The Ultimate Insult

A while back, I had a very restless, insomnia-filled night (that's not the unusual part of this true, traumatic tale). When I finally bumbled out of bed, I had only logged about three hours of sleep. So I was in a bad mood.

"I didn't sleep last night," I grumbled by way of saying "good morning" to my wife. "I feel like ca-ca poo-poo."

"Good morning to you, dear."

"What's good about it?" I snapped. "Where's the granola? WHY don't we have any granola? And where did you put it this time?"

"I didn't put it anywhere. If we have any, it's in the carb cabinet where it always is."

"And why are there so many damn packages in the foyer? It's like an Amazon warehouse! I can't even move!"

"Stuart," my wife replied calmly, "stop it. You're acting like our president."

Wow. That one took me aback. The ultimate insult, worse than anything I could imagine. Throwing tantrums worse than our wonderful president? Unthinkable. And it hurt. Badly. But the truth often does.

After thinking about it a while, I realized she was right and I was slinging my grumpiness at her. Caught in the crosshairs of my ire, we'll call it "friendly fire."

"I'm sorry," I said. "I'm tired and I didn't mean to take it out on you."

But while walking away, I grumbled, "But my tantrums weren't nearly as bad as Trump's."

While thinking of men behaving badly, my book Secret Society immediately came to mind. We have more serial killers running around than clowns coming out of a clown car. And wait until you meet the bad guys! Check out all the fun, thrills, suspense, mystery, and very dark humor in Secret Society, available here.