Highway Blowout!

Have you guys ever had a blowout on the highway? Now, I'm not talking about the kind where you suffer the after effects of eating Taco Bell, but rather the nerve-ratcheting, terrifying, car-shaking kind where a tire just blows.

Last weekend, I was zooming down the 8-laned highway to visit my daughter (usually just an hour's drive), bringing the car up to 70 mph. I was nearing the exit to a smaller highway, when my car starts shaking.

My first thought, of course, was "hmmm, we're having an earthquake." Then I thought, "wow, they really need to repave this stretch."

Soon enough, it became quite apparent that there was something wrong with my car. I think the people passing me, yelling, honking, and pointing at my tire was my first clue.

Okay, I know what you're supposed to do: pull over on the shoulder and change it (or call triple AAA). But there really wasn't a shoulder to speak of, no room to change it, and I didn't relish the idea of trying to change a tire with thousands of cars racing by me just inches away from my back.

So I did the next best thing: kept driving on it, attempting to make my exit that was within sight, just a quarter mile away. 

"C'mon," I muttered, "we can do it."

Everyone and their father (ESPECIALLY your fathers) will tell you that driving on a flat tire isn't the right solution because you'll ruin your wheel and perhaps do even more damage to the car. But I persisted.

The car rattled, shaking like a blender. Soon a constant thwapping sound seemed to be following me: thwap, thwap, thwap, thwap, thwap... Then...a very scary sizzling sound.

Something started to smell; something burning. Then the inevitable metal grinding into pavement sound came next. But here was my exit! So close, yet so far away.

People were shaking their heads, speeding by me, honking, using one-fingered salutes (you know, typical good citizens) while I had no recourse but to carry on, acting in my best oblivious Mister Magoo manner.

Finally...the exit!!! I felt like an idiot as I thwapped onto the exit and then had to wait at the light with a lot of cars in front and in back of me. My plan was just to fix the tire on the ramp (or just off of it) but then like a message from God, a sign beamed in the sunlight. "Discount Tire!" Huzzah! I figured, why not? It's only about a quarter mile away. Meanwhile people are still honking and pointing at my tire as I slowly ground my way toward my lucky break.

I thwapped my way into the Discount Tire parking lot. I just stopped the car, didn't bother with a parking spot. I raced into the store, hoping to get immediate relief, and...there was a line of about five people with tons more sitting around, clearly disgruntled.

When I finally got waited on, the clerk came out to take a look at my tire. And promptly laughed. "Wow," he said, "I can't believe you made it." The tire was nothing but tatters, the wheel resting on the tarmac. But the good news was he didn't think the wheel looked damaged and said I was lucky.

After waiting in the tire store for three hours, I didn't feel so lucky. But I resumed my journey. What normally took one hour took four hours.

Later, I was telling my daughter and her boyfriend of my harrowing experience. I felt validated when the boyfriend said, "Yeah, I would've done the same thing." 

So let this be a lesson to all of you. Your fathers were WRONG about driving on flat tires!

Speaking of making bone-headed decisions, have you guys read my Zach and Zora comical mystery series? Well, why not? Read about Zach, a very dumb but lovable male stripper, who does nothing but make bone-headed decisions which more often than not, makes him a murder suspect leading to his (usually) pregnant, sleuth sister to bail him out of trouble. Check 'em out here!

Suffering Side Effects!

Lately I've been plagued with extremely vivid dreams and nightmares. So realistic, I practically believe they're happening in the "real world (you know, the "real world" where "reality" shows provide a blueprint for the way young people behave.)" 

Now don't get me wrong. I'm a big fan of dreams, the nuttier the better. But most of these are nightmares, usually exploding in an orgy of sudden violence with me at the center of it. And they always feel real. 

So I asked my wife if this could be a side effect of the new drug I'd been prescribed, a weight loss tablet.

She researched it, and yes, that was one of the side effects.

I'm not fond of the diet pill in the first place. It's as big as a horse pill and when I began taking it, it'd get lodged in my throat and I'd end up hurling it back up again. I told my wife, "No wonder it's a weight loss drug." Eventually I got the hang of it, but dread when I have to go up to four throat blockers a day.

Anyway, I digress... I began wondering about the other side effects associated  with the drug. For instance, lately I've been urinating every two hours, just like clockwork. Again, I looked into side effects from the horse pill. Sure enough,  I'd found the culprit. J'Accuse!

Another fun "possible" side effect is the drug may cause seizures. Yow! So, let's get this straight...I may be on the floor having seizures, foaming at the mouth, and biting my tongue, but hey! I'll sure look nice and svelte while doing it!

Other side effects include constipation, nausea, headaches, dizziness, elevated blood pressure and severe allergic reactions. Oh, and it may cause suicidal thoughts.

By golly, this seems like the perfect drug for me! The only thing missing are further disclaimers warning of chronic laziness, internal bleeding, the desire to punch strangers in the neck, permanent resting bitch face, overnight changes into "Karen" behavior, and Trump Derangement Syndrome.

Basically, if anything is wrong with me health-wise, I'm blaming it on the weight-loss drug.

I'm reminded about a trip to the pharmacist some time ago when my doctor prescribed a drug for anxiety. Outside the pharmacist's window sat a huge guy who looked like George R. R. Martin, hat and all. 

He says to me, "I couldn't help but overhear about the drug you're asking for. I used to take it...until I realized IT'S DESIGNED TO TURN YOU INTO A LUNATIC!"

Looking at this guy screaming in the pharmacy, I thought that drug ship had long ago sailed.

But what do we expect when our top governmental health official has proclaimed Tylenol is evil and kids shouldn't get circumcised because it causes autism?

It's like you just can't trust drugs anymore. Let's Make Drugs Fun Again!

Speaking of side effects, poor Shawn Biltmore is experiencing the worst kind of side effect from a bite: lycanthropy. Read all the terror, horror, mystery, and dark humor of Shawn's tale in Corporate Wolf, the only (that I know about, natch) corporate satire about werewolves!

My College Roommate

Jerry on the left at my wedding

I had several college roommates. The first one looked like John Denver ("far out!"). Then there was Johnny Cook who eventually (secretly) quit going to classes to start working at a gas station. He'd leave dirty greasy fingerprints all over the walls and light fixtures.

But my favorite college roommate was Jerry who I'm still friends with, but rarely see (probably for good reason; the last time I invited him to go to a brewery, he nearly got thrown out for his usual "Jerryatrics."). But he was a good friend, my best friend in college.

There was a downside to palling around with Jerry, however. He was morbidly handsome. Everywhere we went, girls swooned over him. I never stood a chance. "You look like Mark Harmon," I heard all the time. Eventually I had to start hanging out with uglier guys to even the playing field.

But Jerry showed me the ropes at KU (i.e., the bars) as he had a prior year experience and we had many great times. So I tried to repay him in different ways. Once I gave him an old English paper of mine (I had got an "A") to which he copied word for word. Somehow the professor gave him a "D+." Weird. But Jerry being Jerry, he showed the professor my paper and demanded a regrade (apparently he wasn't worried about plagiarism). Eventually his dad got involved and all hell broke loose. I believe he flunked the course but stayed in school.

Another time, I came home for lunch and found Jerry panicking on another paper on a book he had read. I asked him what it was about and what he wanted to say about it. So I knocked it out for him over my lunch hour. This time he got a "B+". Not bad considering I'd not read the book.

Soon Jerry and I and our various comrades began taking spring break vacations to Florida and other notorious party spots. On one particular drunken night, the eight of us retired to our 12th floor room, bodies strewn everywhere. Jerry fell asleep out on the deck. When he awakened, he looked into the room and spotted me laying at a strange angle. Immediately he freaked out and thought someone had cut my head off. He started screaming at people down in the street to get help because someone cut my head off. Soon hotel security came with cops and another friend answered the door. They weren't happy. Mercifully, I retained my head and managed to sleep through the entire ordeal.

But the good times with Jerry outweighed the bad. And we were inseparable for years. Time and kids catch up to all of us as does the worst inevitable offender: adult responsibility.

Jerry Nowadays

As far as roommates went, Jerry was the best and I could definitely have done worse. Take my poor suffering brother, for instance. His first roommate at K-State was a guy with the unfortunate moniker of Spencer Pickle. They had stacked their beds bunk-bed style and Spencer kept my brother awake every night by shaking the bed while pursuing..um...self-pleasure. He'd yell "Spencer, cut it out!" Spencer did but would inevitably start whittling on his bed post. My bro had to go sleep in the break room on more than one occasion. Then there's my nephew. He got stuck with a crazy guy who doesn't talk, is rarely spotted, and goes to his room and cries out strange noises.

Nope, I was lucky to be roomed up with Jerry.

Speaking of Jerry, I co-opted his tragedy from high school for my book Tex, the Witch Boy. The character that's based on Jerry was run over in the school parking lot intentionally by a bully. Several of his fingers became detached and he had to have his hand wired up in the air for a long time, thus fooling many teachers into believing he was asking a question. All of this and more is detailed in my book, Tex the Witch Boy available here!

The Ultimate Mom Jeans

By now, everyone's witnessed "Mom Jeans." Whether on Saturday Night Live's commercial parody for mom jeans or various moms sporting them, or Heaven forbid, even your own mother (and maybe even wife).

For those very few of the uninformed amongst you regarding this nightmarish fad, mom jeans are high-waisted denim jeans that were once considered fashionable in the late 80's and early 90's. Many people (usually under 40) see them as frumpy, unflattering and outdated.

And I'm hear to tell you the ultimate mom jeans horror story.

About twenty years ago or so, my mom started wearing jeans. She had never worn them before, had no interest in them. She was the June Cleaver type who fancied sensible dresses and later, slacks (along with tons of makeup and lots of caustic hairspray that used to set tears to my eyes).

So one day, out of the blue, she suddenly started wearing jeans. They never fit her very well, rose high up over her navel (the way my dad had liked his pants) and were unflattering in the extreme. 

I took a closer look. They were designer jeans. Then all of my worst fears collided in a kaleidoscope of terror.

"Mom," I gulped, "are those...are those...my jeans?"

She laughed (something I didn't feel like doing) and said, "Yes. How do you like them?" She twirled as if on the runway showing off a fashionable gown.

"Um...why are you wearing my jeans?" My voice sounded like I had a mouthful of pudding.

"Well, Stuart, they were here. And they fit." Again she gave an impish smile.

I didn't feel like raining on her extremely frugal parade by telling her decidedly no, they do not fit, not one bit. I tried to shrug it off as impossible a task as that was.

Now, I don't know if any of you have had similar situations, but I would imagine not. The feelings I experienced were odd: it was sort of humilating and emasculating in a weird sense. Here was my mom showing off her new-found (and extremely cheap) jeans as I sat there in horror realizing they were the same already outdated designer jeans I wore in college. The same ones that I had dated in (amongst other activities) many times. I don't know if my sudden avalanche of gut-churning anxiety came from the fact that my old jeans fit (more of less) my mom or the fact THAT MY MOM WAS WEARING MY JEANS. Either way, I feel it would give today's MAGA gender-label-fearing folks a fright.

Brrrrr.

I had long forgotten about this nightmare until last weekend when I was out with my brother and his daughters. Suddenly it came back to me like a paparazzi's lightbulb flash.

"Hey...did you know Mom used to wear my jeans?" I suddenly lobbed out there like a grenade. We were drinking beer so I thought everyone might get a kick out of it.

I was right. Too right. My brother freaked, told the girls (who weren't listening at the time) and laughed and laughed.

He said, "I always wondered where they came from and they never fit very well."

So. Youngsters, heed my advice: when you move out of your parents' house, take your old jeans with you and destroy them at the first possible moment. This is crucial to your future mental well-being.

Now that I have your attention about all things ridiculous, I may as well pimp out my most ridiculous books, the Zach and Zora comical mystery series. Start with book #1, Bad Day in a Banana Hammock and proceed (with caution) from there. If ludicrous situations, bizarre characters, comical hijinks, and murder mysteries are your bag, join the cool kids and buy 'em here.

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.

Strange New Species Discovery!

Recently I discovered something of great anthropological interest; a new breed of humanity that inhabit an island, far, far away from civilized humanity. They've developed their own curious language, bizarre dating rituals, wear little to no clothing, and have developed a dance uniquely their own.

Yes, it is I, Sir Admiral "Take A" Leaky, bringing you another important armchair anthropological discovery. I'm talking about, of course, the uncivilized inhabitants of Love Island.

This fascinating documentary series about a heretofore unknown species unravels in daily fashion, each day bringing a new discovery of this vastly different culture.

First of all, I have to wonder how these inhabitants came to live on Love Island in the first place. In an undisclosed location (clearly to protect their primitive lifestyle from civil people), these people all appear to be in their 20's (what would ordinarily be considered "Gen Z") and have great genetic qualities. There are no uggos in this collection of perfect human specimens. Which begs the question...who gave birth to this strange species? There are no responsible, older adults on the island, nor are there any children to be seen. How in the world can they sustain their lifestyle if they're all sterile?

Let's look at their curious language. "I wanna chop it up with her" is one such expression used constantly by the island's inhabitants (castaways?). After much consideration, I have decided it means that a courting male desires to chop up their meal (a boar, perhaps?) with his partner to be. Constantly they say "I ain't gonna lie," reaffirming their commitment to telling the truth (although, ironically enough, few of them do refrain from lying). "I'm standing on business" is a much used idiom that I haven't quite deciphered as is "I'm pressing down." Violence seems to be hinted at in their language. Finally, the inhabitants constantly brag that "I'd f*** with that." In civilized humanity, if someone were to say that, it would mean "giving one the business," but here it seems to be a statement of lust.

The new species on Love Island have no leader except for the rarely seen Queen of Love Island. Almost like a spiritual apparition, she appears in front of a ceremonial firepit, handing down orders as to what her minions shall do next, usually involving mating and sex. They are forced to "couple up" with someone for an overnight conjugal visit, all in the same bedroom, thus dispensing of rituals of civilized people such as dating, courting, and privacy.

The Love Island species appear to shun clothing at every possibility. The men lounge around in short shorts and the women choose to let it all hang out with a strap of dental floss set between their bottom cheeks, thus defying any possibility of comfort, practicality or sanitation.

No one appears to have a job, their days filled with working out, chatting, lounging pool-side and gossiping. A primitive culture, they seem to have a lot of growing to do as a people on the rise. But how far will it go? Does civilized humanity want these people to breed? Or were they themselves bred in test tubes?

Their extremely strange behavior might suggest such an origin. At every given chance, they change amorous partners more often than I change my underwear. The women have developed their own peculiar way of dancing wherein they thrust their bottoms in the air and make their cheeks flop up and down. This style was referred to as "twerking," and it's not a good look on anyone, particularly in civilized cultures.

The people of Love Island are worthy of much more study than I can provide from my armchair. Hopefully, someone will delve fully into this eccentric offspring of humanity and bring some much-needed clarity to this curious phenomena.

Or as my nephew put it, "Love Island represents everything that's wrong with humanity."

While on the topic of strange people and culture, I would be remiss if I didn't bring your attention to the folks of Peculiar County. Here, normal civilized people rub elbows with ghosts, witches, something that flies in the night, and murderers. Just another day in Peculiar County. You can visit right here!

A Mission of Cookies and Humiliation

I miss my mom. But I do swan (and all of you should know by now that I abhor "swanning"), she used to put me through the ringer.

Once Covid reared its ugly head, my brother, myself and my mom thought it a good idea that she just stay in her apartment and we'd do all the running for her. She was just too dang vulnerable at that point, mask or no mask (and we had no vaccines then, either). 

Honestly, I didn't mind putting together a list of her grocery needs and fetching them. It was ten times speedier than taking her with me to do her grocery shopping. Talk about a huge chunk of time lost forever. Once, she and I spent twenty minutes in the butter aisle alone. 

"How much is this one?" she'd ask and point at a box.

I'd tell her. Invariably, she'd come back with one of two of her usual responses, either "Hmmph" or "highway robbery!" We would then proceed to go through all the rest of the butter boxes and prices. Then she'd forget what the prices were and we'd start all over again. Behind me, a line began to form of impatient butter shoppers.

Anyway, one day I went to her apartment, ready to jot down her grocery list.

"Is that all?" I asked.

"Wait," she replied. She got up, went into the kitchen and brought back a half-eaten package of cookies, one of those see-through plastic containers half-filled with gross looking marshmallow cookies with an ugly aqua-colored frosting. She thrust the package at me. "Take these and get my money back."

I blinked. Stared at the proffered burden she held out to me. "Ummmm...what?"

"Take them back. They're awful."

"Mom...you ate half of them. I can't take them back!"

"I know what I know and I know that they're bad." (This was one of her favorite sayings and usually it signified that she wouldn't tolerate any fools and the argument was done because she knows what she knows.)

"But...but...Mom...if they were bad, why'd you eat half of them?"

"Take them back, Stuart. They're terrible."

"Mom...you know you can't return food just because you don't like it, right?"

To this, she giggled. Before I was chalking up her ridiculous demand as to her age, but the giggle signified she knew exactly what she was doing. A shrewd tactic, one designed to eat a half bag of gross cookies for free, a ploy worthy of the most tactical military minds of our times. Unfortunately, I was the expendable soldier tasked with carrying out this suicide mission.

Realizing that I couldn't stand up to my superiors, I set out on my mission of humiliation. Choosing to get that job over with before my shopping, head down, I raced to the customer service desk with cookies in hand.

"Can I help you?"

"Um...yeah...I hope so." I gave a little nervous chuckle, hoping to disarm the bomb I was about to drop. But instead, it took me back to the early days when my voice was changing. "I...uh...need to return these," I squeaked.

The grocery clerk grabbed the package, turned it over and over. First her eyebrows raised, then they plunged downward in a menacing scowl. Tough crowd.

"They're not mine," I hastily added in a weak voice. "They're for my mom. I told her that--"

"What's wrong with them?" Still turning the package over and over.

"My mom...NOT ME...says they were stale."

"But she ate half of them."

"I know, I tried to talk her out of this, but--" 

"Fine," she sighed. What little charm I thought I possessed wasn't nearly potent enough. Then she lightened a bit, looked around like a spy, finally grinned. She held the package out to me. "Want one?"

"Um...no thanks." 

First, they looked gross. Second, I thought it might be some kind of undercover trap to capture the notorious cookie bandit who'd been returning half eaten cookies across the greater Kansas City metro area.

I raced away and got Mom's shopping done in record time.

Mom, I miss and love you dearly. But not some of the things you used to send me out to do.

Speaking of guys who have to run fast out of necessity, consider the plight of poor Wendell Worthy. Bad guys force him to run across downtown Kansas City in a limited time to save his brother's life and bring back some takeout chili. Dressed in nothing but his tennis shoes and his tighty-whities. It's complicated. Read about the dangerous situations, wacky mishaps, and bizarre characters Wendell encounters through the night in my comical suspense thriller, Chili Run! It's the perfect book for the reader on the go.

Swimming in a Stream of Semi-Consciousnee

Four days ago I was stretched out on the love seat, covered in a blanket and wearing a jacket.

"Honey, I think I'm sick."

"Have you taken your temperature?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because it's a lot of effort."

My wife took my temperature.

"Okay! 104 degrees! Honey, you're sick."

I've felt terrible all week, can hardly think. Wasn't even going to blog. But I thought, a great time to experiment. Here's my stream of consciousness blog.

The worst was the shivering. I shook like a meth addict in turbulent waters. Freezing. Pain relievers sometimes temporarily relieved the shakes. When I could keep them down. Every other time I made it rain from both ends. Pounding headache, little elves upstairs banging away on my brain. My diet has been the Gandhi diet, a little bread, a little soup, a frozen mini pinappel whip. If I live through this, I'll have kick-started my diet again. Fever dreams are horrible. When I can sleep. The first two days and nnights all I did was sleep. Last night It was a grand two hours. But when I do sleep, it's always fever dreams. Doing a repetitive task over and over always involving some stupid complex math equation. Two nights ago, I was robbing a jewelry store. It wasn't exciting, just boring after so many times. My idea of hell: repetition of hated task and then Donald Trump pokes me in the ass with a pitchfork, yells "Where's the military guard?" then sends me back to do the task all over again. And the hallucinations shoulld be fun, right? But they're creepy. Mostly they're audible. Once I heard my wife groaning as if she'd fallen into a deep well. Constantly I hear the ice cream man going by tingling his bells to The Entertainer. But I've had visual hallucinations too, especially the first two days. While I was napping, the blanket slipped up over my shoes and I swear one shoe winked at me. Another time I felt like I was in Disney's Beauty and the Beast with animated kitchen utensils dancing around me. Or maybe that was a fever dream, I dont know they're pretty close. The dogs are wondering why mom and dad are sleeping in different beds. "Bijou, why are our parents not together?" "Don't worry your pretty little head, Biscuit." My first assumption was that I had Covid again. I tested, then tested again the next day. Negative, just some horrific virus I picked up on our mini vacartiion before labor day. I haven't showered in three days. I'm trying to build up stamina and courage to get in there now and I can't think of anything I'd rather not do. I have no strength, expecially in my already bad knees. I've fallen at the top of the stairs going tto bed twice, thankfully forward. But one of these days the crummy gods of sickness are going to get me. But I'm despairing. One can only watch so much Netflix and when sick, never watch complicated murder mysteries from overseas. Going to shower nnow. Wish me luck!

Tripping My Wife's Trigger

There are many things I do or say that bugs my wife. Off the top of my head, she loathes when I say "Yessireebobcattail!" I'm not sure why; I don't even think she understands. But hate it, she does.

But the absolute worst offender? Read on...

Years ago, my family was out at a restaurant celebrating someone's birthday. When they brought out our salads, my brother and I oohed and ahhed over how great the blue cheese dressing was. 

 "Man," I said, "I could drink a gallon of this."

"Same," replied my brother. "What about good gravy? Could you drink a gallon of that? I sure could."

"Oh yeah," I agreed. Then in a sudden inspirational burst, I added, "That's because we have the exact same genetic chemical makeup."

Okay, besides the ridiculous redundancy of the sentence ("exact same" kinda bugs me, too), I understand the impossibility of having the same genetic chemical makeup as someone else, even family. But when I saw how it bugged the scientific mindset of my wife, I wouldn't let up. First, she responded with eyerolls. Later she said how stupid it was.

Of course, my brother and I rolled with it, sometimes perfecting it to the point where we recited it in unison.

My daughter took up the cause, as well. She and I really perfected the routine, in perfect sync every time. She even added on to it with "Oh my GODDDD!" Which worked out extraordinarily well.

"You know why we both love dogs?" I'd ask.

Together, my daughter and I: "Because we have the exact same genetic chemical makeup, oh my GODDDDDD!"

My wife went back to eyerolling, knowing full well we weren't going to stop the insanity. Soon enough, we even enlisted my daughter's boyfriend's son in the game.

Go on, try it on your loved ones. It's fun! (NOTICE: I'm not responsible for any resulting fighting or marital problems.)

Speaking of games, there's plenty of cat 'n mouse games going on between a couple of serial killers and the evil corporation who's using them like pawns. Heads are chopped, dropped, and swapped in my darkly comical suspense thriller trilogy, Killers Incorporated, available here.

The Wise Guy of the Round Table

 

Several weeks ago, I managed to get (most of) "the band" back together. Just as we had done over 40 years ago, laughs were spilled, beers were drunk, and stories were told. It seemed like not much had changed in all of those decades. Except, of course, there were quite a few more pounds and quite fewer hairs. And a lot of the stories dealt with all of our aches, pains, and operations. Kinda like battle wounds.

After my brother came back from the bathroom, he shook our friend's hand next to him.

He said, "my hand's not wet from washing it."

After much giggling and groaning, he further elaborated, "I don't bother washing my hands after going to the bathroom. Why bother? Your hands just get dirty again opening the bathroom door."

"That's very sound advice," I opined.

"You can learn a lot from me," he replied.

What an extremely wise man.

While on the topic of wise guys, meet Charlie Broadmoor, a struggling stand-up comic, who wishes for more of an audience. Unfortunately, a demon is in his audience one night. One who Charlie mercilessly teases about his comb-over. Things quickly go downhill from there. Read all about it in my darkly comic horror tale,

Demon With A Comb-Over.

BANNED!

I suppose it's my fault really. No one to blame but myself. To fully comprehend the following tragic tale of insanity, jump with me, if you will, into the wayback machine...

When my daughter was younger, she liked to sing. She appeared to know practically every song in the world and I'm not really sure how she learned them as I brought her up on a steady diet of alternative rock. But soon enough, my wife and I enrolled her into singing lessons. (Strike number one: Encouragement!)

Then I created an even bigger mistake. I introduced her to musicals. First, I showed her some of my favorites such as West Side Story. Appearing to really enjoy it, I sought out all of the musicals for her I could find.

And woe unto us for the day she discovered the musical, Rent. First, we watched it several times. Then she showed it to all of her friends. I grew so sick of watching--and especially hearing--Rent, that I considered hiding the DVD. But that didn't stop my daughter. She bought the soundtrack and sang along at the top of her voice in her bedroom and worst of all, the shower.

Her showers were always hour-long affairs, but they weren't quiet ones. Every night we listened to the same  musical selections from Rent. No choice. No escape.

"I'm going to go AOOOOOOOOOOOOut tonight!" issued from the shower over and over and over again, finally stamping all over my nightmares.

Enough was enough and I threw down the Mean Parent gauntlet. "Hey!" I said. "From this day on, I'm officially banning show tunes from being sung in this house!"

Of course the rule didn't stick. But to this day, if I even see the title Rent, I grow sweaty and fearful and nauseous. Let this tragic tale serve as a warning to parents everywhere. Ban show tunes before it's too late!

This has been a Public Service Announcement from the Agitated Father Coalition.

Speaking of teens in trouble, it doesn't get much worse for high schooler Tex McKenna. He's bullied, struggles with the principal, is discovering love for the first time, and suddenly has a target on his back from a potential serial killer. Complicating matters is he has just discovered he's a witch. Check out Tex and friends adventures and mystery in my Tex, the Witch Boy trilogy here!

Castration Fascination!

 

Ouch!

Recently I was visiting my daughter. The conversation turned to her new(ish) nephew.

"You wanna know why my nephew couldn't get castrated when he was born?" she asked.

I looked at her boyfriend who looked at me. 

"Castrated?" said the incredulous boyfriend. "Um...I think you mean 'circumcised.'"

As we all had a good laugh, my knees clenched together as tight as my teeth and I crossed my legs. In protective mode. The mere thought of castration gives me the heebie-jeebies.

But apparently we weren't quite done with the topic. My daughter's boyfriend (who grew up on a farm) started explaining the elaborate process of how they castrated their cows. The details don't matter (and I don't care to dwell on the topic too long), but it had to do with this really strong band they put around the cows testicles cutting off the circulation so they could lop. CHOP!

And OUCH again.

Still stubbornly staying on this very cringe-inducing topic, it turns out the BF had eaten "Rocky Mountain Oysters" before. Ugh. I'm usually pretty daring when it comes to food experimentation but eating a goat's "jewels" is above my pay-grade.

Then I started wondering why in the world would my daughter's BF's family want to castrate their cows. I mean, doesn't it make sense that the more cows you have, the more meat and milk you can hawk?

Apparently, I was wrong (something that NEVER, EVER happens; just ask my wife). Castrating male cows improves meat quality, making it more tender through "marbling," a fancy-schmancy term for fatty deposits. Wow. That was all the science I needed to know about that. But can you imagine the indignity of first having your jewels lopped off so you can be eaten later? As I write this, I'm locking my knees together more securely than Trump's classified files (wait...).

Which brings me to pity the poor plight of the eunuchs, those castrated men from the past (not so golden) olden days. Curious (yet extremely uncomfortable, mind you), I researched why in the world they'd do this to any man. Some of the reasons were punishment for crimes. Okay, fair enough, I think the act of "chemically castrating" some rapists may still be going on.

Historically, eunuchs were thought to make better royal servants with their sexual inhibitions curbed. Religious motives? Yikes! Some guys did it to themselves, thinking it aligned with their faith. Somehow I missed that lesson in Bible school.

Finally, here's the craziest reason of all: castrating men was thought to make better opera singers in the Baroque period, keeping their voices high-pitched. AIEEEEEEE! I'd shriek in a high-pitched tone too, if some kooky opera buff came at me with a pair of hedge trimmers.

Okay, I think I've milked this topic enough, ball-ieve it or not. If you'd like to know more, the BALL's in your court. (I'll be here all weekend. Ba-da-bing!)

Since I'm in a particularly juvenile mood, I may as well hawk my king of juvenile comedies, the Zach and Zora murder mystery series, guaranteed to be the only books you'll ever read about a dumb male stripper (but, PLEASE, call him a "male entertainment dancer") and his more often than not pregnant sleuth sister.  No shame in writing them, no shame in reading.

The Royalty of Weird

The other day I asked my wife if she could do my laundry. (Now before all the feminists get in an uproar, my wife kindly volunteered to take this task over from me because my knees went the way of disco and she doesn't want me crashing down the basement stairs.)

I said, "Thanks, honey. Could you start with my unspeakables?"

"Okay," she replied, "but it's 'unmentionables,' not 'unspeakables'."

"Have you seen my underwear?"

Pause. Blink. Finally, she hit me back with her most often used retort. "You're weird."

To which I responded, "Yeah? Well, you married weird."

BOOM! Mic drop. Even she had no witty comeback for that one.

Now. Let's get something straight. There's nothing wrong with being weird. I pride myself on being weird. It's far, far, far better than being "normal" or even worse, boring.

And it's worked out well for many people. There's Weird Al...and...um...Gary Busey...ah...Donny Trump?

Okay, so I can't use celebrities as a shining example of the success of being weird.

My wife won't admit it, but I think she's good with weird, too.

We're the royal King and Queen of Weird, our kingdom is Weirdopia. And I love my weird queen.

Speaking of all things weird, here's a strange little weird book of mine: Chili Run. It's kinda a lark, a comedic crime thriller based on a dream I had about being forced to run through downtown Kansas City in my tighty whities (or is it "tidy whities"? That's one controversy I've never resolved.). It's complicated. The hijinks ensue right here!

Monster Cat On The Loose!

By now, you guys know I'm a dog-lover. It's not that I hate cats...I'm just allergic to them.

Okay, that's not entirely true. Well, it is about my being allergic to them. If you put a cat around me and I happen to touch near my eye, it's all over. I turn into a crying, sneezing, wheezing pink-eyed mess.

But back to dogs. Dogs are fiercely loyal, full of character, funny, loving, doting, sloppy, playful, and depend entirely on humans to take care of them. It's a nice feeling.

Cats are...cats. They're quiet, sneaky, scary, boring, and when they feel like it, they'll bite or claw you for no reason. Just for the fun of it, I suppose. They're like goldfish. Only meaner. And did I mention I'm highly allergic to them?

So, the other day, I was tasked with going to this strange "feed and seed" store in the middle of the city to get dog food. After I figured out how to enter the place (it's like an Escape Room), the first thing I noticed were three cats running across my path.

Uh-oh.

The old guy asks how can he help me. I felt like saying by getting those damn cats away from me. Instead, I say, "Just picking up some dog food." Quickly, I scuttled toward the dog food, hefted a big-ass bag up and hoped to get out of there before I turned into a wet, soppy, crying mess.

But the old guy behind the counter had a different idea. "Ah! You're getting the bison!"

"Yeah. Nothing but the most expensive for our dogs, I guess," I said, while eyeballing what seemed like a dozen cats twisting and scampering around me.

The old guy wasn't put off by that. Must've been a slow day for him. "Well, golly...it's good stuff, though."

"I guess," I said. "But I've never tried it."

The ancient clerk looks at me. Blinks. Finally guffaws and slaps his knee. Meanwhile, one particularly clingy kitty was rubbing up against my legs. I could feel my eyes starting to water.

"That's a good one, yep. Had me going for a while. Yessir...'never tried it.' Heh." Suddenly he drops down behind the counter.

I'm wondering if I should call 911.

Like an ancient jack-in-the-box, he springs up with a scrawny mean-looking cat in his arms. And thrusts it toward me. "Here's my bison! What do you make of this mean fellow?"

Instinctively, I jumped back. "Oh...he's, um...thanks!" I grabbed the dog food and raced out of the store (once I found the exit).

Next time I go there, I'm wearing a mask, protective eyewear and a Hazmat suit. I swan...

Speaking of things that are furry and not so adorable, check out my book, Corporate Wolf. It's the only werewolf, horror, murder mystery, dark comedy, corporate satire out there!

I Was A Secret Smoker!

Come with me if you will and let's take a trip in my handy-dandy way-back machine...

In 1979, all the cool kids were smoking. (Or so I thought at the time.) I didn't want to be left behind so I joined the smoking contingent some time in Junior High. (And, yes, before you ask if everyone jumped off a cliff, would I? Why yes, yes I would, thank you for asking!) Anyway, I kept this disgusting habit up all throughout high school and college.

When I graduated from college, I quit cold turkey. Of course I put on 100 pounds, but that's another story...

Soon, I lost weight, got married, put on another 100 pounds. Then got divorced. Now...it's not for everyone, but due to my world-famous patented "Divorce Diet Plan," I lost another 100 pounds. However, I picked up smoking again after ten years off the crap.

Let's speed up the way-back machine. Eventually, I met my current wife, got married, and continued to secretly smoke. Oh, I tried many times to quit, but one month was about as long as I ever made it. (My wife is totally against smoking; of course, I am too now.)

So I kept up the gross habit off and on for several years, always hiding (sometimes not successfully) the evidence. It helped that my head was shaved; easy to wash. 

And I had secret smoking clothes hidden in various places, consisting of gloves, a stocking hat, a coat, etc.

One day I took a drive. Went to the local park, got out my long overcoat, gloves, stocking hat, all sorts of winter gear. The only problem was it was about 70 degrees. A dog-walker was standing nearby staring at me. Suddenly she rushed away, dog in arms. No doubt to go call the police about the park pervert she just witnessed, dressed in very suspicious clothing for Spring.

After this, I decided: "Hey, maybe I should make a lifestyle change. Before I get arrested."

My wife caught me again. Initially she was furious. But came around, understanding it was an addiction and helped me quit. Finally, my friend, Chantix, did the trick. I've been smoke-free for many years now. And ask any ex-smoker, the smell that wafts off of people at Walmart is more offensive than it is to never-smokers.

Speaking of keeping secrets, Leon Garber's got a doozy. Now it's not nearly as bad as smoking (natch), but it's right up there. He's an accountant by day and a serial killer by night (but don't worry! He only targets the worst people around!). But this is just the start of Leon's problems. The sinister corporation that Leon has aligned with has now targeted him and he doesn't understand why their beautiful working relationship has changed and his contract has been terminated. Find out the reason why in my darkly comical serial killer thriller trilogy, Killers Incorporated!

Nakedopolis!

Growing up, my parents filled my little vulnerable head with lots of nonsense: "Sex is a sin (as if; and this was the closest they ever came to talking about sex. No further explanation given.)," "Drinking beer is disgusting and bad (CRAZY talk!)," "masturbation is dirty and a sin (Nooooo! Not my hobby!)" and their crazy interpretations of the Bible. And the Bible is already kinda strange, especially to a young impressionable kid.

"Mommy, where are the dinosaurs?" I asked.

"God created them too," she answered.

"Huh. But they're not in the Bible! And what about cavemen?"

"Mommy's busy right now."

But nothing was more confusing than their interpretation of the story of Adam and Eve.

"But Mommy...why was it a sin for Eve to eat an apple?"

"Because she disobeyed God." 

"But why was it a sin?"

"Because if she hadn't eaten the apple, we'd all be walking around naked today, the way God intended us to do."

YOW! My little brain blew up over that. In my mind, Eve helped us to dodge a huuuuuuge bullet. I wanted to tell my mom that I'm glad for what Eve did, but that probably wouldn't have gone over well.

I started to think about a naked world and it terrified and grossed me out. I couldn't imagine kissing Grandma when she was naked. And what about the naked restaurant server who's hanging out (literally) with his junk at our eye level. Worst of all would be Winter. And walking over all of that rough terrain.

And how about school? I imagine the boys would constantly walk around with their books in front of them, trying to hide their state of arousal when the cheerleaders strolled by. Yikes!

No thank you and thank you Eve. I for one am glad for the original sin! (And come on! Our current "president" commits worse sins on a daily basis!)

So God told Adam and Eve not to eat the forbidden fruit and they did anyway. Then He/She shamed them into clothing.

And because of them eating an apple, we're all sinners. I think. (Or maybe that's all the sex, beer, and masturbation rearing their ugly heads. I still don't quite get it.)

Then I started wondering what's the takeaway from the story of Adam and Eve. That women are inherently evil, luring men into lust and eating fruit?

That's probably in Trump's footnotes in his very special $300 Trump Bible.

Last weekend, at a bar, I brought all of this up to a very knowledgeable Bible "scholar" friend (while drinking sinful beer, natch).

He went on at great length talking about it, but the most interesting thing he said was God lied, Adam lied, and of course the evil Eve lied. "The only one who didn't lie was the serpent," he finished.

I suppose I better bone up on my Bible understanding. (Now where did I put my Trump bible? I think I left it upstairs next to my Trump cologne, Trump wristwatch, Trump virtual trading cards, and...)

Speaking of liars and sinners, check out my darkly comical horror novel, Demon With a Comb-Over (my titular demon on the cover sure resembles a certain president, right?). The book's full of demons, jerky angels, Satan, a couple trips to Hell, and stand-up comedy. Fun for the whole family! You can get it here!

Chatty Cathy

While I was waiting in one of the hospital beds for my second cataract surgery, an older woman was escorted by me and deposited in the bed next to me.

"I have Crohn's disease, don't you know," she started. "My mother had it and now I have it. It makes me sick sometimes."

"Hmmmm," said the clearly uninterested nurse.

"Yes, it's true." Totally unable (or unwilling) to read the room, she continued on relating her complete family history. "Now my father never had it and my sister doesn't have it, isn't that funny?"

"Huh."

"But my sister has GERD. Do you know what that is? Well, it's when stomach acid comes back up. I don't have GERD but I have Crohn's disease. Did I tell you that? Yes, I was diagnosed with it back in..."

The nurse politely excused herself and ran for cover. However, the anestheologist soon became her second victim.

"I have Crohn's disease, don't you know? It was diagnosed back in the 90's and it causes me to--"

"Do you smoke?" The anestheologist was not nearly as patient as the nurse had been, abruptly cutting off the old woman's reciting of her medical history.

But she remained hellbent on being heard. "No, I've never smoked. It's kind of disgusting if you ask me. My dad, he smoked. And that's what got him in the end, the cancer. But I've never had any desire or interest to--"

"That's interesting," replied the anestheologist. "Excuse me."

She rushed off but my bed neighbor was not discouraged as she latched onto another poor passing unsuspecting nurse.

And the hell began all over again. "I have Crohn's disease, don't you know? And my mother had it but my--"

The nurses all had a hasty escape plan, but alas, I was bed-ridden and helpless. I wished fervently for the drugs to kick in and put me to sleep. This was far worse than the unseen guy who sits down on a toilet stall next to you and wants to chat about the baseball game last night. Far, far worse.

Mercifully, after another half hour or so of her incessant rattling, I was wheeled away to surgery. With a smile on my face. Probably a first time for that reaction.

Early the next morning, I had a post-op visit scheduled with the doctor. My wife and I sat in the waiting room. The door opens and it's Chatty Cathy again! She sits across from us. And a fresh new hell opened up all over again.

"Did you have surgery yesterday, too?" she launched.

"Yes, I did. I--"

"What color are your eyes? I can't see from here. Did you have surgery for distance or close up? I had surgery to fix my close vision. Can you see better? I think I can. I have Crohn's disease, don't you know? Yes, it's true. My mother had it before me but my sister never had it. Isn't that funny? But she has GERD, do you know what that is? It's when your--"

"Stuart?" I nearly kissed the nurse as I escaped the nefarious clutches of Chatty Cathy. 

God must've been particularly unhappy with me those two days.

Speaking of which, check out my book Godland. It's a midwestern nightmare. Farm noir. Suspense and horror collide. You've been duly warned!

Church On The Road!

The other day my wife  and I were cruising down Shawnee Mission Parkway, a pretty busy strip in the KC metro area.

A van was in a hurry and rudely cut us off. On the van's paneling, a huge logo was emblazoned reading "Resurrection Remodeling!"

"So much for driving the way Jesus would," I said. "Wait...Jesus didn't drive, did he?"

Soon, another van zoomed up alongside Mr. Resurrection, this time the panel blared out "Almighty Guttering."

"Oh," I said, "there goes his partner!"

God is all around us. And He drives terribly!

I'll be here all week, ladies and gentlemen!

Impromptu High School Reunion

It all started with Doug. Doug was a fun guy who I had been close friends with off and on since grade school. Over the course of time, families and crap happens and old friendships kinda fall by the wayside.

So I was surprised to get a message on Facebook from Doug. "Hey, just a blast from the past," it read. I was shocked (because the last time I'd run into Doug and family was at a local eatery and the reception I got from them was sorta chilly), so of course the first thing I did before responding was to check it out and make sure it wasn't really some creepy middle-aged troll in his mom's basement.

It was really him! So after a few months of hemming and hawing around, we decided to meet at a local bar. "Blast from the past" didn't even begin to cover it. We reminisced about past good and bad times, much hilarity ensued, copious beers helped, and we ended up shouting "TEQUILA!" at frequent intervals.

About a month later, Doug invited me to join him at a neighborhood brewery. I soon found out he was sorta a "VIP" there, or more likely a "frequent flier." So we bellied up to the bar and beers were downed. Soon, Doug was waving at a woman at the end of the bar. 

She came over and it took a minute, but I recognized her as well. It was a girl we'd gone to grade school, middle school, and high school with. She had always been very friendly and likeable and (as both Doug and I had thought) innocent and angelic. Man, were we fooled.

I knew she didn't recognize me at first. So I jut out my hand and offered my name. Recognition flooded her and she launched into a solid and long hug. 

"Oh, I haven't seen you in forever!" she exclaimed, embracing me and patting my back like a TSA agent. And I had changed quite a bit in "forever."

"What I remember about you the most was your wavy red hair," she said.

"Yeah, um, it's been some years since I've had that. I remember playing against you in a chess tournament in sixth grade."

She said, "Did you beat me?"

"Yes," I replied, "but I think I cheated." (No "thinking" involved. I had her in check and didn't call it out. So when I took her king, she fought me a little on it until she kindly acquiesced.)

We talked about fellow class of 79 graduates and gossiped and then she regaled us with some wild stories. In sixth grade, she went to a sleepover and brought vodka! (In sixth grade, Doug and I didn't even know what drinking was.) Then she told us how she and another "angelic" good girl painted some bawdy slurs about our heinous vice principal on the school steps.

Wow! All these years, she and her sidekick had us fooled that they were sweet innocent girls who never got into any trouble.

Soon, another guy wandered up to our small group and said, "I just had to say hello before I go." Another class of 79 grad! Unbelievable (although I'm not too sure that the newcomer and I actually remembered one another). But more stories, more good and bad times, and lotsa tea was spilled.

Later I asked, "who else is gonna show up? Bob Bellman?" ("Bob Bellman"--NOT his real name--was the notorious high school bully who ran over my friend with his car. But you can read all about that in my book, Tex the Witch Boy.)

Doug and I outlasted the other two grads and drank the day away with the promise that we'd all get together again soon and invite even more graduates from the class of 79.

Now that I'm waxing all nostalgic and crap about the days of high school, now's as good a time as any to pimp out my book, Tex, the Witch Boy. It's a mystery, thriller, paranormal, comedy, romance tale largely detailing my traumatic days of high school. Read for yourself why our vice principal was so heinous RIGHT HERE!