Anger Mismanagement! Dammit!

I like to think of myself as an easy-going guy who has a handle on anger. Except when it comes to driving, of course. There's nothing like getting behind the wheel of a 4,000 pound death machine to fire up the ol' anger senses when someone else out there on the road has the gall to do something stupid or rude.

(Okay, so maybe there are a few other issues that trigger anger in me: 1) Today's politics. When I hear someone extolling the virtues of Trump, I start to see orange, the color of hate. And Donny Trump. 2) Alcohol.  3) Political talk plus alcohol.  Hmmm. Maybe I'm not such an easy-going guy after all. But never mind that, dammit! Let me get back to the point before I get mad! DAMMIT!)

I don't know what it is about automobiles and anger. Maybe it's the anonymity of it all, enabling the driver to turn into a red-hot, road-raging maniac, a sort of secret identity unleashed only on wheels. I mean, once these guys get to work, I can't very well see them flipping off their coworkers and calling them choice curse words because they don't like their tie or whatever. No, once they step out of the car, a sense of civility overcomes them once again. But look out for Mr. Road Rage on the way home!

I once witnessed the beginning of a high-speed car chase because one guy cut it too close by whipping his car in front of the other. Horns blasted, then tires squealed as they sped down the highway, driving at crazy speeds, swerving in and out of lanes, and endangering everyone else out there. (To this day I've wondered how it possibly could have ended. Every scenario I envisioned didn't end with one of the two "learning his lesson.")

Yep. Automobiles are the great carrier of anger, empowering the driver to act like a jackass.

But that's not quite it. Even when I'm a passenger in an auto, I get angry at stupid people.

Case in point: Last weekend, my wife was driving and I was riding shotgun (only wish I had a shotgun with me! Dammit!). We were driving down the street and some idiot pulls right out into the intersection and stops, half of his car just asking for a good t-boning. My wife decides to "make a point" and blatantly stops and then swerves around the car. Then they honk, a long, blaring blast. Like we're the idiot drivers. I would've let it go, but once I looked at them (a typically crass, ruddy-faced Midwestern couple of yahoos), they were both just hysterically laughing at their grand jest of laying on the horn at us.

My civility flew out the window. On auto-pilot, both of my middle fingers went up purely on knee-jerk instinct. Adrenaline pumped. My anger senses were tingling and I was shaking. But my wife got even angrier at me. This time she stopped her car in the middle of the street to give me a thorough tongue-lashing.

She was right, of course. Unlike my ruder, wilder, younger days, I generally try to keep my middle finger down, particularly in today's volatile and violent mind-set. I don't particularly fancy the notion of getting shot over some moron's stupid traffic faux pas. But my responsive behavior felt like pure unleashed animalistic instinctual rage. Couldn't be helped.

Which kinda scares me. What if everyone responded this way, all of the time? (Wait...didn't we used to have a president like this?) No more civility. Just a bunch of road-raging, finger-flipping, invective-spewing neanderthals battling it out for dominance.

Maybe everyone should be schooled in how to cope with anger management. I'm reminded of a story my daughter told me about an acquaintance of hers. She told my daughter how a doctor suggested she take an anger management class and it was making her angry just talking about it! When my daughter suggested to her friend that maybe she should take an anger management class, she grew even angrier. (Apparently, her boyfriend quietly suggested, "Wouldn't that be nice?" I'm fairly sure he was sleeping on the sofa after that comment.)

Anyway, based on the not-so-great political debate and divisiveness of America these days, it looks like my vision of angry, shouting people becoming the norm has come true. I mean, if the (ex) president of the United States acts this way, then by all means, why shouldn't his followers?

So, people... Boom! I just solved the world's problems. Stop getting angry. See? Wasn't that simple? Much easier and cheaper than some stupid anger management class, right? What? You don't agree? What the hell do you mean, dammit? Don't make me come over there! I mean it! I'm not kidding around! DAMMIT! Here I come! No more Mr. Nice Guy! You won't like me when I'm angry! That did it!...

Whoa, whoa, whoa. I need to get a handle on my inner beast. For that matter, so does poor Shawn Biltmore. Except his inner beast is real. A werewolf. Which puts him in the perfect position for career advancement in his drudgy, corporate job. If only he could quit killing off his coworkers... Yep! That's right! I'm talking about Corporate Wolf! 

 

Getting Sick in Public!

Hey kids, have you heard? It's the newest sensation that's sweeping the nation! All the cool kids are in the know, so go ahead and give it a go! Be sure your friends film it, funnier than a blow to the groin video!

Good grief. I haven't been sick in public since I was a kid and that pretty much scarred me for life. (After gorging myself on popcorn, candy and soda at the movies, my parents thought it'd be a wonderful idea to go out for pizza. On my mad dash to the bathroom, I didn't quite make it, and a woman screamed. Actually screamed!) So...after this traumatic incident, you better believe I was totally mortified about what happened last weekend.

My wife and I are still testing the waters of our pandemic era, but we miss eating out. So I found a new restaurant that bragged about two--count 'em, two!--patios. With the weather suddenly nice, we decided to invite a couple friends and outside we sat.

Now, I have to detail this important interlude: Lately I am prone to having mega-honkingly-humongous vitamins stuck in my chest and I can't even get liquid down before they come splashing up again. It also happens with dry chicken. And sometimes when I skip a meal in anticipation of the culinary delights ahead of me or I get excited and speak without properly chewing my food (I know... I'm a barbarian). This occurs three or four times a year. The last time I remember it happening was Thanksgiving. But I knew it was coming, so excused myself to the bathroom, back in time for pumpkin pie.

I've told a doctor about this occurrence and she brushed it off as acid reflux.

(I remember having a conversation with my mom about it:

"What did the doctor say?"

"That I have acid reflux."

"Spit-up," she says, nodding with authority as only mothers can.

"No, not 'spit-up,' whatever that is. The doctor called it acid reflux."

"Right. Spit-up."

"No! It's not spit-up! It's acid--"

"I know, Stuart, I know! You don't have to yell at me! Spit-up!")

Anyway, I don't think it's acid reflux, nor do I think it's spit-up (which I'm still not sure what that is). It's not stomach related. More of a choking thing.

My wife thinks I may have a "constricted esophagus." Which sounds kinda bad-ass. At least much more so than "spit-up." Besides, it would go right along with my "deviated septum." Which is what I put on my social media profiles: Hi, I'm Stuart and I have a constricted esophagus and deviated septum." (I think this explains why I'm on a few watch lists.) If only I had a narrow urethra, then I'd have the trifecta of cool. But there I go again, getting digression all over the place.

Back to the restaurant, I didn't heed the warning signs. Dear God, I wished I had. I suppose I knew it was coming, starting with a few up-top hiccups (not the deep kind that rattle your rib-cage, but from up on top of my throat). I even said, "Uh oh."

Jokes were made, my buddy suggested scaring me. Ha ha ha all around. My wife quietly urged, "Go to the bathroom."

But I stuck it out, thinking I could fight the rising tide. I have before. If only I could get past that blockage. I started drinking more water (what little I could swallow) which just made it worse.

Sure enough, I felt the tide rise and surge. Not wanting to cause a scene, I whipped the cloth napkin to my mouth. I would've ran to the john, but of course the armada of servers decided to descend on us at the same time (There were at least five servers bringing food out, no kidding; the only thing missing was Wagner's "Ride of the Valkyries" over the speakers.). So I was stuck. Sitting there throwing up, trying to swallow it back down, coughing into my napkin, and filling it with all sorts of awful stuff. Meanwhile, several servers are trying to ask if I had the filet. My eyes are watering, vomit's running down my shirt, and Chad is asking if I had the filet.

Dizzy, I stood, dashed all the way inside and through the restaurant, pin-balling off of employees and customers, and barely made it into the bathroom. (And when I say "into" the bathroom, that's kinda not accurate; it's a new out in the open, unisex line of stalls. I'm certain those enjoying their dinners were appreciating my calling the dinosaurs.)

Thoroughly humiliated, I splashed my face and slunk back to our table. Everyone inquired as to how I was doing, but I really just wanted to get outta there.

As we left, the army of servers were all extremely polite. We ran a veritable gauntlet of them, opening doors for us, wishing us well, thanking us... major overkill while all I wanted was to die a quiet death. The staff was either thrilled to get rid of me or worried I'd sue over choking.

Yep, my first bout with public sickness since childhood. Only this time was much, MUCH worse.

So, let this be a cautionary tale. If your body speaks out, heed the advice and go to the john before it's too late.

Speaking of getting sick, meet Richard "Tex" McKenna, teenage guy witch. He's got problems, man, has he got 'em. Caught between two warring high school gangs, a mysterious goth girl, and a vengeful ghost, Tex barely has time for school and the requisite bullies. But he gets revenge on one bully by hurling on him (okay, okay, I know it's not that big of a deal to the book, but I had to tie it into the blog post some how!). Read all about it in book #2 of the Tex, the Witch Boy series, Tex and the Gangs of Suburbia!

The Worst City Planner in the Country

After formulating a highly scientific study on every city in the country (or at least a couple near me that I drive through), there's a clear-cut winner in the worst city planner category.

Without further ado, I give you...Roeland Park! Ta-dahhhhh!

Now, don't get me wrong, Roeland Park has its charms. It's a quaint little suburb nestled right into the middle of the Kansas City metropolitan area, with a lovely variance in neighborhoods, houses and yards.

And truth be told, I hold a personal grudge. For you see, Roeland Park is just one block over from where we live and the pampered, sissy Roeland Parkers actually are able to rake their leaves to the curb and the city picks 'em up. Constantly, the Roeland Parkers drive by, taunting, smirking, and honking as we break our backs picking up leaves and stuffing 'em into eco-friendly and awkward to use paper bags.

Jerks.

But I digress.

The City Planner of Roeland Park is either a mad man or is laughing all the way to the bank.

Case in point: Roeland Park used to be a nice little place with small mom and pop stores lining a couple of streets that were easy to drive through to get from point A to point B. Not any longer. Mr. Big Britches City Planner Man decided to discard these streets and stores and plotz a huge, honking eyesore of a Walmart into the middle of town. Now to reach one of the nearest main streets, one has to drive through the Walmart parking lot, while avoiding kazillions of Walmart shoppers (20 points for families!). It simply can't be avoided.

 Also, Mr. I'm So Crazy, I'm Gonna Jack Up This City Planner Guy decided it'd be really purty to put an old-fashioned, partial brick street at the entrance-way to a strip mall. Sure, it's purty. For six months. But after every six months or so, the bricks have to be replaced because they can't stand up beneath the weight of the traffic!

That same entrance-way should be nick-named "Death Drive." There's no light or signage before you're thrust out onto a major thoroughfare. If you're unfamiliar with the quirks of Roeland Park, you're about to be T-boned!

Don't get me going on the art. Check out this statue...

The holy hell??? What is it, some kinda terrifying monster looking to steal kids away from their beds in the middle of the night?

Also, I think Freddy Krueger did the sculptures for the local skate park. They're all gone now, which makes me think the Angry Mom Society must've had their say. But there were sculptures of a dismembered foot on a skateboard along with various other body parts, a serial killer's dream park. I can no longer find any evidence of these monstrosities other than this creepy photo of a killer's mask on a skate board...

Then there's the lovely, billion dollar mural on 47th street. Personally, I like it. But it's dropped into the crazy, winding, deadly 47th street where people like to pretend they're in the Indy 500 and careen down it at breakneck speeds. Who has time to look at it? It's hard enough trying to stay alive (pedestrian or driver) along this snake-like road.

Then there was the time Mr. Hot-Shot, I'll Show You Who's Boss City Planner looked at everyone's homes and dropped mandatory notices that about 95% of the homes had to be painted or else you'd be subject to fines. Some kinda eye-in-the-sky beautification project or something. The problem is, these guys were all about quantity over quality and dinged brick houses and homes with siding!

These are just a few of my gripes with Roeland Park's city planner. (But, really, I think it boils down to my anger that we still have to bag leaves. If our city ever opts for the curbside pick-up, all will be forgiven, Roeland Park!)

While I'm kavetching over plans, it seems some plans are just doomed from the start. Tex McKenna, suburban Kansas high school student, has the simplest of plans. He just wants to survive the trauma of high school, what with its bullies and sadistic gym teachers and other issues. Yet when he finds out he's a witch and there's a serial killer stalking the bullies of his high school, Tex has to make some readjustments to his plans (and that's putting it mildly!). See what all the fuss is about (at least in my head) and check out Tex the Witch Boy.

It's with a heavy heart that I write this...

Okay, I don't want to get all verklempt, but...

Well, here... You know what they say about a picture being worth a thousand words. Please watch this as it will explain all.

BOOM! You've been RickRolled!

Aha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, haaaaaaa! Whew. Had you going there for a minute, right? But, I'm serious. It's with a very heavy heart that I relay this message: how in the hell did I never hear about RickRolling until now?

Last Saturday, my wife and I were sitting out on the deck, enjoying the brisk morning breeze. Suddenly, I found myself humming the inane song, "Never Gonna Give You Up." (Full disclosure before you all think less of me: I've never liked the stupid song, don't even know the words, never owned the CD, cassette, or eight-track tape {look it up, kids}, and couldn't even tell you who sang it. I just know it sucked.)

My wife turns to me and says, "Why in the hell are you humming THAT song?"

I shrugged and said, "Dunno, it just popped into my mind."

"Well, you're the one who told me what 'RickRoll' was."

Now it's my turn to stare at her like she's wearing the crazy pants. "What're you talking about?"

"Oh, that stupid RickRoll prank that was going around. You explained it to me."

"No, I didn't."

"Yes, you did."

"No, I didn't. How could I explain it to you if I don't even know what it is?"

"You explained it to me."

"No, I didn't."

"Yes, you did."

"No, I..."

(Cut to later that same day):

"Yes, you did."

"No, I didn't."

"Yes, you..."

Anyway, I'll forego the rest of that conversation. Contrary to what my wife told me, I didn't know what RickRolling was, so I hit up Madame Google.

Around 2007, some brilliant pranksters came up with the idea to hide Rick Astley's bonafide, bone-headed video hit, "Never Gonna Give You Up" in a link purporting to be on topic with what was being discussed on message boards, hence "RickRolling."

Than it RickRolled into an avalanche. Students turned in exam papers on RickRolling. Protestors RickRolled scientologists with a barrage of boomboxes blasting the song. And my personal favorite: the Foo Fighters RickRolled over members of the heinous Westboro Baptist Church.

Wow. True history and I slept through it. Now, some of you may be saying, "Stuart, why are you wasting your time talking about RickRolling when we could be discussing the Mar-a-lago raid for the kazillionth time?"  Well, Mr. Smarty-Pants, A) Clearly you're a newbie to my blog. Here at Twisted Tales from Tornado Alley, I thrive on every day stupidity; and B) Isn't everyone just about burned out on All Trump "News," All the Damn Time?

My question is...how in the world did I miss this?

Apparently, I was living under a rock in 2007. SO I'm gonna bring RickRolling back. Big time.  And I urge you to do the same. It's your duty as a patriot.

Get going, start your Rick and Rolling!

Speaking of all things amusing, have you read my book....well, here check it out!

 

Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha haaaaaaa! Gotcha!

But, seriously, if you're looking for sophisticated humor and witty dialogue and poignant storytelling, do check out my Zach and Zora series, available right here and right now! 

 

Oh no, ho, ho, ho, haaaaa, heeeee, ha, ha, haaaaaaaa! Can't believe you fell for it again! Whew! Tee hee.

Okay, I've got it out of my system. Besides, everyone knows that my Zach and Zora books are ANYTHING but sophisticated, witty and poignant! Psych! But if you're still interested, you can find them here.  

Snicker, snicker, snicker, ha, ha, haaaaaaaaaa.... 

Brotherton...A Quinn Martin Production!

"All men are brothers. But not all brothers are men. This fall on CBS...Brotherton! A Quinn Martin Production."

Okay, hang on, let me back up a bit...

Meet Gary Huggins, local Kansas City filmmaker. I've had the pleasure of viewing Gary's many years in the making black comedy, Kick Me. Definitely seek it out when it's made available. 

But I digress. I met Gary years ago when he called me up regarding an article I wrote for a film magazine about fun, dumb, bad movies as he worked at the local art house theater in my neighborhood. The theater's long-gone but our friendship isn't (although diminished because of that pesky old pandemic). But there I go digressing again.

Gary and I had similarly geeky interests growing up, such as getting excited about the new TV seasons. We've both pretty much put network TV behind us as the crap that it is, but we're somewhat experts on awful television shows and movies. And we both have a lot of spare time on our hands.

Which finally brings us to "Brotherton," our imaginary, perfect television show. It started out innocently enough when I texted Gary the burning question, "Were Raymond Burr and William Conrad the same person?"

He texted back, "No, same bodies, different people."

After giving it a little thought, I suggested they could play twin brother detectives in a small town and Shelley Winters would be the (rather large) wedge driven between them.

The premise was taken one step further. In Hollywood, the hackmeisters would call this a "high concept." Our unholy high concept was that actors who looked alike would play brothers, whereas brothers who are actors would not. 

Ta-dahhhhhh! We have what it takes to make it big in Hollywood!

Brotherton was born and we took off from there: Broderick Crawford as Burr and Conrad's dad; Junior Samples as the evil mastermind of a cartel who killed their mother; Orson Welles as the mysterious Mr. Biggerstaff who'd always vanish in a whiff of magician's smoke; Brian Dennehy and Charles Durning as twin competing skip tracers; narration by Jerry Reed; Gary Busey as the mayor; we decided that all the brothers are just sort of a CBS coincidence and would run that disclaimer at the top; Lawrence Tierney and Robert Tessier as twin priests (the nice, straight kind, of course); Pia Zadora as the wisecracking Mexican maid played by Stacy Keach (this takes some explanation: when Gary worked at the library in the movie section, a customer rented "Butterfly," the notorious Zadora/Keach sleaze epic. Every time the customer would return, he'd eye the cover with Zadora's pic on it and go "Mmmm, Stacy Keach." Gary never bothered to correct him); Eli Wallach, E.G. Marshall and Martin Balsam as triplet fry cooks; James Farentino, Anthony Franciosa, and James Franciscus as triplet gynecologists; real life twin brothers Conrad and Bonar (yes he really exists but his parents must've hated him by giving him that name!) Bain as feuding, unrelated next door neighbors married to the also unrelated Landers sisters; the Hagar twins as unrelated door to door salesmen; Pink Lady and Jeff as triplet jugglers...

Whew. Pretty epic, yeah?

Here's my favorite that Gary suggested: Gene Rayburn and Jack Palance as thawed neanderthal brothers who do odd jobs for rocks. Their business card says "GRUNT." I smelled a spin-off here.

And we kept going nuttier: Ed Asner and Vic Tayback as kooky cosmonauts whose capsule lands in a duck pond and now they have to pretend to be Mexican. Don't ask us why, because we haven't got that far into production yet.

And still going: The Hudson Brothers comprise the unrelated police force; Dom Deluise and James Coco play twin badass mafia collectors; Jack Lord and Robert Conrad are FBI brothers chasing the cosmonauts but unwittingly hire them to shingle their roof while the neanderthal brothers supply the foundation work by piling rocks; David Keith and Keith David are identical twin inventors who accidentally does the town's water supply with Viagra; Imogene Coca, Jo Ann Worley and Alice Ghostley as the most expensive hookers in town; Moms Mabley and Redd Fox in drag could play the twin madams with hearts of gold in a "very special episode"; Mel Torme and Barney Rubble are twin big game hunters who open a donut and taxidermy cafeteria; Dolph Sweet, Brian Dennehy, Kenneth McMillan, and Charles Durning are door to door quadruplet masseuses; Elizabeth Taylor and Divine as twin hairdressers; and it goes on and on and on.

I'll spare you the less savory suggestions.

Man, talk about a golden age of television!

Brotherton...a Quinn Martin Production!

Speaking of high quality entertainment, you won't find it in Bad Day in a Banana Hammock, the first in my continuing Zach and Zora comical mystery tales. But if you're looking for lotsa dumb yuks, you've come to the right place!