Vacuum Cleaners Don't Suck!

Well, yes they do. Wait... No, they don't. I mean they don't suck in the way you'd want them to suck, but on principle, they figuratively suck.

I'm not sure what the deal is. Vacuum cleaner manufacturers have made a killing off of planned obsolescence. Back in the day, when our vacuum cleaner would (inevitably) break, I'd take it in to some guy to fix it. He'd either laugh and tell me buying a new one would be cheaper or I'd wait for months for him to get around to it. In fact, one time I lugged our cleaner into a vacuum repair shop where the hard-to-understand owner tried to sell me a new one instead of repairing it "because he didn't want to deal with it."

I've never met a vacuum cleaner I didn't hate.

My long-time hatred for vacuum cleaners goes back to my youth. At the time, my then-wife decided to have a vacuum cleaner salesman call on us (to get our free trip to Branson for listening to his spiel {of which we never used; all the hoops you have to jump through to "qualify" just wasn't worth it}). This kid's tactics were shameless, using guilt ("Just look at the dirt I picked up from your cushion; I know you're better parents than that."), shame ("Do you really want your baby crawling in filth?"), lies ("Hmmm...let me call my boss and see if I can take off twenty bucks."), and other completely transparent ploys. Even though I was ready to boot the jackass outta our house, my wife bought into it.

So... For the incredibly low, low price of $1,200 dollars, we got the super-fantastic, highly deluxe vacuum cleaner of the century! Pretty horrible when  you have to take out a loan to get a vacuum cleaner.

Of course, the Super Megatron Vacuu-Suck 2,000 quit working after a month.

No wonder dogs hate vacuum cleaners so much.

It really doesn't matter how much you spend on a vacuum, they're all built to fail. If I was of a conspiracy bent, I'd say that vacuum cleaner companies secretly build their wares with a month-long shelf life. And clearly--CLEARLY--they're in cahoots with Consumer Reports. Why? Because--get this--Consumer Reports claims that the median life of a vacuum cleaner is eight years.

EIGHT YEARS??? I've rarely had one that's lasted a year. And that's a rarity. Our basement is pretty much a vacuum graveyard full of the corpses of long-dead cleaners. (Some day I'll figure out why I don't just toss them out.)

My vacuum curse isn't limited to me. Apparently the sins of the father have been passed down to my daughter. For the short period of time she's owned a house, she's gone through about six cleaners. One day, while she was at work, I attempted vacuuming for her and all the "cleaner" did was blow dirt around.

My wife said, "Did you read the manual?"

I rolled my eyes in disbelief. Everyone knows men aren't supposed to read manuals or instructions. If you do, you may as well hand in your Man Card immediately.

In 2015, a French law was passed that demanded manufacturers display how long their appliances would last. The French got one thing right (don't even get me going on Jerry Lewis). If that law were passed here, dozens of vacuum cleaner manufacturers would be put out of business, the stock market would crash, Democrats and Republicans would have a Kumbaya come-together moment, your basic end-of-the-world scenario.

Suck it, Hoover!

Speaking of shameless, sucky things, why not check out my Zach and Zora books? The comic mystery series pulls out all the stops, knows no boundaries of good taste, and is guaranteed to tickle your inner eleven year old. That's a guarantee!* But don't take my word for it. Check 'em out here!

*Guarantee void in all English-speaking countries.

Man-Dog!

Well. The uprising has started earlier than I thought it would. And it wasn't robots OR apes. Nope! It came from a surprise insurgent group that sorta snuck right up on humanity. Yes, I'm talking about humans disguising themselves as animals.

First, we have humans dressed up as sun bears in a Chinese zoo, waving merrily at spectators. (Or ARE they human? I swan, conspiracy theorists will find a smoking gun behind everything.)

And now we have the man living as a collie. Ladies and gents, I give you Toco! Let's hear it for Toco! (I'll wait until the smattering of applause has died down.)

While "Toco" is an alias, not much is known about him, other than that he's Japanese with a YouTube channel comprised of 31,000 subscribers (and growing). And he's living out his lifelong dream of being a dog.

Dream big, Toco, you champion in the clouds, dream big!

I'm happy for Toco, being able to (sorta) fulfill his lifelong dream and (kinda) live life to the fullest extreme. While most people (usually in their childhood years) dream of being...oh, I dunno...a fireman or a ballerina or even a cowboy, Toco took the higher canine path and commissioned a company to design a lifelike dog costume for him for a mere $16,000. That's 16 large, folks! Think of all the "real" dogs you could've fed for that amount of money.

I'm beginning to think there's something a little wrong with Toco. Just a hunch. I believe he may think that about himself as well, but doesn't really come out and say it. In an interview, he told the reporter he wants to keep his identity anonymous, because "I don't want my hobbies to be known, especially by the people I work with" and "I rarely tell my friends, because I am afraid they might think I am weird."

Gee. Ya think? And even more importantly...he's got a job? And friends???

Just look at him frolicking in the streets with people. But the actual dogs he encounters appear smarter than people, displaying hesitance and fear at approaching him, at least at first. Dogs have always shown good taste.

How far will Toco take this? If he has a significant other, does this person control Toco's shock collar? Does Toco use a toilet or go in the backyard? Is Toco rewarded with gross dog treats? Is he spanked with a newspaper every time he misbehaves? Does Toco eat human food or dog food? YOU be the judge! 

But who am I to judge? If this makes Toco happy, and he's not hurting anyone, then more power to him for fulfilling his dream. As nightmarish as it is.

Speaking of nightmares, check out my book, Ghosts of Gannaway, a book chock full of nightmarish scenarios of ghosts, human and supernatural villains, an Indian curse, an attack of ravens, murder, photographs come to life, and lots of other creepy happenings. But that only tells half the tale: Gannaway is heavily based on true events that happened in a small mining town in Picher, Oklahoma. Sometimes the truth is scarier than fiction. Check it out here!

Pesca-what-now?

My wife says to me, "What do you think about pescatarians?" 

I shrug and say, "Hmmm. Kinda indifferent, really. Aren't those the guys on 'Star Trek' with the ridged foreheads?"

She responds with an award-winning eyeroll.

Next I offer, "Wait... They're the scary cult of Joe Pesci fanatics, right?"

"Don't be dense, dear."

"Okay, okay. I know it's the fish-like people of Pescaria. But are they ruled by Aquaman or Submariner?"

Alright, the above is malarkey. I actually knew what a pescatarian was, but wasn't quite sure I was ready to take the full plunge. You see, my wife and I are constantly on the lookout for diets that work for us. For a long while, the low-carb deal worked wonders. But the older we get, the harder it is to take off those well-earned pounds.

So. Pescatarian it is! (For those few who don't know, pescatarians incorporate fish into an otherwise vegetarian diet. We're vegetarians who cheat.)

Of course there're pros and cons to this diet plan. On the con side, no more meat. Boooooooo! But to be honest, lately I'd been giving that some thought. Not too long ago, I remember gnawing at a chicken breast and began to think about the ramifications of this poor, brave chicken who valiantly gave its life so I could chow down on its meat. Except...it didn't really give its life. It had no say in the matter. It'd been raised in a pen only to be slaughtered and sold as food. Gross! And I don't see President Biden "pardoning" chickens every day. 

As an animal lover, the whole meat-eating thing's been kinda bugging me recently. (And, natch, as a meat lover of nearly sixty years, I was also torn, struggling to leave my slavering, carnivore instincts behind.) But I took the splash and dove in (hello, fishies!).

Now I hear some of you saying, "Stuart, don't feed us that liberal, granola b.s. about meat is murder. Get a grip, man! Go hug a tree, feel good about yourself, then follow that up with a slab of A-1 cow ribs!"

To that I say, "Leave me alone, dammit!" (I was always a great debater.)

Others may say, "Pffft. Animals are dumb. They're here to supply us food. Besides...everyone knows animals don't have souls."

And I would respond, "We don't know that. There's no possible way to scientifically discern that. For that matter, we don't even know if we have souls. A soul is not a scientific construct!"

Now before you bible-thumping, meat-eating guys come after me with a pitchfork, I'll grant you this little bit of hypocrisy: If based solely on moral reasoning, I think it's a bit insincere for pescatarians to eat fish and not meat. Science has proven that fish can feel pain. So there's that. Also, they have a central nervous system. (Now I'm thinking about all of those hooks into their mouths. Yikes.) 

Why are pescatarians allowed to eat fish and not meat? Beats me. Maybe it's because we try not to think of fish in the same way as we do, say, cows. I mean, fish don't walk, right? And let's face it...fish are kinda gross. Far from cute. At least the edible kind. 

Perhaps it's because fish aren't as visibly prevalent as chickens, hiding out in the ocean doing God knows what. You know...outta sight, outta mind, fair game to eat, let's dine! Bam!

But based upon an intensely in-depth scientific study I conducted (I made it up), the real reason pescatarians allow themselves to devour fish? So they can eat sushi. Everyone knows humankind can't exist without sushi.

(I kinda think the real reason, though, is that fish provides a great deal of nutrients and vitamins, and on a straight-up vegetarian diet, you could become anemic. But THAT'S hardly fun to yak about.)

So, how is the pescatarian diet going for me? Well, I've only been on it for a couple weeks, having it been kickstarted by a freak storm knocking out our electricity for days, thus forcing us to toss out all of our meat. A sign!

But the results so far have varied. When I'm eating a celery, peppers, and other junk wrap, I can't help but think about a juicy hamburger.

Speaking of which, my wife picked up some plant-based "burger" patties called "Beyond Meat." It's beyond meat alright...beyond and all the way into the trash can. When I cooked a couple in a skillet, I made the mistake of cooking them as long as meat. Needless to say, the rank odor of burnt plants still fills the house. (I bet Moses could relate, burning bush and all.) I also made the mistake of thinking it'd taste just like a meat burger. Instead, it sorta tasted like cardboard. Only worse.

I miss pizza. But, hey! I always forget I can have a 52 cheese pizza (hold the veggies, please, just this once) and pretend there's sausage on it. 

There are other cheats, too, lots of substitutes. And of course, all the gross fish I care to eat. It's a much better diet than straight-up vegetarianism. At least I get sushi!

While on the topic of what seemed like a good idea at the time, meet my protagonist "Tex" McKenna, regular guy who just wants to survive the travails of high school, such as bullying. Problem is he keeps making bad decisions, teenage style. Also, he's found out he's a witch. Compound that with the mysterious repeat killer who's targeted him and his few, but loyal friends. It's all in Tex, the Witch Boy, the first in a series of books.

Lights Out 2: The Crappening

Just when you thought it was safe to go back in the house...

And just like a crappy movie sequel that nobody wanted except for creatively-deficient and greedy Hollywood execs, our electricity went out again. Six days after the first traumatic five day, four night ordeal.

Mercifully, it was a lot less severe than the first go-around, but it was still agonizing. I couldn't believe it. I'd just got accustomed to having, you know, the simple things in life--lights, air conditioning, the ability to cook--and so naïve me, I settled into my comfy electric love-seat again. And outside, the winds picked up. Sirens wailed. Hail from Hell pounded down. Our larger dog jumped up into my lap (nearly rupturing me in the doing), her heart pounding against her chest. And the lights flickered. I moaned. Another flickering. I groaned. A third time, I'm getting angry. And on the fourth?

Ka-Blam! Crackle, snap, pop, baby, transformers blew all in a row like a string of firecrackers. Lights out! Again.

This time, I'm screaming and cursing at the top of my lungs. I'm pretty sure I heard a collective wail of agony and torment from around the neighborhood, as well. And there I was, stuck in the electric recliner again like a never-learning goofball.

But since our first outage, I'd developed a network of street-long neighbors who kept each other appraised of the situation. Seeing as how there wasn't anything else to do, I took to my phone and it started dinging away with panicked texts from our newly-formed neighborhood alliance.

To all of us, it just seemed cruel that the mad gods of climate change had decided to hit us again after not even a week-long respite.

I knew where to go on my phone to check out the damage and to see if we'd get a quicker response this time. Apparently, whatever the problem was, it showed that if affected about 100 of my neighbors, so I assured my network of pals that we'd get higher priority this time. My best informant (the last of the hold-outs to stay home from the last storm) took to her car to cruise the neighborhood and scope out the problem. An entire power-line at the end of two blocks had completely fallen down, blocking off the street.

So my initial assessment was correct: it's a major problem that would get immediate attention. However, it was also a huge-ass problem that would take time. And I wasn't reassured by the power energy company's on-line, rote complaint about "we're doing the best we can, bla, bla, bla, but it's raining outside, you suckers may have to wait a a couple days, bla, bla, bla, company line and read between the lines: you're gonna get hit with hella price increases next year due to these storms."

But as I said, this time things didn't seem as severe. It helped immensely having my wife home with me during this outing. Just several hours earlier, she had just got back from helping her mom out with projects for a week and was definitely happy to be home. You know...relaxing in a nice, cool, electricity-filled home.

But as the ubiquitous "they" say: misery loves company. (Seeing as how she'd missed the entire first storm, I was more than happy to share my misery pain and suffering and First World Problems I'd endured.)

While still stuck in my mandated reclining pose, she came downstairs to join me, flashlights lighting the way. We sat in the darkness for a while, just chatting. Finally, she said, "Well, I'm going to bed." Me? I wasn't ready to go to bed at 9:00 on a weekend, so I sat in the dark with my phone, investigating, complaining, trying vainly to get a human's response to no avail.

When I finally stumbled up to bed, I was hot, sweating, miserable. Until at 2:00 A.M., whizzzzzzz...the lights came back on! The air conditioning window unit kicked on! Huzzah! Hooray for the power company!

Then again, it's getting kinda ridiculous. Every time our power blows out (and it does so a lot in our heavily wooded area), we suffer as do the power and light workers who trudge out into the storm to fix things. But they keep applying Band-Aids to the problem, instead of fixing the deeper issue: why not bury the damn lines like everybody out in newer suburbia has had done?

Okay, I had to gripe! I hope--nay, I pray--next week at this time, you won't be reading about a third power outage. I write this as thunder is booming outside and the rain is crying down.

Sigh...

Speaking of traumatic times, every time I think I've got problems, I consider poor Shawn Biltmore. Shawn's a corporate drudge on the lowest rung of low ladders at a heartless, soulless corporation. He also hates his job, has women problems, and has just been bitten by a werewolf. Hijinx ensue in my bloody, darkly comical, horror mystery, Corporate Wolf. Check it out here before the next full moon!