The Wise Guy of the Round Table

 

Several weeks ago, I managed to get (most of) "the band" back together. Just as we had done over 40 years ago, laughs were spilled, beers were drunk, and stories were told. It seemed like not much had changed in all of those decades. Except, of course, there were quite a few more pounds and quite fewer hairs. And a lot of the stories dealt with all of our aches, pains, and operations. Kinda like battle wounds.

After my brother came back from the bathroom, he shook our friend's hand next to him.

He said, "my hand's not wet from washing it."

After much giggling and groaning, he further elaborated, "I don't bother washing my hands after going to the bathroom. Why bother? Your hands just get dirty again opening the bathroom door."

"That's very sound advice," I opined.

"You can learn a lot from me," he replied.

What an extremely wise man.

While on the topic of wise guys, meet Charlie Broadmoor, a struggling stand-up comic, who wishes for more of an audience. Unfortunately, a demon is in his audience one night. One who Charlie mercilessly teases about his comb-over. Things quickly go downhill from there. Read all about it in my darkly comic horror tale,

Demon With A Comb-Over.

BANNED!

I suppose it's my fault really. No one to blame but myself. To fully comprehend the following tragic tale of insanity, jump with me, if you will, into the wayback machine...

When my daughter was younger, she liked to sing. She appeared to know practically every song in the world and I'm not really sure how she learned them as I brought her up on a steady diet of alternative rock. But soon enough, my wife and I enrolled her into singing lessons. (Strike number one: Encouragement!)

Then I created an even bigger mistake. I introduced her to musicals. First, I showed her some of my favorites such as West Side Story. Appearing to really enjoy it, I sought out all of the musicals for her I could find.

And woe unto us for the day she discovered the musical, Rent. First, we watched it several times. Then she showed it to all of her friends. I grew so sick of watching--and especially hearing--Rent, that I considered hiding the DVD. But that didn't stop my daughter. She bought the soundtrack and sang along at the top of her voice in her bedroom and worst of all, the shower.

Her showers were always hour-long affairs, but they weren't quiet ones. Every night we listened to the same  musical selections from Rent. No choice. No escape.

"I'm going to go AOOOOOOOOOOOOut tonight!" issued from the shower over and over and over again, finally stamping all over my nightmares.

Enough was enough and I threw down the Mean Parent gauntlet. "Hey!" I said. "From this day on, I'm officially banning show tunes from being sung in this house!"

Of course the rule didn't stick. But to this day, if I even see the title Rent, I grow sweaty and fearful and nauseous. Let this tragic tale serve as a warning to parents everywhere. Ban show tunes before it's too late!

This has been a Public Service Announcement from the Agitated Father Coalition.

Speaking of teens in trouble, it doesn't get much worse for high schooler Tex McKenna. He's bullied, struggles with the principal, is discovering love for the first time, and suddenly has a target on his back from a potential serial killer. Complicating matters is he has just discovered he's a witch. Check out Tex and friends adventures and mystery in my Tex, the Witch Boy trilogy here!

Castration Fascination!

 

Ouch!

Recently I was visiting my daughter. The conversation turned to her new(ish) nephew.

"You wanna know why my nephew couldn't get castrated when he was born?" she asked.

I looked at her boyfriend who looked at me. 

"Castrated?" said the incredulous boyfriend. "Um...I think you mean 'circumcised.'"

As we all had a good laugh, my knees clenched together as tight as my teeth and I crossed my legs. In protective mode. The mere thought of castration gives me the heebie-jeebies.

But apparently we weren't quite done with the topic. My daughter's boyfriend (who grew up on a farm) started explaining the elaborate process of how they castrated their cows. The details don't matter (and I don't care to dwell on the topic too long), but it had to do with this really strong band they put around the cows testicles cutting off the circulation so they could lop. CHOP!

And OUCH again.

Still stubbornly staying on this very cringe-inducing topic, it turns out the BF had eaten "Rocky Mountain Oysters" before. Ugh. I'm usually pretty daring when it comes to food experimentation but eating a goat's "jewels" is above my pay-grade.

Then I started wondering why in the world would my daughter's BF's family want to castrate their cows. I mean, doesn't it make sense that the more cows you have, the more meat and milk you can hawk?

Apparently, I was wrong (something that NEVER, EVER happens; just ask my wife). Castrating male cows improves meat quality, making it more tender through "marbling," a fancy-schmancy term for fatty deposits. Wow. That was all the science I needed to know about that. But can you imagine the indignity of first having your jewels lopped off so you can be eaten later? As I write this, I'm locking my knees together more securely than Trump's classified files (wait...).

Which brings me to pity the poor plight of the eunuchs, those castrated men from the past (not so golden) olden days. Curious (yet extremely uncomfortable, mind you), I researched why in the world they'd do this to any man. Some of the reasons were punishment for crimes. Okay, fair enough, I think the act of "chemically castrating" some rapists may still be going on.

Historically, eunuchs were thought to make better royal servants with their sexual inhibitions curbed. Religious motives? Yikes! Some guys did it to themselves, thinking it aligned with their faith. Somehow I missed that lesson in Bible school.

Finally, here's the craziest reason of all: castrating men was thought to make better opera singers in the Baroque period, keeping their voices high-pitched. AIEEEEEEE! I'd shriek in a high-pitched tone too, if some kooky opera buff came at me with a pair of hedge trimmers.

Okay, I think I've milked this topic enough, ball-ieve it or not. If you'd like to know more, the BALL's in your court. (I'll be here all weekend. Ba-da-bing!)

Since I'm in a particularly juvenile mood, I may as well hawk my king of juvenile comedies, the Zach and Zora murder mystery series, guaranteed to be the only books you'll ever read about a dumb male stripper (but, PLEASE, call him a "male entertainment dancer") and his more often than not pregnant sleuth sister.  No shame in writing them, no shame in reading.

The Royalty of Weird

The other day I asked my wife if she could do my laundry. (Now before all the feminists get in an uproar, my wife kindly volunteered to take this task over from me because my knees went the way of disco and she doesn't want me crashing down the basement stairs.)

I said, "Thanks, honey. Could you start with my unspeakables?"

"Okay," she replied, "but it's 'unmentionables,' not 'unspeakables'."

"Have you seen my underwear?"

Pause. Blink. Finally, she hit me back with her most often used retort. "You're weird."

To which I responded, "Yeah? Well, you married weird."

BOOM! Mic drop. Even she had no witty comeback for that one.

Now. Let's get something straight. There's nothing wrong with being weird. I pride myself on being weird. It's far, far, far better than being "normal" or even worse, boring.

And it's worked out well for many people. There's Weird Al...and...um...Gary Busey...ah...Donny Trump?

Okay, so I can't use celebrities as a shining example of the success of being weird.

My wife won't admit it, but I think she's good with weird, too.

We're the royal King and Queen of Weird, our kingdom is Weirdopia. And I love my weird queen.

Speaking of all things weird, here's a strange little weird book of mine: Chili Run. It's kinda a lark, a comedic crime thriller based on a dream I had about being forced to run through downtown Kansas City in my tighty whities (or is it "tidy whities"? That's one controversy I've never resolved.). It's complicated. The hijinks ensue right here!

Monster Cat On The Loose!

By now, you guys know I'm a dog-lover. It's not that I hate cats...I'm just allergic to them.

Okay, that's not entirely true. Well, it is about my being allergic to them. If you put a cat around me and I happen to touch near my eye, it's all over. I turn into a crying, sneezing, wheezing pink-eyed mess.

But back to dogs. Dogs are fiercely loyal, full of character, funny, loving, doting, sloppy, playful, and depend entirely on humans to take care of them. It's a nice feeling.

Cats are...cats. They're quiet, sneaky, scary, boring, and when they feel like it, they'll bite or claw you for no reason. Just for the fun of it, I suppose. They're like goldfish. Only meaner. And did I mention I'm highly allergic to them?

So, the other day, I was tasked with going to this strange "feed and seed" store in the middle of the city to get dog food. After I figured out how to enter the place (it's like an Escape Room), the first thing I noticed were three cats running across my path.

Uh-oh.

The old guy asks how can he help me. I felt like saying by getting those damn cats away from me. Instead, I say, "Just picking up some dog food." Quickly, I scuttled toward the dog food, hefted a big-ass bag up and hoped to get out of there before I turned into a wet, soppy, crying mess.

But the old guy behind the counter had a different idea. "Ah! You're getting the bison!"

"Yeah. Nothing but the most expensive for our dogs, I guess," I said, while eyeballing what seemed like a dozen cats twisting and scampering around me.

The old guy wasn't put off by that. Must've been a slow day for him. "Well, golly...it's good stuff, though."

"I guess," I said. "But I've never tried it."

The ancient clerk looks at me. Blinks. Finally guffaws and slaps his knee. Meanwhile, one particularly clingy kitty was rubbing up against my legs. I could feel my eyes starting to water.

"That's a good one, yep. Had me going for a while. Yessir...'never tried it.' Heh." Suddenly he drops down behind the counter.

I'm wondering if I should call 911.

Like an ancient jack-in-the-box, he springs up with a scrawny mean-looking cat in his arms. And thrusts it toward me. "Here's my bison! What do you make of this mean fellow?"

Instinctively, I jumped back. "Oh...he's, um...thanks!" I grabbed the dog food and raced out of the store (once I found the exit).

Next time I go there, I'm wearing a mask, protective eyewear and a Hazmat suit. I swan...

Speaking of things that are furry and not so adorable, check out my book, Corporate Wolf. It's the only werewolf, horror, murder mystery, dark comedy, corporate satire out there!

I Was A Secret Smoker!

Come with me if you will and let's take a trip in my handy-dandy way-back machine...

In 1979, all the cool kids were smoking. (Or so I thought at the time.) I didn't want to be left behind so I joined the smoking contingent some time in Junior High. (And, yes, before you ask if everyone jumped off a cliff, would I? Why yes, yes I would, thank you for asking!) Anyway, I kept this disgusting habit up all throughout high school and college.

When I graduated from college, I quit cold turkey. Of course I put on 100 pounds, but that's another story...

Soon, I lost weight, got married, put on another 100 pounds. Then got divorced. Now...it's not for everyone, but due to my world-famous patented "Divorce Diet Plan," I lost another 100 pounds. However, I picked up smoking again after ten years off the crap.

Let's speed up the way-back machine. Eventually, I met my current wife, got married, and continued to secretly smoke. Oh, I tried many times to quit, but one month was about as long as I ever made it. (My wife is totally against smoking; of course, I am too now.)

So I kept up the gross habit off and on for several years, always hiding (sometimes not successfully) the evidence. It helped that my head was shaved; easy to wash. 

And I had secret smoking clothes hidden in various places, consisting of gloves, a stocking hat, a coat, etc.

One day I took a drive. Went to the local park, got out my long overcoat, gloves, stocking hat, all sorts of winter gear. The only problem was it was about 70 degrees. A dog-walker was standing nearby staring at me. Suddenly she rushed away, dog in arms. No doubt to go call the police about the park pervert she just witnessed, dressed in very suspicious clothing for Spring.

After this, I decided: "Hey, maybe I should make a lifestyle change. Before I get arrested."

My wife caught me again. Initially she was furious. But came around, understanding it was an addiction and helped me quit. Finally, my friend, Chantix, did the trick. I've been smoke-free for many years now. And ask any ex-smoker, the smell that wafts off of people at Walmart is more offensive than it is to never-smokers.

Speaking of keeping secrets, Leon Garber's got a doozy. Now it's not nearly as bad as smoking (natch), but it's right up there. He's an accountant by day and a serial killer by night (but don't worry! He only targets the worst people around!). But this is just the start of Leon's problems. The sinister corporation that Leon has aligned with has now targeted him and he doesn't understand why their beautiful working relationship has changed and his contract has been terminated. Find out the reason why in my darkly comical serial killer thriller trilogy, Killers Incorporated!

Nakedopolis!

Growing up, my parents filled my little vulnerable head with lots of nonsense: "Sex is a sin (as if; and this was the closest they ever came to talking about sex. No further explanation given.)," "Drinking beer is disgusting and bad (CRAZY talk!)," "masturbation is dirty and a sin (Nooooo! Not my hobby!)" and their crazy interpretations of the Bible. And the Bible is already kinda strange, especially to a young impressionable kid.

"Mommy, where are the dinosaurs?" I asked.

"God created them too," she answered.

"Huh. But they're not in the Bible! And what about cavemen?"

"Mommy's busy right now."

But nothing was more confusing than their interpretation of the story of Adam and Eve.

"But Mommy...why was it a sin for Eve to eat an apple?"

"Because she disobeyed God." 

"But why was it a sin?"

"Because if she hadn't eaten the apple, we'd all be walking around naked today, the way God intended us to do."

YOW! My little brain blew up over that. In my mind, Eve helped us to dodge a huuuuuuge bullet. I wanted to tell my mom that I'm glad for what Eve did, but that probably wouldn't have gone over well.

I started to think about a naked world and it terrified and grossed me out. I couldn't imagine kissing Grandma when she was naked. And what about the naked restaurant server who's hanging out (literally) with his junk at our eye level. Worst of all would be Winter. And walking over all of that rough terrain.

And how about school? I imagine the boys would constantly walk around with their books in front of them, trying to hide their state of arousal when the cheerleaders strolled by. Yikes!

No thank you and thank you Eve. I for one am glad for the original sin! (And come on! Our current "president" commits worse sins on a daily basis!)

So God told Adam and Eve not to eat the forbidden fruit and they did anyway. Then He/She shamed them into clothing.

And because of them eating an apple, we're all sinners. I think. (Or maybe that's all the sex, beer, and masturbation rearing their ugly heads. I still don't quite get it.)

Then I started wondering what's the takeaway from the story of Adam and Eve. That women are inherently evil, luring men into lust and eating fruit?

That's probably in Trump's footnotes in his very special $300 Trump Bible.

Last weekend, at a bar, I brought all of this up to a very knowledgeable Bible "scholar" friend (while drinking sinful beer, natch).

He went on at great length talking about it, but the most interesting thing he said was God lied, Adam lied, and of course the evil Eve lied. "The only one who didn't lie was the serpent," he finished.

I suppose I better bone up on my Bible understanding. (Now where did I put my Trump bible? I think I left it upstairs next to my Trump cologne, Trump wristwatch, Trump virtual trading cards, and...)

Speaking of liars and sinners, check out my darkly comical horror novel, Demon With a Comb-Over (my titular demon on the cover sure resembles a certain president, right?). The book's full of demons, jerky angels, Satan, a couple trips to Hell, and stand-up comedy. Fun for the whole family! You can get it here!