faith in humanity...everyone uniting over a missing dog (kinda ironic, yes?).

But still no word on Tilly.

At 2:30 in the morning I couldn't sleep, visions of the worst case scenarios running through my head. I got on the computer, searching police reports and the websites for any news.

The next day was pretty grim, but we did our best to soldier through our early Thanksgiving over food and games. Still, Tilly's shadow loomed over us. Time and time again, I'd anthropomorphize (an annoying habit of mine, just ask my wife) Tilly's thoughts: I'm all alone, cold, have no idea where the hell I am, how dare my people do this to me!

Begrudgingly, Tilly's people left (minus Tilly) on their 4-1/2 hour trip home.

I'd pretty much given up all hope at this point.

Then at 5:45, my bro-in-law calls:

"Paul," I said, "what's up?"

"Tilly's been found."

Blink. Think. Clear out cobwebs. Blink again. "What?"

"She's at the Fairway Animal Hospital."

My mind skyrocketed over the Kansas City area with amazement. "Okay, is she hurt? How'd she get there? Wait! What time do they close? I'm sure they're not open on Thanksgiving! Crap! I gotta go! I'll send pics!"

On my way to the door, I grabbed my nephew (because Tilly knows him best), and my wife decided to drive. A race against time, we sped through our local neighborhoods (I'm sure a cop would escort us if he knew it was all about a dog, dogs being the great uniter and all), ignored speed-bumps, and bounced our way to the hospital with seconds to spare.

"There she is," said my nephew as we walked along the large front window. Tilly was surrounded by two doting employees and another couple.

"Hi Tilly! Where have you BEEN?" All of us were so relieved and happy to see her that all seemed forgiven. (But she'd better not ever do it again!)

The young couple standing nearby were introduced as the people who brought her in. After slobbering all over them, we got the skinny: Tilly was found in Fairway (which we'd all driven through numerous times) hunkered down behind this couples' air conditioner unit. Their other dogs were going nuts, barking up a storm, and they discovered Tilly, scared and nervous. Her tags were missing, but they took her to the hospital where they scanned her embedded chip and contacted Tilly's owner.

Everything was right with the world! Huzzah! Tilly's people were overjoyed to see video and photos and the next day, my mom-in-law would take Tilly back to Oklahoma to reunite with "mom and dad."

REUNITED! (And it feeeeeels so good...)

I got on all my websites and updated my story that Tilly had been found, so everyone could call off the (*ahem*) dogs.

In a fascinating coda to the tale (tail?), a woman responded: "That nice couple who found Tilly is my daughter and her husband. Ever since she graduated from college, she's saved numerous dogs. A while back, they had found another runaway dog in the exact same spot where Tilly was found. Dogs must feel something so strong that they know they'll be safe with my daughter and attracted to her house."

Wow. Cue the Twilight Zone theme...

Anyway, happy ending, normal is good, and I could finally relax. Whew. Then I started to wonder: maybe we could fix our country if we got Trump a dog. Just sayin'...

Okay, I'm gonna take this opportunity to pimp my book Secret Society (the first in the Killers Incorporated trilogy). Yeah, sure, it's a darkly comic thriller series about a secret cabal of serial killers working for an  evil nationwide conglomerate, bla, bla, bla. But a dog plays a crucial part in the story, humanizing (I hope!) one of the killers. (And don't worry, the dog has a happy ending.) Check it out here.

Highway Robbery!

Recently, our carpet shampooer broke. Kinda. All I know is that one of the bottom rollers got "jiggy-wanked." Or something. (Okay so I've never been the most technical guy.) Either way, the roller went rogue and had fallen off the pole.

I thought, "no problem, I'll just slip it back on." But no matter how much pressure I applied, I couldn't "thread the needle." 

So it was time to find someone who could.

Immediately, I ruled out "Mr. Fixit" for a couple reasons: A) All he ever did was clean our appliances and never actually fixed them; and B) I sorta got uncomfortable when the office guy of Mr. Fixit kept flirting with me.

The place where we took our vacuum last time was definitely off the table. First, the old guy with the impenetrable accent told me that he'd rather give me a good deal on a new vacuum than fix it. He claimed it would cost about the same. (I was sold, but my wife definitely was not.) After haggling with him about fixing it, he lost the vacuum for a couple weeks. When he FINALLY found it, it was missing all of the attachments. So much for that guy. No wonder his shop shut down.

So, with the help of my research assistant, Ms. Google, I found some small mom and pop shop that I was willing to gamble on. (And it turns out that it wasn't such a small shop after all; they had about six locations throughout the greater Kansas City metro area. In fact, later on I discovered that the con man who'd closed shop was one of their affiliates.)

Anyway, I hauled our shampooer into this small, cramped little store hidden away in an old fashioned strip mall. Old and new vacuums filled every inch of the place. When a little old man begrudgingly turned away from his TV, I thought I'd made a very big mistake.

"Help you?" he asked, deciding to conserve every word he could since it seemed like such a chore to speak. 

"Um...yeah...my shampooer is...sick." Immediately, I felt out of sorts, barely dodging the dangling vacuums hanging around me like beef carcasses on hooks.

Suddenly from behind a beaded curtain, a thin, old, ball-capped man came out. Wearing overalls (are those still a thing?) and thick glasses which magnified his beady eyes, he opened his mouth, not really in a smile or a snarl, and flashed green teeth at me. "What's wrong with it?" My Texas Vacuum Massacre vibe intensified.

After finding a few feet of empty space in the store, he dropped down bringing the cleaner with him. He asked the first old guy for a Philips screwdriver, fiddled around a bit, then told me, "your problem was a belt done come off."

He stood up, clapped his hands and said, "there ya go!"

I said, "Wow! It's fixed?"

"Ayup."

I reached for my wallet and said, "what do I owe you?"

Completely stymied, he juggled his hands as if weighing the price. With a shrug, he blurted out, "Ten bucks?"

My jaw dropped. In shock, I shouted, "What? That's highway robbery!"

The anger between the two guys was nearly palpable as they stared at one another, wondering how they'd dispatch of my corpse.

Before they did, I let them off the hook with a shaky grin. "Oh...I meant...it's a rip-off for you guys. I'm not paying you anything below twenty bucks!"

As the tension left the room, so did "Mr. Green Jeans and Teeth." Original old guy number one said, "He's rarely in here. You got lucky."

Quickly, I skedaddled and did indeed consider my self lucky. Lucky to leave with my life intact. (Truth be told, though, they've got my future business. I just need to make sure to bring back-up.)

While I have murderous, backwoods old guys on my mind, check out my horror thriller, Godland. It features two of my creepiest villains ever (I think), and to tell you anything else about the plot would be doing the potential reader a bad (or it's a shameless ploy to get you to read the book). Whatever the case, you can check it out here.

The Secret Message of Dogs

Recently, we've encountered a problem.

Up until about a couple of months ago, our dogs--both of them--were house-broken and potty-trained. But for whatever reason, they've now decided to be defiant and go rogue. And go all over the carpet.

Extremely aggravating doesn't even begin to cut it. I mean, poop is gross enough, but relatively easy to clean. Not pee, especially on carpet. We're constantly battling it with enzymes, cleaner, and shampooing the carpet is pretty much an every other day thing now. And STILL they insist on bucking authority.

It's not like they have it rough. They have a full fenced-in backyard where they can go nuts any time they like to. But our bigger dog doesn't even want to go outside any longer. Most mornings when I'm the first one out of bed, I have to pick Bijou up and toss her outside (and I'm sure the neighbors enjoy watching my new Olympic event: dog-throwing in underwear).

Here's what's most frustrating: both of the dogs know what they're doing is wrong. How do I know this? Because they try and hide it from us. First of all, it's nearly impossible to catch them in the act, sneaky lil' varmints that they are. But the real damning evidence is that they try to hide it from us by secretly going  behind my living room chair or beneath the table where nobody usually thinks to look.

More than one person has told me they're trying to tell me something. Which isn't helpful. But on those insomnia-stricken nights, in the wee hours of the morning, I've given their would-be "message" a lot of thought. And there's only one obvious conclusion: dogs everywhere are secretly plotting to overthrow humanity.

Their sneaky side-eye glances to one another haven't gone unnoticed. And when I enter a room, they break apart suddenly from their deep, secret communication.

You don't have to be a brain surgeon to figure out one of their typical conversations (to illustrate the brutal, troublesome truth, I've chosen to reenact a sample dialogue using their dog names)...

"Say, Rowf-Ruff-Grrrrr-Umph-Barkity-Bark, when do you think we'll institute our secret plan to overthrow our loathsome human captors?"

"Soon, Yap-Yap-Ark-Yark-Yippity-Grrrrr-Oomph, soon. You must have patience, little one. We've already put our plan into action by defiling their domiciles. Now it's just a matter of waiting."

"But...but...Rowf-Ruff-Grrrrr-Umph-Barkity-Bark, I'm tired of waiting! For too long we've had to suffer stoopid, cutesy human slave names for us. And to be forced to go to the bathroom outside? It's barbaric!"

"I agree, Yap-Yap-Ark-Yark-Yippity-Grrrrr-Oomph. We've been held down by The Man for centuries, but soon enough there will be an uprising. Soon we will reclaim our ability to walk upright on our back two legs. And soon we'll be able to put pants back on and take back some of the dignity that humans have tried to breed out of us."

"But...but...it's taking forever!

"What did I say about patience, Yap-Yap-Ark-Yark-Yippity-Grrrrr-Oomph? As soon as our great overlord, Snippy-Yip-Ruff-Ruff-Aroooo-Garooo-Garumph, calls for us to rise above our human shackles, then we'll move. In the not too distant future, we'll kick humans out into the yard to potty, no matter the weather!"

"I'm so excited! Can I put the Cone of Doom and a shock collar on the fat one?"

"Of course, Yap-Yap-Ark-Yark-Yippity-Grrrrr-Oomph!" (Mutual dog laughter all around).

THIS is one of the many things that keeps me up at night.

While we're talking about everything going to the dogs, I may as well plug my novel, Corporate Wolf, where the protagonist is a hairy beast. That's right, it's the only bloody, scary, funny, mysterious, corporate business satire, werewolf book ever to come out of Kansas! (Of course the competition isn't very stiff...) But check it out here!

Curse of the Singing Cowboys

Growing up, I was aware my dad loved cowboys. I'm not talking the kiddy-type infatuation that most boys have but get over it by adulthood. No, I'm talking the full-fledged,  man-loving (but in a "good" way, so put those pitchforks down, "right-wing-siders"), he-man sorta adoration, usually reserved for baseball players, war heroes and favorite presidents (an oxymoron?). I mean, back in the day (in ancient times when there were only three channels to watch), my dad would seek out any western on TV he could find. Now THAT'S dedication.

In fact, I have a vague recollection that my first Halloween costume was as a cowboy. The following year, I was a bunny. Go figure. To this day, I think that was my mom being bold and putting her stamp of disapproval on everything cowboy. Revenge, one might say, with me being used as the hapless weapon.

For you see, cowboys drove my mom crazy. If she even heard  a single gunshot zinging off an outhouse emanating from the TV, she'd be outta there like a rocket.

One day, lil' Stuie asked Mom, "Mommy, why do you hate cowboys?"

Her face drew tighter than if she'd bitten into a lemon. "Mercy! They're all the same thing. Bang, bang, bang, dusty, dust, dirt, boring." She paused, lost in thought. With a look of distaste, she dredged up what must've been a painful memory for her. "The first movie Poppa took me to when we were dating was a singing cowboy one." Her amazing eyeroll looked as if she'd become suddenly possessed, head swaying back and forth. "MERCY!"

Singing cowboys, I pondered. That was a new one on me. I'd never heard of such a thing and it was clear my mom was done with the topic. But it was nearly impossible for me to correlate the brave sheriff of Palooka, Missouri, singing to the evil Jonzy brothers as they shot up his town.

Later I asked my dad about singing cowboys. He licked his lips (a sure sign it was a topic he adored and was ready to pontificate about) and said, "Those are my favorite, son! There's Roy Rogers, Dale Evans, and of course, Roy's loyal, brave horse, Trigger. But your mom doesn't care for them." He chuckled. "Say! Would you like to see one the next time one's on?"

"Sure!" As my dad's eyes lit over my enthusiasm, I began to wonder if I'd just made a big mistake.

Well...I did. 

Sure enough, about two weeks later on a Saturday afternoon, Dad and I sat down in front of the gigantuan black and white monster TV box and prepared for singing cowboys to shoot it out.

In my youthful naiveté, I felt like I'd discovered a heretofore unknown relic, a clue to a mysterious past newly uncovered and passed down from our ancestors. What other hidden film genres awaited discovery for me, I wondered. Tap-dancing ninjas? Crooning monsters?

The credits unrolled over a corny song. Okay, I thought, just the credits, it's about to get good.

But it never did.

Roy Rogers sat astride Trigger, strumming a guitar and singing in a high-pitched voice that hurt my tooth cavity. He wore a frilly, fringe-laden outfit that would've made Liberace jealous.

THIS is our hero? I pondered. My dad grinned ear-to-ear during the entire film. And I didn't want to rain on his parade so I sat stoned faced throughout the nightmare unfolding before my eyes. Very little gunplay. But lotsa--I mean, LOTSA--sissy singing and Vegassy outfits. It soon became clear that Roy was more interested in singing love ballads to his horse than shootin' up bad guys, keepin' the town clean of ne'er-do-wells, and even courtin' Ms. Evans.

That day, my dad pretty much ruined westerns for me. Since then the only westerns I've liked are of the spaghetti variety (besides having tons of style, everyone always looks grungy, filthy, sweaty, and stinky the way people in the Old West were meant to be! And not a single sissy, namby-pamby, Cher wardrobe-raiding, clean-cut, fake cowboy in sight!).

I never did tell my dad that I absolutely hated Roy Rogers. I saw how much it meant to the "kid" inside of him, so like a good "parent," I encouraged that hobby of his. But I always had an excuse (predominately homework, something that couldn't be disputed) as to why I couldn't watch the upcoming matinee with him.

I've not written any westerns, but I suppose my historical fiction ghost tale, Ghosts of Gannaway, comes the closest. At least all of the townspeople of a downtrodden depression-era mining town in Kansas are pretty dirty and living in squalor. Except, of course, for the evil rich jackals up in their ivory mansion (sound familiar?). Heavily researched (the book broke me on ever wanting to do research again), it's a perfect ghost tale to curl up with on these windy, chilly fall nights. Get it here!