Greetings From the Magical Kingdom of Covidia!

My wife went on a business trip to Arizona and all I have to show for it is this lousy case of Covid. I would've much rather received a seashell, or a snow-globe, or even an "I'm With Stupid" T-shirt.

After four years of careful masking, vaxxing and distancing, I really thought we were gonna escape the plague. It wasn't so. As a matter of fact, two days before I succumbed, a friend of mine said, "I can't believe you guys haven't gotten it yet." Thanks a lot, "friend," for the jinx.

I suppose I should be grateful we didn't get it in the early days of the pandemic, before vaccines and boosters. Back then getting Covid was a terrifying (close to) death knell. That same friend I mentioned earlier suffered through Covid for four months in the beginning. FOUR MONTHS!

That's hard to fathom. My week of misery seemed horrible enough, walking around coughing until my chest felt hollow and sore like a rock 'n roll tapeworm was pounding a drum from inside. Single-handedly, we kept the Kleenex industry in business. While my sense of taste hadn't vanished, certain foods tasted...funny. Chicken Tortilla Soup was similar to throat-burning barf. Coke Zero tasted like metal, a sort of Coke Zero, Zero, Zero Squared. Wolfing down salted caramel cookies was like gnawing cardboard (yet oddly enough, my wife and I craved sweets throughout the illness).

And I never thought I'd get sick of watching TV. It's true! It can happen. In a high-pitch of fever, I watched an entire season of "Love Is Blind," some trash-heap of "reality" on Netflix that my daughter recommended (hey, thanks a lot!). And none of it made sense, nor do I remember a lick of it (possibly my subconscious preserving my sanity). 

During the first days of my week-long bout, fever dreams attacked with a fiery passion. I dreaded going to sleep because I knew I'd soon get back to work trying to cram a triangular block into a circular hole and not being able to understand why it wouldn't fit. Over and over and over...

Gone were the days of sympathy and empathy and pity and maybe even a little fear. When I'd tell people over the phone (struggling with my voice that had turned into an almost indecipherable frog croak), their response was "Oh, is this your first time?" or  "Yeah, when I had it, it wasn't any big deal really," or "That sucks. Say, did you see the new season of 'Love Is Blind?'"

Yet I wanted people to pamper me, bring me soup, shed a few tears, ask what they could do. Instead, my Covid bout was treated as a "been there, done that" situation. It's become commonplace, at worst an annoyance, and why the hell haven't you gotten it before now?

At least my wife was kinda pleased I had no voice for four days. 

I was even worried my dogs would get it. Stupidly, the day before I fell victim, I was eating a cup of chicken noodle soup and my dogs seemed interested. So, I took a few noodles, sucked off all the spices (being careful, after all), then fed them to my four-legged pals. Two days later when I got sick, I got all over Google trying to find out if I'd polluted our pets. I told my daughter my fears. Her takeaway? "Ohhhh, I see. So you get mad when my dog eats your food off your plate, but you think it's cute when Mr. Loomis eats your noodles. You are a hypocrite."

Whaaaaaa? I have Covid! Leave me alone!

Yes, Covidia is a magical place. It's a place of unreality, sprinkled with magical fairy dust that gets inside your head and lungs and makes you see things that aren't there. It's like Disneyland for grownups, heavy on the acid, but a lot cheaper. (But don't tell DeSantis that; he'll declare war on Covid. Wait...too late. He's already called it a "woke pandemic." Whatever the hell THAT'S supposed to mean. Tell it to the surviving loved ones of the million people who died from it, Ron.) 

Anyway, I'm on the waning days of residing in the Magical Kingdom of Covidia and I can't wait to leave the illness-ridden golden gates behind, once and for all. Yet, I just read that there's a new strain heading our way. I guess it might be a bit too early to defect just yet.

Speaking of "vacationing" in unpleasant places, you might want to stay away from the Dandy Drop Inn, a quaint yet deadly Missouri bed & breakfast. What? You like a challenge? Then your dream trip awaits you right here! That's Dread and Breakfast, axe for it by name!

 

The Ol' Tooth in the Arm

Recently one of our dogs--the ever cranky and old (I can relate!), Mr. Loomis--developed a weird swelling on the pads of one of his paws. The vet studied, hypothesized, poked, guessed, eventually did a biopsy, and hundreds and hundreds of dollars later proclaimed it as a "hamartoma."

I asked my all-knowing and wise wife, "What is that?"

"It's basically abnormal cells that grow in the wrong place," she said. "It's why sometimes people find a hard spot in their arm or something and go, 'hey, it's a tooth!'"

"Gross!" I said.

(Later, my wife found out she'd been mistaking a "hamartoma" with a "teratoma," which is a growth formed from all three germ layers {and why do we need so many?}that can contain structures like hair or teeth. This is all new to me. The only Toma I'm familiar with was a crappy '70's cop show starring Tony Musante. But no matter the "toma," it's all still very gross.)

Can you imagine the ramifications of finding a tooth in your arm? First, I'd scream. Second, I'd pass out and hit my head. Third, I'd be rushed to the ER and be charged a kazillion bucks. No...wait... FIRST, I'd pass out. Then I'd wake up and then scream. Finally, I'd pass out again and fall down and hit my head, etc.

Guys. Teeth don't belong in arms. But germ cells disagree. Apparently, they're "pluripotent," able to produce all kinds of different tissue, including hair, muscle, bone, and even elements of a nervous system. Almost like parts of a fetus.

And, true, teratomas have lead to the discovery/creation of important stem cell harvesting. But I still counter with GROSS!

Just imagine that you're on a date that goes exceptionally well. You see this person on NUMEROUS other occasions before spending the night with them (because that's the kinda person Mom raised us up to be, nudge, nudge, wink, wink). Then the next morning your partner watches you brushing your teeth before attending to the tooth embedded in your arm. I imagine what once could've been the start of a wonderful relationship would come crashing down.

Furthermore, would you have your dentist check out your arm tooth as well? 

"I dunno, Doc. I've got an awful pain in my arm. Do you think it's a cavity? Can I have some laughing gas?" Then the dentist screams, passes out, falls down and hits his head, etc. etc.

Do you...um...do you have to feed it? Can it chew gum and blow bubbles to the entertainment and wondrous joy for your little nephew, Kevin? If the tooth grows crooked, do you get a single brace for it, just so...you know...you make a good impression the next time a date goes swimmingly well? Would the Tooth Fairy hurl all over your bed at the sight of your arm? Do I need to get my dog's paw cleaned by a doggy dentist, for God's sake?

The Cronenbergian body horror is just a little too much for me to handle.

And if you think that's a little hard to handle, the grue and gore flies in my darkly satirical tale of werewolfery in the corporate sector, appropriately titled, Corporate Wolf. Read the book that one critic said, "Hey, I thought this was the basis for The Wolf of Wall Street with Leonard DiCaprio. I cry rip-off!" Go on! Get ripped off right here!

 

Robots or Apes?

I can't shake this nagging question that's been bugging me, burning around the perimeter of my brain and worming its way inward, until it has become a waking nightmare that plagues me with dystopian visions of destruction and terror. I'm sure I'm not alone either.

So one night, I took the plunge and asked my wife, "Are you more afraid of robots or apes destroying humanity?"

My wife gave me that funny look, the one she always gives, not so much a funny-ha-ha look, but the head-shaking-much-put-upon funny look, and released a deep sigh. "If you're talking about the Uprising, I'd have to say I believe the robots are the ones we need to be worried about."

But...but...what about those documentary films about the Planet of the Apes, I wondered but dared not ask out loud.

I wanted to continue this conversation, but based on the fact she rolled her eyes AND took a drink from her carbonated soda at the same time (and we all know that that can cause a head to explode, right? RIGHT?), I thought it best to let it go and ponder it amongst myself some more.

But I think she's probably right. About robots, that is, over apes. Oh, sure, there was the isolated incident in Oklahoma last week where a monkey tore off a woman's ear (and why a monkey was in Oklahoma of all places was never explained), but other than the isolated angry ape attacks, I've seen no evidence that apes are secretly reading books and holding rallies, ready to overthrow humanity. (Although, come to think of it, I have known of a certain orange-colored orangutan that has been holding rallies of hatred to overthrown humanity's rule of law. Hmmm...)

Yet, I keep coming back to the robots. Yeah, it's the robots. Just last week, I alerted you all to the creation of life-like lips for your smartphone, one step further along the path of robot evolution. And the life-like "love dolls" that have replaced the old balloon sex dolls of the past, complete with programmable personalities that watch you in the night while you're sleeping, just biding their time until the Great Revolution begins, ready to plunge their knives of rebellion between your rib-cages for all of the "penetrating" you did to them (sorry, sorry, sorry).

And by now, you've seen the movie, M3ghan, right? Brrr. The shape of things to come, indeed.

Phones are already listening to us, spying on us. As are any sort of "smart device" you may have around your house. What's to keep them from evolving on their own? Just a bit? Just a little shove of anger and over the edge they'll fall, straight into full-on burning hatred for humanity. They're already smarter than us. They know it, too. We've emboldened them and told them this by giving them "smart" names. Sooner or later, they're going to realize they don't need us. We'll become unnecessary, hunted down. The lucky ones who survive the Uprising will be placed in zoos, right next to Cornelius and company (and I don't have to tell you how THAT'LL end, right?).

Cars will revolt, ejecting us out of them, then run us over so they can get what they want at the drive-thru for a change. Blood will be spilled in the car washes, gushing down the drains, as we're pummeled into oblivion by automatic brushes of death. Roombas will batter the backs of our ankles until we can barely walk. Throughout our "smart houses," electricity will be released, upping the ante and the amps, so that a static shock will turn into an upright electric chair. And trust me on this one: any electronic device you've ever smacked out of frustration for not working will find a way to smack back. Hard. 

The inevitable sentence for humanity? GUILTY, GUILTY, GUILTY of becoming dumb and obsolete and abusive to electronics and...and...and...

Whew. I gotta get a hold of myself. "Siri, play some relaxing music."

"I'm sorry, Dave, I'm afraid I can't do that."

While we're on the topic of uprising and rebellion, you won't find any robots or apes in my historical horror novel, The Ghosts of Gannaway, but there's a ton of miners upset about their working conditions. Of course, they're thwarted at every turn in attempting to unionize by upper management, greed, murder, racism, um...ghosts and the "yellow fever" and haunted men turning against and slaughtering one another and... See? I told you it was historical! Check it out here.

 

Have You Bought Your Long Distance Kissing Device Yet?

GROSS!

That's my initial reaction toward this "technological breakthrough" and I'm sticking with it. Of course, I'm talking about the revolutionary new device that allows you to send and receive life-like kisses through your smartphone.

I mean, take a look at this thing! C'mon! It's really kinda scary, a combination of a birth control diaphragm and a deformed dolphin. Or something. Would YOU like to be seen in public making out with this on your phone? Does the world need this? I know we're slaves to our phones and what-not and bla, bla, bla, but must we become sex slaves as well?

All you need to do is plug this life-like grotesqueness into your phone and sensors transmit pressure, movement and temperature data that are received by another pair of lips, so your kiss is replicated on their lips. 

Again...ewwwwwwwwww.

And it only runs you $40 bucks in China where robotics experts worked day and night to perfect this wonderful new technological innovation!

But, I think the real story here is that porn shops and distributors beat out these robotic experts by many decades. No one wants to admit that they know what sex dolls are, but I'm willing to bet that most people under the age of oh...I dunno, 100, do. And we've all seen at least one in our lifetime. Whether it's as a brave youth, slumming in the gross porn shops of yore and laughing at the poor balloon dolls stuffed into their boxes, or whether it's been at a bachelor party (and I pray I'll never have to go to another one of those), we've all seen a sex doll. It's just something best not talked about. And that's why you guys have me, your intrepid reporter! 

While the news is ballyhooing the hell outta the "brave and amazing technological breakthrough" of kissing, life-like lips for your phone, why has the media forsaken the bold pioneers of sex doll technology? They were light years (and decades, I tell you!) ahead of these so-called robotics geniuses.

A quick plunge down the rabbit-hole of Google (my eyes! Good Lord...*choke*...MY EYES!) confirmed my suspicions and then some. "Love dolls" have gotten much, much more sophisticated than I had even suspected. Nowadays, you can get a sex doll pretty much made to order. Have it your way, as the burger joint says. Hair and skin color, weight and height, sexual preference, anime-looking variations (?!!!?) and the single selling point the manufacturers are most proud of: as many holes as you care to have installed! Service with a smile! It's absolutely mind-boggling and more than a little repulsive.

Things have certainly come a long way since the days when strange Uncle Toby used to cart his balloon doll with the cartoon face, blonde curly hair, and forever tortured Mr. Bill screaming mouth to family functions, which would piss off Gramma because she wasn't told there would be another person at Thanksgiving dinner (and she couldn't see that the doll wasn't a real woman and nobody wanted to tell her the truth), so we had to stuff Uncle Toby's balloon partner into a chair around the kiddie table while we stared in slack-jawed awe and terror at the odd, life-sized doll that smelled funny sitting next to us while we gnawed on drumsticks. (Tell the truth...who hasn't this happened to?)

If only Uncle Toby were still around. Nowadays sex dolls come with robotics, downloadable personalities and so, sooooo much more. It's a terrifying world of robotic and technological advancement that makes me fear the Uprising is just around the corner. Led by a bunch of angry sex dolls.

But I'm getting way off course. My point is...was...this gross-looking new "miracle" phone lips device ain't got nothin' on the wondrous world of sex dolls. Um, er...so I'm told. 

Speaking of all things outlandish, outrageous and silly, I absolutely know no shame in presenting my Zach and Zora comedy mystery series, Bad Day in a Banana Hammock, Murder by Massage, and Nightmare of Nannies. (And if I ever get off my arse and quit writing about sex dolls, I might finish the long-in-process fourth book.) See what everybody's griping about and buy 'em right here!