OK, that's not really a thing, but maybe we should make it a special holiday. I mean, there's a "Talk Like a Pirate Day," so how comes strippers can't get a little lovin', too?
Let's look at some startling facts: recently the government kicked $1.4 billion dollars in taxpayer-backed corona virus aid to the U.S. Roman Catholic Church. Guess where the money's going? Yep, paying huge settlements because of clergy sexual abuse cover-ups! Wow. What a great way to give it up, government.
Now, pity the poor stripper. They've got mouths to feed, but their livelihood has been taken completely away from them due to the corona virus. Strip clubs were the first places shut down and they're still shut down. (Um, that's what I've read, at least).
Wouldn't you think Trump, at least, would want to help out strippers? Seems like it's right up his alley. Or does he prefer porn stars?
Before you guys start telling me I'm being sexist, understand that I don't like going to strip clubs, never have. I always hated bachelor parties. I'd tell my young and dumb cohorts, "Wouldn't you guys rather go somewhere where you actually might stand a chance of meeting a woman?" But, no, the clubs are one of those rites of passage things, I guess.
Anyway, since Trump's not going to come to the strippers rescue, some enterprising strippers down in Houston, Texas, took matters into their own hands. Yep, they opened up the first drive-through strip club! You drive your car inside, order a burger and beer from the safety of your car, while strippers dance for you behind a barricade. Patrons are encouraged to toss tips over the barricade.
While I appreciate ingenuity, somehow I just don't find the idea of a stripper wearing a Darth Vader mask do be all that exciting. Maybe it's just me, I dunno.
So the next time I hear about the government throwing their money to the Catholic Church while strippers everywhere go hungry, I'm gonna go ballistic. Strippers gotta eat, too. In fact, I think I'll make it my mission to take a stripper to lunch (while social distancing, natch) every day. Just doing my humanitarian duty.
Naturally, this would be a great time to plug my Zach and Zora comic murder mystery series, except...um, right now they're without a home after I quit the publisher! For those who don't know, Zach is an imbecilic stripper (well, he prefers "male entertainment dancer," thank you very much) who has a habit of stumbling over dead bodies. It's up to his gun-toting, children-toting sleuth sister to bail him out of jams. Three books so far in the series, Bad Day in a Banana Hammock, Murder by Massage, and Nightmare of Nannies (with a fourth one planned soonish, I hope). Fellow writers and publishers help me bring these books back to life and hit me with your ideas!
I don't know why people like to fight with me. Maybe because I'm tall, big, and sport a shaved head. Maybe it's my "winning personality." Perhaps I have an uncanny superpower to seek out people on their Worst Day Ever (my "grumpy senses" are tingling!). Whatever the reason, grocery store cashiers hate me.
Wait...there's a caveat here, probably an important one. Usually, when these folks take umbrage with me, I'm with my mom. Full of blatant hand dismissals, eye-rolls, "whatever's," and oft-times rude behavior, my mom believes everyone's out to rip her off and the entire world owes her. Who knows, maybe they are and do, and I'm the one in the wrong. Grocery check-out clerks certainly believe so.
Case in point (before the world went into lock-down mode), during a recent weekly grocery store trip, I dragged my mom up to the check-out line. The cashier (older than me, younger than my mom) kept trying to have a conversation with my mom and ignored me. Which is more than fine with me, except my mom can't hear very well and can barely see. I find myself in the unenviable role of translator, barking loudly so she understands. Which I imagine makes me look like a jackass.
Anyway, my mom decides she wants to hear more about the store's "points program." And it's my turn to roll my eyes.
We're gonna be here a while, I just know it.
"I just don't understand this whole points program," my mom says to me in her teeny-tiny peep of a voice.
I sigh and repeat it to the cashier.
"Well, I have a brochure that'll explain it to you," snips the pelican behind the counter.
"Mom," I shout, "she has a brochure!"
So, this transaction goes on for a while as I'm playing Switzerland, trying to remain neutral in a battle over a free piece of cheap Tupperware I don't care about. Then it hits me: I'm now the United States, hip deep in this war! How'd that happen?
Meanwhile, my mom's flying Switzerland's flag, standing off on the sidelines with an innocent (devilish?) smile. All to win a free piece of Tupperware which she'll never get because she won't accumulate enough points within a month's time, but, hey, my mom never lets anything "free" slip by her.
Finally, we're done, all packed and good to go. The cashier dangles the Golden Brochure, fanning herself with it, baiting my mom. When I reach for it, she yanks it away. I try again, and she raises it above her head like some playground bully.
Feral as a rabid badger, she shakes her head and growls at me. "I said I'd give it to her! Not you!" Teeth clenched, the badger metaphor truly applies.
I sigh, try to retain my cool. 'Cause the only thing worse than being a tall, shaved-headed, big guy is how freaked out people get when they see a big, shaved-headed, tall guy freak out.
"She can't read it," I explain. "She's blind."
Lips pursed, eyes narrowed, the cashier says, "Is she really, now?"
"Yes. Well, okay, about 90% or so. She has Macular Degeneration." Now, I'm getting pissed off because I'm being questioned, put on the spot, and forced to explain myself. Mercifully, my mom's oblivious to the entire exchange.
At long last--and much to the relief of the growing line of people behind us--the cashier relents and unleashes her treasure. "Okay, then."
"Gee thanks." I snag it away and instantly give it to my mother. After all I don't want the cashier thinking I kept the literature all to myself for evil, nefarious means. (Mwah, hah, hahhhhh, I shall rule all of Kansas with the power vested in me by this almighty brochure!)
"What's this?" asks my mom.
Sigh. "It's the brochure, Mom," I shout. And by this time, I truly am shouting, partly out of frustration, mostly out of anger. Which I'm sure makes me look like I'm being mean to this poor sweet lil' ol' lady. I had to get outta there. Fast. Before mob mentality took me out over in the produce aisle.
The trials and tribulations of being the tallest, most despised man in grocery store lines.
Speaking of trials and tribulations, anyone who's ever read any of my books knows I like to drag my characters to Hell and back. Sometimes, literally! Check out Demon with a Comb-Over, my serio-comic horror tale about a hapless stand-up comic (who's tall, shaved-headed, and big!) who has the bad misfortune of heckling a demon.
Well, maybe not all of it, but definitely some is.
Wait, here...let me illustrate my point:
See what I mean? My awesome brother-in-law sent this to me and it took me forever to even figure out it's supposed to read "artisanal." So...whoever the graphic designer is on this logo should probably be fired. Or he's giggling all the way to the bank.
Having been a graphic designer for twenty some years, it's a major gripe when I see the misuse of fonts. Just because someone's found a snappy font on their computer does not mean you have to use it.
Here's another fine example. My wife and I had a hankering for some Povitica, so we thought, "Hey, let's go check out the Strawberry Hill Povitica shop here in Kansas. We'll make out like greedy bandits on the samples!" Great idea. Except we never found the damn store.
Wanna know why? HERE'S why!
That logo's impossible to read even though we drove right past the store at least three times! Plus some genius put it in black against a green background. Certainly screams "strawberries," doesn't it?
Really gets my goat. Here, for your viewing pleasure, are several other logos. And they're all real!
Um. Oh, I see it's for a Swedish property management company named "Locum." Only in Sweden, am I right?
Well, this is certainly an interesting choice.
This of course is for Clinical Dental where the dentists supply that extra touch.
Here's the cute logo for "Mont-Sat," where the technicians are excited to serve your needs.
I don't even want to know what goes on in this store.
I'll just bet they do.
And finally, we have the logo for the Institute of Oriental Studies where they really put it to their students. Or something. Proving, once and for all, my theory that art is anal.
You know, they say "art is in the eye of the beholder." But what if the beholders are all a bunch of perverts?
Speaking of perverse things, there's plenty of that to be found in my short story collection, Twisted Tales from Tornado Alley. Check it out!
Last week I was visiting my daughter for the first time in a while. As we do, our conversation inevitably swung around to politics. I told her that all of these in-your-face protestors look like steroid-chomping, bad-ass bikers with tats, shaved heads, impressive beer bellies, and beards down to their "moobs."
She said, "Really? All I see are a bunch of Karens."
"What're you talking about? What's a 'Karen?'"
"They're these bored white ladies who wanna raise hell everywhere they go. Wait...let's look it up. Google can explain it better than I can."
But I knew what a "Karen" was already, oh, yes I did. It's the kind of woman who (even though she's fit and takes Pilates) demands to see the manager of a clothing store and further demands that they start carrying a certain dress in plus sizes. Or the woman at work who wears all kinds of ribbons, buttons, and safety pins to show she stands up for doing the right thing and yells at anyone who thinks differently. Maybe it's the woman who starts a fight in the grocery store because someone's walking down the wrong way in newly sanctioned one-way aisles.
That's a "Karen." We've all known them. Or at least heard them. And...I realized I've been guilty of some Karen-like behavior in the past as well. I once outed someone publicly for not recycling a plastic bottle. Guess that makes me a "Karl."
Along with a little help from Wikipedia, my daughter found the "official" Karen definition: Karen is a pejorative term used in the Western
world for a woman perceived to be entitled or demanding beyond the
scope of what is considered appropriate or necessary. A common
stereotype is that of a racist white woman who uses her privilege to
demand her own way at the expense of others.
Okay, so maybe I'm not such a "Karen" after all. But Donald Trump is the biggest, baddest Karen of them all.
But let's not be too hard on the "Karens" of the world. They're needed, too, part of the circle of life. For you see, they balance out the "Joe-Bobs" of the world, and if you've been following the news (how can you not? We're inundated by it!), you know exactly what they're all about.
The interesting thing is all of us are getting different stories from the media. My daughter sees "Karens" screaming at cops. I see bikers. A friend of mine sees inner-city kids and he said I'm getting a different message. He's right.
It pisses me off that the media's playing us--becoming actual news-makers and influencers themselves--instead of just reporting. No matter the source, (right, left, or other wing) they all have agendas these days.
That's why my wife fled to the BBC. The Brits with their stiff upper lips don't have too much of an investment in the stupidity rolling through our lands right now (they've got their hands full with Brexit).
Whoops. Gotta run before things get ugly. A Karen's screaming at a Starbucks manager because she didn't get a double-shot.
Speaking of other things that piss me off, check out my short story collection, Twisted Tales from Tornado Alley. In addition to being frightfully scary and scarifyingly amusing, these tales were written in a post-Trump-trauma state of mind. Enjoy!
Since the pandemic started, my wife's had to forego getting her hair cut. For her, that's a problem, as she likes to keep it extremely short and spiky. (I think she'd had enough of dealing with Big Hair back in the '80's.)
So, it came down to me (using my beard trimmer) to give her a haircut. Gulp! At first I was tentative, afraid I might screw it up. But soon I was into it, just hacking away as gobs of hair gathered in the bathtub. By the time the second haircut rolled around, I was an ol' pro, going to town with maniacal glee.
Then...Black Thursday happened.
I'm in the dog house. Big time.
Things began well enough. I did the usual shaping and trimming, then took the guard off to get her neck. When my wife looked at the results in the mirror, she decided she wanted more taken off.
"Okay," I said with a zeal that shouldn't have been there.
I raised the razor and started in on the back. I gasped, recoiled in horror at what I'd done. I had forgotten to put the blade guard back on.
She said, "What'd you do? Did you give me a bald spot?"
"Um, it's not too bad. It--"
"Oh, my God, you better not have!" She bounded out of the bathtub and hurtled upstairs to retrieve her hand-held mirror.
Then, throughout the house and loud enough for the neighbors to hear, "OH! MY! GOD!"
She exploded back down the stairwell, each footstep pounding with my rising heartbeat. I knew I was in trouble.
It probably didn't help that I couldn't fight the grin that kept creeping onto my face. "Honey, it's not that bad. Um, maybe you could wear a hat or--"
"I have to go into work tomorrow, too!"
"Oh. Yeah. Sorry, honey, really, a million sorries, so many sorries that..."
I groveled and pleaded for a while. That was yesterday. I'm still paying for it today.
She said, "I'm going to find a new barber."
Sure is crowded in this doghouse.
Speaking of things going to the dogs, things get even worse when they go to the wolves. Werewolves, that is. Check out my darkly comical horror satire, Corporate Wolf, to see exactly what I mean.
