tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6640255591442229072024-03-18T16:39:31.128-07:00Stuart R. WestStuart R. Westhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12199079894134598567noreply@blogger.comBlogger618125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-664025559144222907.post-83969925523412710402024-03-15T01:00:00.000-07:002024-03-15T01:00:00.145-07:00"Just Like We Drew It Up!"<p><span style="font-size: large;">Well, the super bowl has come and gone and my hometown guys, the Kansas City Chiefs (nearly miraculously) won at the last minute.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">That was pretty cool, but my favorite part of the super bowl was this tweet following the game...</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYXUw7o9ww3hppSPmLOQjQkZCV5n0RjT_dfvjQrIplUuTUK66L23DfZDpSOd0u2ATOz57k1w32F6Jm9oMrAkJXF9J7QldnGyVtFBnfv7hyphenhyphenrv5R9HIlZXqrsKMQ-p7YzfClLScrt3HV-TuQBbnhnoiCFNoLbcGClfdJM621FT3B_45IicpKf2acWQj-/s225/Just%20Like%20We%20Drew%20It%20Up.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYXUw7o9ww3hppSPmLOQjQkZCV5n0RjT_dfvjQrIplUuTUK66L23DfZDpSOd0u2ATOz57k1w32F6Jm9oMrAkJXF9J7QldnGyVtFBnfv7hyphenhyphenrv5R9HIlZXqrsKMQ-p7YzfClLScrt3HV-TuQBbnhnoiCFNoLbcGClfdJM621FT3B_45IicpKf2acWQj-/s1600/Just%20Like%20We%20Drew%20It%20Up.jpg" width="225" /></a></div><span style="font-size: x-large;">Ha ha ha ha ha haaaaaaa! Take that, conspiracy crazies!</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">For a little background, check out my <a href="https://stuartrwest.blogspot.com/2024/01/taylor-swift-psy-op-agent-for-socialism.html" target="_blank">Taylor Swift conspiracy theory post </a>from a while back. Go on. I'll still be here when you get back.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Yep, the far right conspiracy contingent thought that the nefariously evil liberal fascists were fixing the super bowl to go to the Chiefs so that at game's end, Taylor Swift and Travis Kelce could come out and announce their backing of Joe Biden for the upcoming election. (Which confused me at first because I thought "why would Kelsey Grammer endorse Biden since he's a notorious Trump thumper? And just why is Frasier dating Taylor Swift, Psy-Op Agent for Socialism?" Then it hit me...ohhhhhh, it's the other Kelce. I'm sure I'm not alone in confusing the two. They look identical. Okay, enough digressing and dumb jokes!)</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Needless to say, the far right's conspiracy never came to fruition. But, it didn't keep President Biden from breaking out his "Dark Brandon" persona and dissing the nuts.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">On a far more serious note, the shooting that happened at the Chiefs' victor parade was horrifying. And I had a deep fear that it may've been a conspiracy guy gone over-the-top. Not that it was any less awful, but it was merely idiots being stupid with guns. (Just one more reason why we need to deep-six the MAGA cult once and for all.)</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Okay, say what you will about President Biden, but the guy's got a sense of humor. Unlike a certain orange troll whose idea of humor is taunting people with grade school bullying nicknames.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4dKsnAQ1suKTh_NeJxtQ4j2xlQFMacPKHtdQ-tVkuCyv92gzzMC6bA1EGVMa66e2VnytsB0Ovg1_hoTno2CF49947wQ479XTRQekCRK3eiMHc_53DP1LsPv3KJz0HMsqbUMl8b-kO-F7f3KO4Oxrbb_5CkooyGA5JXqKmwNUiRv1V0pQKRLi4bwXi/s498/King%20Trump%202.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="498" data-original-width="498" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4dKsnAQ1suKTh_NeJxtQ4j2xlQFMacPKHtdQ-tVkuCyv92gzzMC6bA1EGVMa66e2VnytsB0Ovg1_hoTno2CF49947wQ479XTRQekCRK3eiMHc_53DP1LsPv3KJz0HMsqbUMl8b-kO-F7f3KO4Oxrbb_5CkooyGA5JXqKmwNUiRv1V0pQKRLi4bwXi/s320/King%20Trump%202.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-size: x-large;">C'mon, people! I'll take 81 years of doddering experience any day over 91 criminal charges. It's not rocket science.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Don't make me come over there.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Speaking of idiots, check out my <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Bad-Day-Banana-Hammock-Mysteries-ebook/dp/B08R27YGT8?asc_campaign=ebd2c6eb133725e5eb7e183f0de6eeae&asc_source=01H192EPQVEZ7PT5P11H54TN97&tag=namespacebran486-20" target="_blank">Zach and Zora comic mystery series of books </a>featuring one of the dumbest lead characters you'll ever find (excluding our current politicians, natch), a lunk-headed male stripper with a heart of gold and a banana hammock of yellow. And due to popular demand (okay, well at least my friend, author extraordinaire, Cat Cavendish), I'm at long, long last back to writing the fourth book in the series, <i>Massacre of Mustaches</i>!</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIDSJASAu8WadE0Z7kfUDJunICSaCFJwc_4tuam-7J5iZ41uG-gBwHyNJOpoS58B473noxwElqGklJ80xVByms_HNH6bGQt1qIppVq0wXm6Gh0e5k7tzBToY2mlj8CpdkDSG0JVacisemXCoXzog3nUBw31eAF5NC-Ueq1OdOdnv2M47jqAQswkuyk/s2250/Bad%20Day%20in%20a%20Banana%20Hammock%20cover%20(low%20res).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2250" data-original-width="1500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIDSJASAu8WadE0Z7kfUDJunICSaCFJwc_4tuam-7J5iZ41uG-gBwHyNJOpoS58B473noxwElqGklJ80xVByms_HNH6bGQt1qIppVq0wXm6Gh0e5k7tzBToY2mlj8CpdkDSG0JVacisemXCoXzog3nUBw31eAF5NC-Ueq1OdOdnv2M47jqAQswkuyk/s320/Bad%20Day%20in%20a%20Banana%20Hammock%20cover%20(low%20res).jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p>Stuart R. Westhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12199079894134598567noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-664025559144222907.post-91126238371134577162024-03-08T01:00:00.000-08:002024-03-08T01:00:00.148-08:00Duel to the Death: Siri vs. Alexa!<p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje-fiGiokzAgO7lwvTIt2XpeG2RlOETNV7UnMNs4A9-3b-Q_-7OW16dCFF-Qfq-VhqnqhWQgQDzx-Xl3IA6A6HgAfSf6HJgEjWPw5HcqN2l6RbqGU6t02Q8stGXBDWH5ZNR3a9Li_g6daPOXqz4wDm1vNCu4P1r3a0VxF_ZleUsNkB8SvXzh216o9G/s1024/Siri%20vs%20Alexis.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje-fiGiokzAgO7lwvTIt2XpeG2RlOETNV7UnMNs4A9-3b-Q_-7OW16dCFF-Qfq-VhqnqhWQgQDzx-Xl3IA6A6HgAfSf6HJgEjWPw5HcqN2l6RbqGU6t02Q8stGXBDWH5ZNR3a9Li_g6daPOXqz4wDm1vNCu4P1r3a0VxF_ZleUsNkB8SvXzh216o9G/s320/Siri%20vs%20Alexis.png" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;">Yep. It's come down to this. Who would win in the ultimate smack-down? Siri or Alexa?</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">In this frightening age of 3-D printers, smart everythings, AI everywhere you look, and phony, manufactured politician recordings, I think I'm not alone in wondering who would take the crown between those two bad-ass, all-knowing, intrusive, and ever-listening non-entities, Siri and Alexa.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">First of all, let's give them physical manifestations. Now, most people choose to have the two electronic figureheads represented by a sultry female voice. I don't. I've seen how hot and sexy Siri has driven a good friend of mine crazy with unrequited desire. It's a desire turned bad. Once he told me, "I really hate that bitch."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">So I've given my Siri the voice of a British/Indian man, the reasoning being I'm more apt to be immune to his charms. (However, he does have a British voice; have you ever found that British accents make everything sound more interesting? At least as a Kansan, I certainly do, otherwise, I would've never listed to a BBC radio show covering "Buttons.")</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Now, seeing as how the only limited experience I've had with Alexa is when my mom briefly had it turned on, I'm probably going to envision her as the typical sultry-sounding radio DJ (who's probably not as attractive as her radio voice). Let's make her hot, maybe a brunette. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">(Side bar: My mom soon disabled her Alexa; she was worried that it was listening to her. Pretty sure she got this idea from Fox News. So my brother disabled that channel on her T.V. {Side-side bar: She may not be too wrong. Even when I'm just talking about commercial things in the vicinity of my phone, I'll sometimes soon receive ads for that very thing. Holy 1984!})</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">So. We've got a wiry, strong Indian man versus a sultry British Brunette woman. Who'd win in a knock-down, throw-down, duel to the death?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Is this such a hard to imagine scenario these days? Creative talent/scientists can make anything happen these days, real or not. It's a far jump from the days Ray Harryhausen entertained us with stop motion clay dinosaurs (and if stop-motion animators aren't the most patient people in the world, I don't know who would be).</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Let's look at the facts. Clearly, Siri is utilized more than Alexa, with more people using "her" on a daily basis, I *think* as iPhones are more prevalent than Alexa.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Yet, a lot of "experts" prefer Alexa. While Siri offers a more "personalized" experience (i.e., tailoring ads to your tastes which I'm not so sure is a "plus"), Alexa excels at compatibility, ranging across a wide line of Amazon products.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">And let's not forget a recent claim made by an Alexa commercial: "Alexa saved my life by telling me the house was on fire." Well, cool. I guess. But a fire alarm doesn't listen to you like Hal from <i>2001: A Space Odyssey</i>. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Really, it comes down to which giant world-eating conglomerate that's out to conquer the universe you choose: Apple or Amazon.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Me? I'd rather not see either of these two soulless mega corporations win as they're both filthy rich and powerful enough, perfectly represented by never-seen, but all intrusive electronic omnipresent presences. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">And wouldn't it be cool if all the world's violent disagreements and problems could be handled by a couple of AI images duking it out? </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I'm taking bets right now. In this cornerrrrrr, weighing in at 3 billion megawatts of artificial intelligence, we have...</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Now that I've got that off my chest, let's bring things back down to earth with a nice, simple teenage witch boy. You betcha I'm talking about the murder mystery, supernatural, comical, touching and suspenseful adventures of <i>Tex the Witch Boy</i> (and friends and enemies). <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Tex-Witch-Boy-Stuart-West-ebook/dp/B09X3TB8XX/?_encoding=UTF8&pd_rd_w=eWxuN&content-id=amzn1.sym.cf86ec3a-68a6-43e9-8115-04171136930a&pf_rd_p=cf86ec3a-68a6-43e9-8115-04171136930a&pf_rd_r=140-5112958-9536104&pd_rd_wg=c7cxa&pd_rd_r=ef7b2974-3259-4932-b059-3a8ce9a79eb9&ref_=aufs_ap_sc_dsk" target="_blank">Get under his spell right HERE!</a></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj0tFkueY_giT2opOLLd-xPad6GxTbDFhlx1KOtOIC4sErMotlhJU9oKMUSBlD248dhVqUhH19hoR14H2t6dhOQYlIfNmWS0xzM9uriv_O4dAhIyhbWpWSZSThJBF3BeRvpFplQkmHIAOu3vsYU3PT5q1_AC4el068RAuYbF4MpoJMoOvqorwetEOv/s343/Tex%20series.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="343" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj0tFkueY_giT2opOLLd-xPad6GxTbDFhlx1KOtOIC4sErMotlhJU9oKMUSBlD248dhVqUhH19hoR14H2t6dhOQYlIfNmWS0xzM9uriv_O4dAhIyhbWpWSZSThJBF3BeRvpFplQkmHIAOu3vsYU3PT5q1_AC4el068RAuYbF4MpoJMoOvqorwetEOv/s320/Tex%20series.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Stuart R. Westhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12199079894134598567noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-664025559144222907.post-7393846685896462592024-03-01T01:30:00.000-08:002024-03-01T01:30:00.130-08:00Swan Song Sung Sad<p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNy9wdMqy9Kp6ShKApQtUe0M3jQN2ONJ7pja30FMel4PNOKqEypfl4VvN6IMvvKovtPyw6CF3F7Uk-5lAaoEoEzrtpTsp5iHlDC6dD0g8qPVvq68yz9_qtg3NVlEQAUD0fmNYmXH0ID7za-8iMn5MaQDwcZihZaYxy9QEESU0qFpdyNInD66dssU44/s1024/Swan%202.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNy9wdMqy9Kp6ShKApQtUe0M3jQN2ONJ7pja30FMel4PNOKqEypfl4VvN6IMvvKovtPyw6CF3F7Uk-5lAaoEoEzrtpTsp5iHlDC6dD0g8qPVvq68yz9_qtg3NVlEQAUD0fmNYmXH0ID7za-8iMn5MaQDwcZihZaYxy9QEESU0qFpdyNInD66dssU44/s320/Swan%202.png" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;">Some time ago, my wife and I were watching something on TV (doesn't matter what and I can't remember anyway), and someone's "swan song" was brought up. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">What exactly <i>is</i> a swan song? Well, the definition is a final gesture, performance or effort given by someone before death or retirement.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Yow! Talk about depressing! But really, I wondered why in the world would someone call it a "swan song?" I've never seen a yodeling swan on <i>America's Kinda Got A Little Bit of Talent If You're Really Drunk</i> or whatever.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUdADg7RclDH-HNrnvR8-7x1nfMqFDN3ZQM_Jl81R0mEn5qSCYGxExEp1eAy_9MuxRsyBaf0WvyYF8y3YAk6wUxcvS2uEpWtMm6AYOrisNEEMWBc0lM-Ue1DSt9_9sM6-8ndHPdXtO9Dg6RXatFy-elzM-OXUmtwbBAJ1SQCi4eCbH9bzaR7iOsMYY/s1024/Swan%204.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUdADg7RclDH-HNrnvR8-7x1nfMqFDN3ZQM_Jl81R0mEn5qSCYGxExEp1eAy_9MuxRsyBaf0WvyYF8y3YAk6wUxcvS2uEpWtMm6AYOrisNEEMWBc0lM-Ue1DSt9_9sM6-8ndHPdXtO9Dg6RXatFy-elzM-OXUmtwbBAJ1SQCi4eCbH9bzaR7iOsMYY/s320/Swan%204.png" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />Well, my research assistant, Professor Google, helped me suss out the reason. Get this: according to ancient beliefs, a swan sings a beautiful song just before their death because they've been silent all of their lives.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Well, huh. Maybe some "ancient beliefs" should go the way of disco. I mean, really. I'm pretty sure swans never sang, even in the face of the grim reaper belly-flopping into their pond. Yet the beliefs find their origins back in the days of ancient Greece by the third century BC (you know...where all the "great original thinkers" came from) and has been perpetuated since by philosophers and artists. Methinks they need a new muse. There're all kinds of anecdotes and sightings of singing swans throughout history and art, but they're much too boring to go into here. (If you're interested, go find your own Google assistant.)</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">And what's the deal with peoples' infatuation with animals making strange noises upon their death? You guys have heard of how lobsters scream upon being dunked alive into boiling water, right? Well, it's not true. They don't have vocal chords. The sound you hear is steam escaping from the shell. Apparently, they have a ganglionic nervous system and don't feel the pain as we do. (Of this, I'm not so sure. I mean, honestly, can any amount of science truly tell how they feel? And c'mon, do you have to boil them alive? Jeezus, you chefs are a sadistic bunch.)</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Then there are the rabbits. Oh my lord, the poor bunnies! It's said they scream upon death. Professor Google somewhat corroborated this story, but didn't give me much comfort. Apparently, rabbits do scream when wounded. As if to put salve on the emotional wound, Professor Google was quick to follow up with "but rabbits don't scream when they suddenly die. However, any wound to a rabbit is generally fatal." Like THAT makes me feel better about the whole thing.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The deeper I dove, the more animals I found that scream and it's all kinda sad. Maybe we should quit killing the animals, huh? Geeze, if they scream, they can feel pain. So I don't wanna hear about hunting for "fun." And I'm thinking of having my people get in touch with President Biden's people to lobby for a bill to change the term "Swan Song" to "Dying Human's Song."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I'm pretty sure I'll get lotsa traction on this given the nature of our "lawmakers" these days and the way they allot importance to the right issues.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYOs9kiVz-SrVs_VXYjtrs2Ldz7saRndfthlLOA316UaFWGoMROozsCQn1M4lpCescD0ALUfjmiPN4XiuUgaz4TvAGV6YMHQYBYSILVzl_wcyLuT6ZayhZa9lH9DmF-NP9W4iFbJke3C7Kk9c4p2GAd9Q5abrL4xDejEZ2h3FEqyjy3IYLLV5RMvcG/s1024/Swan%203.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYOs9kiVz-SrVs_VXYjtrs2Ldz7saRndfthlLOA316UaFWGoMROozsCQn1M4lpCescD0ALUfjmiPN4XiuUgaz4TvAGV6YMHQYBYSILVzl_wcyLuT6ZayhZa9lH9DmF-NP9W4iFbJke3C7Kk9c4p2GAd9Q5abrL4xDejEZ2h3FEqyjy3IYLLV5RMvcG/s320/Swan%203.png" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />While I'm thinking of how mistreated animals are, why not give up some love for werewolves? After all, they're human most of the time, right? You can read all about them in my absolutely 100% true, tell-all shocking expose called <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Corporate-Wolf-Stuart-R-West-ebook/dp/B07TZSKPST?ref_=ast_author_dp&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.6cApFjrMSmTmIMfUMQnINyKzM2mBlt780zX6TlVuKEDWHGSWrSjbYddOtfR3LwU_sUwXxVj3sc9f5i5AVKlVfmOPgQ9VQ3ldeWxWcTZ2T44-L13K1-XwTasIlxusW6gzLAEDU1MWmn2j2yqbMAsSV9yNyLSZSQAm0C8sBo5oVm4oMH_hFNiovD7y5yMg2LxmfMlDhB6nYCGl6hxc_CSiJhCF9f1-uTMsQTkQdR50HHs.8UBBlV9m4-5pqm86yVnJ21gZBghK7EVwBpmni3yX3co&dib_tag=AUTHOR" target="_blank">Corporate Wolf</a></i>. True journalism at it's most hard-hitting! <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Corporate-Wolf-Stuart-R-West-ebook/dp/B07TZSKPST?ref_=ast_author_dp&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.6cApFjrMSmTmIMfUMQnINyKzM2mBlt780zX6TlVuKEDWHGSWrSjbYddOtfR3LwU_sUwXxVj3sc9f5i5AVKlVfmOPgQ9VQ3ldeWxWcTZ2T44-L13K1-XwTasIlxusW6gzLAEDU1MWmn2j2yqbMAsSV9yNyLSZSQAm0C8sBo5oVm4oMH_hFNiovD7y5yMg2LxmfMlDhB6nYCGl6hxc_CSiJhCF9f1-uTMsQTkQdR50HHs.8UBBlV9m4-5pqm86yVnJ21gZBghK7EVwBpmni3yX3co&dib_tag=AUTHOR" target="_blank">Pow</a>!</span><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFN0-1oEXtR_zKdZNKM_3DPhMRrItnQzwhWpONLSi9B57HZfgjU-zh4N71tdR5bNw9SH3KCibWH4fvfUsCsSm5mOYZJEJA-X40110cagXfTMQRm50hIWzAkt3GhyqE0N_v6tEcNPaakBrkLyNhEdMbrzxfllEBUvoMdPH0yniadamx61AVTCBPF2s4/s346/Corp%20Wolf%20Cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="346" data-original-width="230" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFN0-1oEXtR_zKdZNKM_3DPhMRrItnQzwhWpONLSi9B57HZfgjU-zh4N71tdR5bNw9SH3KCibWH4fvfUsCsSm5mOYZJEJA-X40110cagXfTMQRm50hIWzAkt3GhyqE0N_v6tEcNPaakBrkLyNhEdMbrzxfllEBUvoMdPH0yniadamx61AVTCBPF2s4/s320/Corp%20Wolf%20Cover.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p>Stuart R. Westhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12199079894134598567noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-664025559144222907.post-21898794649340520922024-02-23T01:00:00.000-08:002024-02-23T01:00:00.305-08:00The Trap (and Welcome To It)!<p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH7dNLIB41MntDtMxKzu46_9ZXP9CB3kU_rolzOt_JTGwJNBWeIOjgUMEMgme85GZiXKbwVA87Mpmw5Zjzr-KWf82NkfD6e7K6YtyRsihgthlg-cnBpAwi9MeXfYHX7Vh1YHiRHViUkZGiB-r9RpUOAEjvzzvxNW5hbGY766NaPVFGdpxk-WvlckFQ/s1024/DALL%C2%B7E%202024-02-07%2010.15.22%20-%20Realistic%20painting%20of%20a%20man%20sleeping%20in%20pajamas%20on%20top%20of%20a%20giant%20mousetrap%20as%20a%20bed%20with%20alarm%20clock%20ringing%20next%20to%20him.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH7dNLIB41MntDtMxKzu46_9ZXP9CB3kU_rolzOt_JTGwJNBWeIOjgUMEMgme85GZiXKbwVA87Mpmw5Zjzr-KWf82NkfD6e7K6YtyRsihgthlg-cnBpAwi9MeXfYHX7Vh1YHiRHViUkZGiB-r9RpUOAEjvzzvxNW5hbGY766NaPVFGdpxk-WvlckFQ/s320/DALL%C2%B7E%202024-02-07%2010.15.22%20-%20Realistic%20painting%20of%20a%20man%20sleeping%20in%20pajamas%20on%20top%20of%20a%20giant%20mousetrap%20as%20a%20bed%20with%20alarm%20clock%20ringing%20next%20to%20him.png" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;">Usually, Snapchat is utilized by my daughter, brother and myself for sending ludicrously filter-altered pictures of ourselves to torture our family and friends on a daily basis. You know...like God intended Snapchat to be.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">But the other day, my daughter sent out a Snap, nothing in the picture but darkness, with this thought splayed across the blackness, "Waking up is hard. Don't do it. It's a trap!"</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">At first I thought, wait is this some sort of nihilistic emo-drudgery bull-stuff or maybe a cry for help? Then I thought how funny it was. And thought-provoking.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Waking up--and staying up--is indeed hard. (Just ask my wife who sets a barrage of alarms and triple snoozes them all. So does my daughter, actually, except her alarm is a horrendous air siren-like sound that could wake up the dead. Me? I wake up when a fly sneezes.) </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">But how is "waking up" a trap?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Let's break it down...</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">We're all conditioned to wake up at a certain time throughout our life-cycle. As children, mean ol' Mommy and Daddy wake us up to go to the dreaded school. Same thing goes in high school and college, but by then, you're on your own, hopefully life's lesson having sunk in without perhaps not-so-mean-after-all Mom and Dad having to aid you in getting up by this time. </span></p><p> <span style="font-size: large;">After school, you're definitely on your own. Or at least, I would hope you're waking up all by your big-boy self. Unless you're a millennial, of course, who's moved back in with your parents (16% of today's millennials have taken the horrific return to roost plunge).</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Once you enter the work-force, it's all over. You have to wake up every day at a certain time. Or else you move back in with your parents. Therein lies the trap. Call it the "Parent Trap 21st Century Style."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp-CUS5PmWclTf8ahByzf2OWYjCpR-V3Jindv7aWb5xMS0b5RJ3g8H2CaGDuYNEv7L6UZe0aG2NpgicLUgvNuf29RGQkuX_zSCAulJP_UbSF8i6eOhtcaS8VtVeQcRtI74c4mGbquu_ih8L7lQOFg2GUFQuri7TRHm2tZIuQ0jhaozH7ROuv48Zljb/s1024/DALL%C2%B7E%202024-02-07%2010.15.08%20-%20Realistic%20painting%20of%20a%20man%20sleeping%20in%20pajamas%20on%20top%20of%20a%20giant%20mousetrap%20as%20a%20bed%20with%20alarm%20clock%20ringing%20next%20to%20him.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp-CUS5PmWclTf8ahByzf2OWYjCpR-V3Jindv7aWb5xMS0b5RJ3g8H2CaGDuYNEv7L6UZe0aG2NpgicLUgvNuf29RGQkuX_zSCAulJP_UbSF8i6eOhtcaS8VtVeQcRtI74c4mGbquu_ih8L7lQOFg2GUFQuri7TRHm2tZIuQ0jhaozH7ROuv48Zljb/s320/DALL%C2%B7E%202024-02-07%2010.15.08%20-%20Realistic%20painting%20of%20a%20man%20sleeping%20in%20pajamas%20on%20top%20of%20a%20giant%20mousetrap%20as%20a%20bed%20with%20alarm%20clock%20ringing%20next%20to%20him.png" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />And why are we subjected to The Trap? As I implied, the programming starts from childhood. In fact, even as babies, you're expected to go to sleep and wake up at a certain, predictable time (and we all know how well that works, right?). This early training prepares you for a life of drudgery in the work force where waking up is mandatory. This is the price we pay for living in a capitalistic country.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"But, Stuart," I hear you thinking, "are you trying to tell us that people in socialist and communist countries don't have to wake up at a certain time?"</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Hold the phone, folks, put down the pitchforks and don't pack your bags yet! Of course said countries have to wake up at certain times as well, whether it be to go stand in bread lines or go to the factory or super-secret KGB training or whatever. In fact, it's one of the very few things (outside of eating and sex) that unites humanity across our great world: the forced trap of waking up.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Now, before you all start thinking that retirement is sounding better and better because you won't be forced to wake up at a certain time, I've got news for you... Hello, prostate!! Sheesh, I can't remember the last time I slept through the night without a nocturnal bathroom run.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Also--and here's the most unfair, ridiculous rub of all--once you get older, the ability to sleep late vanishes! Poof! Like an evil David Copperfield waved a wand over your shrinking, shriveling body and said "abra abra cadaver, I wanna reach out and wake ya'." (Apologies to the Steve Miller Band; not that I'm a fan, mind you, but I can never resist an easy joke.)</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I remember all through college, when I possessed the preternatural ability to sleep until noon or sometimes even later (probably didn't help that I'd just gotten in about five in the morning). But once you get out of school, the sleep late gene begins to dissipate. By the time you're in your "golden years," you're up before the roosters.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I'm telling you, avoid the trap, heed my daughter's sage advice! Just get used to your parents' basement, you can adapt.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">On that cheery note, y'all could probably use a laugh. If so, check out my Zach and Zora comic mystery series. The first title in the series, <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Murder-Massage-Zach-Comic-Mysteries-ebook/dp/B09N8YMWSP?asc_campaign=ebd2c6eb133725e5eb7e183f0de6eeae&asc_source=01H192EPQVEZ7PT5P11H54TN97&tag=namespacebran486-20" target="_blank">Bad Day in a Banana Hammock</a></i> pretty much tells you what kinda humor you're in for. Hey! I didn't say they're great books, but if like me, your inner 12-year-old needs a release, have at it! <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Murder-Massage-Zach-Comic-Mysteries-ebook/dp/B09N8YMWSP?asc_campaign=ebd2c6eb133725e5eb7e183f0de6eeae&asc_source=01H192EPQVEZ7PT5P11H54TN97&tag=namespacebran486-20" target="_blank">Get 'em here!</a></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi33zARb8KMhig33SjCKinMGA0RhY1yXkc5CwUnM5F1otOD8O2RtgCA1uUfKIhfKZLGXEi7Pi287WOyZimTSJgNV8aqlXmYP8VsmKRnN82L_EmksfFGynB8iGo_t-0X1pafa8LWGGlYFNLUWzX3G6dZmju9ha_jQ7wMjveLZea0VhECafBKfiHi-Ekn/s2250/Bad%20Day%20in%20a%20Banana%20Hammock%20cover%20(low%20res).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2250" data-original-width="1500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi33zARb8KMhig33SjCKinMGA0RhY1yXkc5CwUnM5F1otOD8O2RtgCA1uUfKIhfKZLGXEi7Pi287WOyZimTSJgNV8aqlXmYP8VsmKRnN82L_EmksfFGynB8iGo_t-0X1pafa8LWGGlYFNLUWzX3G6dZmju9ha_jQ7wMjveLZea0VhECafBKfiHi-Ekn/s320/Bad%20Day%20in%20a%20Banana%20Hammock%20cover%20(low%20res).jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>Stuart R. Westhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12199079894134598567noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-664025559144222907.post-35728471190048455862024-02-16T01:00:00.000-08:002024-02-16T01:00:00.224-08:00Knee Fun in 2024<p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3yj5Uy2vTBFSn8VnIJd6Jxxck_AZ8fkWnobOspuLJh-dHBz-8xwQRLQ8zSFZZLqQDrQMGwON0Pr2JltAwfcOXCfit01rlsXYivXyDw8wMVw-NONyvQaPqGt95PfDpTvR1nA6ifwpTw4SANui_3_WWnHwyJNG8hOI4XRiHKjWil1aBdrKtkgXyKtO4/s1024/knee%203.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3yj5Uy2vTBFSn8VnIJd6Jxxck_AZ8fkWnobOspuLJh-dHBz-8xwQRLQ8zSFZZLqQDrQMGwON0Pr2JltAwfcOXCfit01rlsXYivXyDw8wMVw-NONyvQaPqGt95PfDpTvR1nA6ifwpTw4SANui_3_WWnHwyJNG8hOI4XRiHKjWil1aBdrKtkgXyKtO4/s320/knee%203.png" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;">My 2024 has started out with a bang. Or at least that's what it felt like to my knee. For over two months, I'd been suffering severe knee pain, completely jacking up my mobility and ability to do stuff.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">It all started in mid-November. I woke up, thinking (more like mentally screaming), "Say...my knee sure does hurt."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">For weeks I suffered. My wife watched me hobble around (finally busting out her antique collectible cane), shaking her head and rolling her eyes. She'd been down this path with me before.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"Do something about it," she said. "Go to the doctor."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">For you see, going to the doctor is completely against everything I stand for. A) I hate it; B) it takes forever; C) things usually have a way of rectifying themselves; D) it sucks (did I say that already?); and finally, the Big E) I'm always worried about some life-threatening disease the docs may accidentally uncover. Why...I'd almost rather ask for directions when lost than go to the doctor. <i>Almost</i>.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">At long last, one morning I woke up and it felt better! "Honey," I said, "I'm finally on the road to improvement!"</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"Uh-huh," she answered.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Alas, the next day, the constant, agonizing pain had returned. With great sacrifice, I hauled myself upstairs to our bedroom and finally conceded. "Hey...I think I need to go to Urgent Care in the morning."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"Hallelujah," replied my wife.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Okay, the next morning, a Sunday, I found out when Urgent Care opened. My plan was to get there at that very moment, thus limiting the endless waiting time. Before the doors opened, I was there, banging on the doors with my cane.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The doctor saw me, a speed-talker, and gave me a quick cursory examination. "I don't think it's broken, can't say about torn ligaments, I doubt it, but we'll give you an x-ray anyway, take lots of Ibuprofen, ice it until we call you, next!" spat out Dr. Over-Caffeinated. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Later that morning, the nurse called. "Um, yeah...Dr. Speed-Overdose says there's just some mild arthritis there. No big deal. Take Ibuprofen."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Translation: "Why are you wasting our time and resources? Stay home, you cry-baby, take some aspirin and shut up."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin5EOc_r4SkEvgRY72zcB1zT7xdUu3oySqjXjGE-x08zqb7CIiXNqUkDG3JGo7IoAVQT3M1j7lMYRcVXTy1dJc8uJE85rDT8Y3FK9OqRMmNG1yqxlB5jB2jS_qanwudV53PpivAt6Z2epIzDdlPaNRC3wxIOjM-rfKahNRfWiyo66qoNHlEZJVf8Pv/s1024/knee%202.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin5EOc_r4SkEvgRY72zcB1zT7xdUu3oySqjXjGE-x08zqb7CIiXNqUkDG3JGo7IoAVQT3M1j7lMYRcVXTy1dJc8uJE85rDT8Y3FK9OqRMmNG1yqxlB5jB2jS_qanwudV53PpivAt6Z2epIzDdlPaNRC3wxIOjM-rfKahNRfWiyo66qoNHlEZJVf8Pv/s320/knee%202.png" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;">Yet...yet...the constant pain continued. One more month goes by. In absolute despair, I picked an orthopedist on-line and gave his office a call. After I left a message, two days later(!), a nurse calls me back.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"At this point, we're two months out from being able to get you in. You're better off getting into one of our walk-in clinics."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"Two months?" I railed. "That's worse than trying to get somebody to fix our fence. Have you ever tried to get someone to just <i>mend</i> your fence? I mean, it's <i>crazy</i>! They either want to replace the entire fence or...Hello? Are you still there? Hello?..."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">So. I gave in. It became decided. The next morning, my wife (who was working from home that day) graciously said she'd drive me to the clinic. (I actually think she likes to go with me on medical appointments because she realizes that I'm terrible with giving accurate medical background information). </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Of course, this was during the worst snow blizzard in years. Oh so carefully, my wife plowed through packed and backed up snow covered streets, the visibility less than two feet ahead of us with the wind blowing wildly. All the while, my knee screamed for relief, any relief.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Finally...<i>finally</i>...we made it. Not sure how. Naturally, we parked at the complete opposite end of the long-ass building we needed to go into. Limping through the blizzard, I traversed the snowy and dangerous winter lands until we landed in the right section.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">After seemingly hours of electronic paperwork, I handed it back in. That's when the receptionist said, "Well, the clinic doctor isn't here yet. I hope she does make it in, but I'm not sure. I'll let you know."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"Gee...thanks."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Fortunately, it wasn't too much longer before she did make it in.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"Hmmm," the physician, not much older than the cheese I ate last night, said, "betcha what you need is a cortisone shot in the knee."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"Bring it!" Of course I'm no fan of shots, but anything to alleviate my suffering.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"It usually lasts about three months, then you'll need to come back for another one," she continued. "Does that sound like something you'd like to try?"</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"Oh, HELL yes!"</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">After filling out some scary paperwork that absolved them of my accidental death, she brandished a hypodermic in front of me.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBmTH33jbmwdfNi6iTHYARMRHNclVfwugz30IrfHmdkZnh3H6ljSgWsUtw60ktwFL7-4hb2B_DM6a8ruX13Qa_t0_dUzWoXngtj69QCRsIRZNeUAbsDtc286EvRh0mqPhE5ThVXGSw91O_aj69hatgh2G9qNfNF8WxfaMjS3C3KdM4oRAVWMYNxs60/s1024/knee%204.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBmTH33jbmwdfNi6iTHYARMRHNclVfwugz30IrfHmdkZnh3H6ljSgWsUtw60ktwFL7-4hb2B_DM6a8ruX13Qa_t0_dUzWoXngtj69QCRsIRZNeUAbsDtc286EvRh0mqPhE5ThVXGSw91O_aj69hatgh2G9qNfNF8WxfaMjS3C3KdM4oRAVWMYNxs60/s320/knee%204.png" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;">"Okay, when I put this in, you'll just feel a little prick."</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"'A little prick?' Hah. I can handle that. Um...I don't mean I can handle a 'little prick', heh, if you know what I mean, I mean to say, AIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! The <i>pain</i>! Make it <i>stop</i>! How much <i>longer</i> is this going to go on???? AIEEEEEEEE! Oh! What happened to the 'little prick?' The <i>pain</i>! Boss, it is zee <i>pain</i>!!!!"</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">In the icy cold agony of the shot, I'd accidentally channeled Herve Villechaize from <i>Fantasy Island</i>. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVlnEdJzYOY4uaAdonhCkxUV1CZWORAxM23RdTI1_SOT4nKsHfIjkOPAozh5l7Z4k8nQ_RQYLHO9kbCQeA2FWas4X23TnDPbLOr_rS-URh9P-xZxgCWdwvKDOxblN6n62qJ3fh1U4281WYaegmlPXoWaSvvagPckJ4NFHUPfcqbL9c7A891MToK2zT/s402/Knee%201.webp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="402" data-original-width="350" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVlnEdJzYOY4uaAdonhCkxUV1CZWORAxM23RdTI1_SOT4nKsHfIjkOPAozh5l7Z4k8nQ_RQYLHO9kbCQeA2FWas4X23TnDPbLOr_rS-URh9P-xZxgCWdwvKDOxblN6n62qJ3fh1U4281WYaegmlPXoWaSvvagPckJ4NFHUPfcqbL9c7A891MToK2zT/s320/Knee%201.webp" width="279" /></a></div><span style="font-size: x-large;">The process did seem like it'd gone on forever, like acid burning up my knee.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">At long last it was over. I limped back through the storm to the car.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">And by cracky, once night hit, I started to feel relief! Sweet, sweet relief! On top of the world, the next day, I actually went out and shoveled the sidewalk and driveway (of course it took me about five out-of-breath attempts, but I did it!).</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Sadly, the shot's effects only lasted about two weeks and now I'm back to Ground Zero of Pain.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">My wife's on me to call another orthopedist. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"Been down that route already," I said.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"Try again."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Humph. I hardly see the point. I'm thinking of finding a nice witch doctor on-line instead.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">While I'm thinking about witches, you'll find an entire coven of witches (along with other ghosts, spooks, beasties, and things that go bump in the night) in my book, <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Peculiar-County-Stuart-R-West-ebook/dp/B0945PL7YD/?_encoding=UTF8&pd_rd_w=zbvNl&content-id=amzn1.sym.cf86ec3a-68a6-43e9-8115-04171136930a&pf_rd_p=cf86ec3a-68a6-43e9-8115-04171136930a&pf_rd_r=140-5112958-9536104&pd_rd_wg=tpeRj&pd_rd_r=50a59745-a875-4f64-98e1-d20c032ab1fb&ref_=aufs_ap_sc_dsk" target="_blank">Peculiar County</a></i>. It's a wonderful place to visit (kinda), but trust me, you don't want to settle <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Peculiar-County-Stuart-R-West-ebook/dp/B0945PL7YD/?_encoding=UTF8&pd_rd_w=zbvNl&content-id=amzn1.sym.cf86ec3a-68a6-43e9-8115-04171136930a&pf_rd_p=cf86ec3a-68a6-43e9-8115-04171136930a&pf_rd_r=140-5112958-9536104&pd_rd_wg=tpeRj&pd_rd_r=50a59745-a875-4f64-98e1-d20c032ab1fb&ref_=aufs_ap_sc_dsk" target="_blank">there</a>.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfDRj22R1Ne6OTzmNTLQ8gA3asVX9dOP83d_ulJQi8p7CksH29N2HLrmhKVa7wy1_c56CYj8fol-mO1rpRblpYikInoMj5rd79CHs_6tTK5c5FHFHNEJK_dt8pLVcuGbkBsrBusfCa5FDpzqwiAYUHheiAcL990rpJJVH9HPXdXzdTUyNQ4knH2VCE/s500/Peculiar%20County.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="333" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfDRj22R1Ne6OTzmNTLQ8gA3asVX9dOP83d_ulJQi8p7CksH29N2HLrmhKVa7wy1_c56CYj8fol-mO1rpRblpYikInoMj5rd79CHs_6tTK5c5FHFHNEJK_dt8pLVcuGbkBsrBusfCa5FDpzqwiAYUHheiAcL990rpJJVH9HPXdXzdTUyNQ4knH2VCE/s320/Peculiar%20County.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>Stuart R. Westhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12199079894134598567noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-664025559144222907.post-56467876019737198972024-02-09T00:30:00.000-08:002024-02-10T05:38:28.840-08:00Welcome to the Dog Pack<p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhQ6PT74ETdYSuJvkTGQajXt4yQnbyldsm_FS97rnqP5x6MtSkOdPvd_Q-dJfegSo6L2WZ7nPuEi1JFTP9Mizk2WQimcFuKdLO_H_guJWpT5BUwqcAqv0ObX-2wMQdVQruAy2Mpsl682uW9OQ8FBawbyHSIQ5J26KBsdAdyNfMWkTYCpRrQHOBO6c6/s4032/IMG_0766.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhQ6PT74ETdYSuJvkTGQajXt4yQnbyldsm_FS97rnqP5x6MtSkOdPvd_Q-dJfegSo6L2WZ7nPuEi1JFTP9Mizk2WQimcFuKdLO_H_guJWpT5BUwqcAqv0ObX-2wMQdVQruAy2Mpsl682uW9OQ8FBawbyHSIQ5J26KBsdAdyNfMWkTYCpRrQHOBO6c6/s320/IMG_0766.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;">When I woke up that fateful morning, I had no idea we'd have a dog pack by the end of the day.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Let's jump into the Way-Back Machine for a minute. Several years back, my wife floated the idea of a new dog. I dragged my feet because...well, because I truly hate putting dogs to sleep when it's their time (which is kinda a dumb thing to write, since I doubt there's a huge contingent out there who <i>enjoy</i> putting dogs down. But...considering the nature of our world right now, you never know. But I digress.)</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Long story, short: we ended up adopting two dogs because they were "bonded." That, of course, was Bijou and Mr. Loomis (which I've written about before). One is a Lhasa Apso, the other an inexplicable blending of Saint Bernard, Australian Cattle Shepherd, and about a dozen other species (Bijou had very randy parents!). But the dog we'd always wanted was a Cavalier King Charles. Alas, they're very hard to come by unless you want to shell out two grand (hello, Bijou and Mr. Loomis! Plus, adopting is the way to go.).</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFHWsbdYUyJ_ueli-uxmM3BGG8_WYk_CyaTQFqHnJL6W-TkMBTzJohAsGPPx5-BbH8FzvfU5kiNil2is0pyt9p0by9-fgu0r8bgoUNq-iA6CSNStECGFMcMzAwp_WsFF83gPQ5WKkjpUU7XUwfyVadPQWiZAyg5W5lXI7pDXif6XUWvD-zDG867xHQ/s1097/Mr.%20Loomis%20Pensive%20(2).png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1097" data-original-width="700" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFHWsbdYUyJ_ueli-uxmM3BGG8_WYk_CyaTQFqHnJL6W-TkMBTzJohAsGPPx5-BbH8FzvfU5kiNil2is0pyt9p0by9-fgu0r8bgoUNq-iA6CSNStECGFMcMzAwp_WsFF83gPQ5WKkjpUU7XUwfyVadPQWiZAyg5W5lXI7pDXif6XUWvD-zDG867xHQ/s320/Mr.%20Loomis%20Pensive%20(2).png" width="204" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mr. Loomis wondering what fresh hell we've brought into his home.</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Skip ahead several years...my wife found a mix of a Cavalier King Charles and a Shih Tzu (we think) up for adoption, a puppy of one year. We jumped on it and the woman called us back immediately. She said, "You were the first interested people I was able to get ahold of."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Ta-dahhhhhh! Two days later, we set off in a very windy rain storm for a small town in Missouri about 2-1/2 hours away with our two O.G. dogs in tow for the big meet 'n greet.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">When we finally--<i>finally</i>!--found the woman's house (a treacherous road full of hills and winds and heart-stopping gasps {at least from me riding shotgun}, the four of us entered into the Wild Kingdom.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">A small house, it was packed to the rafters with animals of all sorts. An entire wall was jam-packed with cages of birds unleashing a maddening cacophony of tweets, squawks, and caws. A snake slithered around the inside of an aquarium. Somewhere, a cat rumbled his distaste for our intrusion. The woman went on to tell us about the rats she'd adopted (rats, for God's sake, <i>rats</i>!). Mercifully, they were sequestered in the basement. Bijou growled at everything. Mr. Loomis wandered around smelling various items and animals. And in the midst of all this madness, our new puppy ran scattershot, barking, wagging his tail, and avoiding the strange new quartet of people and dogs.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Things happened fast. Before I knew it, we were headed home with three dogs in the back seat, the new guy in the middle. (Side note: Of course we got lost on the long and winding roads {the convenience guy wasn't much help: "No problem. Hang a left at the church, go a spell, turn right at Fred's barn, go all the way outta town, then about a jot past that..."}, thus rendering our trip into three hours plus.) And what a journey it was. Our two O.G. dogs didn't know what to make of their new fellow traveler. Growls were exchanged, a few snips, uncertainty and no sleep whatsoever for all three wary dogs. By the time, we made it home, we were travelling in a rather pungent odor of poop.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs-jd5fdx1USz0LFQkXucFlRdxzZsAanFw_OXH1_zCgHnWF6aXvQyrqKvoqP6SqHeMc9rgzxxUtbmUVydQdx33Uqg4tSYXwswCPEjfd3TedikW_F4ODKPinPbfMkgNE7rJOH4K79iDR-gGFXFv3ylXwoiFT7o0qqFGIOJDBqBC-69WZDj0wTFQfss7/s1600/Bijou.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs-jd5fdx1USz0LFQkXucFlRdxzZsAanFw_OXH1_zCgHnWF6aXvQyrqKvoqP6SqHeMc9rgzxxUtbmUVydQdx33Uqg4tSYXwswCPEjfd3TedikW_F4ODKPinPbfMkgNE7rJOH4K79iDR-gGFXFv3ylXwoiFT7o0qqFGIOJDBqBC-69WZDj0wTFQfss7/s320/Bijou.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bijou ready for normalcy to return.<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I'm writing this on the third day of our new dog pack. Gone are the mornings of ever hoping to sleep in again. Little time do I have to get anything done, for I'm wrangling dogs 24-7. Also, while I'd always wanted a little lap dog (Mr. Loomis was supposed to fill that role, but made it clear early on, he is above lapdom, while Bijou--although much too big--dearly wants that role.), the new guy has to be in my lap 24-7. This makes taking the trash out rather difficult.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">And the accidents, oy, the accidents! We're going through bottles and bottles of enzyme spray keeping on top of it.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">As for the dynamic between the dog pack? It's been rather tricky. Mr. Loomis--a cranky old veteran of 15 years (a dog after my cranky old heart)--chooses to ignore the new guy. Until he intrudes on his territory, then things turn snappish. And Bijou will not tolerate the little fellow coming close while he's getting attention from my wife or me. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeEBv_4tJLBVkNKAlMG7fCCxWkAhMxBWiYcLKtIhDd1AEE7dHiuwn204DM3H6qxzRIeIj38n6zMwkB7rCi6Nr0-l7kM667y-t9k6RSB28OPWIGTmSiVs-rDwJXbufsjkiOu5BsyLDAiivl1RIrrDJS6YD1hKH1ZZ0xSeMjFAe9ENckZRXDVScGuPOc/s4032/IMG_0765.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeEBv_4tJLBVkNKAlMG7fCCxWkAhMxBWiYcLKtIhDd1AEE7dHiuwn204DM3H6qxzRIeIj38n6zMwkB7rCi6Nr0-l7kM667y-t9k6RSB28OPWIGTmSiVs-rDwJXbufsjkiOu5BsyLDAiivl1RIrrDJS6YD1hKH1ZZ0xSeMjFAe9ENckZRXDVScGuPOc/s320/IMG_0765.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;">Today seems a little better. Bijou is finally playing with the new addition, although the little guy was terrified at first to reciprocate with the much larger dog. But today seems encouraging. Still gotta work on Mr. Loomis, but I doubt the old man will come around. Maybe with time. But, like me, he has a low tolerance level for impertinent young whippersnappers.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7Ras19CxoOsmrpP9jij7_0xrXJakabop-kQ_gglOw8nG_vslmASEIb0ptbpL216teb0BXOyNCxrYt1F1MXNnBtKtBp5dFmMsJdSgt1EGSTPvdo1HNJlKpClKSNsk-yR9M0W9zRPNLdTxhY-prPu3CwL2VgWjph95RaG05hE-OVP7GX7hQlbYfso7j/s4032/IMG_0761.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7Ras19CxoOsmrpP9jij7_0xrXJakabop-kQ_gglOw8nG_vslmASEIb0ptbpL216teb0BXOyNCxrYt1F1MXNnBtKtBp5dFmMsJdSgt1EGSTPvdo1HNJlKpClKSNsk-yR9M0W9zRPNLdTxhY-prPu3CwL2VgWjph95RaG05hE-OVP7GX7hQlbYfso7j/s320/IMG_0761.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;">The new pup's name was originally Bailey. But we're working on changing it to...Biscuit. Behold, Prince Biscuit, newest member of our unholy dog pack!</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Speaking of wild animals and packs, there are no dogs, but a slew of werewolves running rampant in my darkly comic horror novel, <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Corporate-Wolf-Stuart-R-West/dp/1947227378/?_encoding=UTF8&pd_rd_w=zbvNl&content-id=amzn1.sym.cf86ec3a-68a6-43e9-8115-04171136930a&pf_rd_p=cf86ec3a-68a6-43e9-8115-04171136930a&pf_rd_r=140-5112958-9536104&pd_rd_wg=tpeRj&pd_rd_r=50a59745-a875-4f64-98e1-d20c032ab1fb&ref_=aufs_ap_sc_dsk" target="_blank">Corporate Wolf</a></i>. Hey! It's just another day at the office! <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Corporate-Wolf-Stuart-R-West/dp/1947227378/?_encoding=UTF8&pd_rd_w=zbvNl&content-id=amzn1.sym.cf86ec3a-68a6-43e9-8115-04171136930a&pf_rd_p=cf86ec3a-68a6-43e9-8115-04171136930a&pf_rd_r=140-5112958-9536104&pd_rd_wg=tpeRj&pd_rd_r=50a59745-a875-4f64-98e1-d20c032ab1fb&ref_=aufs_ap_sc_dsk" target="_blank">Check it out here</a>.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhymewzuOTgSmw5UCTYUFX9kKyShkKuuGUo0IZfSlC0JhjWtVBQegzf9ZWTbW3t00LKLUI42p82i32UijNp3ygPDTZdOah7NSUTlDj6bsaUsIlIVCAMo9rG23PyvUX5OezxhuiZObD8EbJf78VhxKM0E5Qzh67Hh9fM_K7MoT9ltozu1AK4BMNvgOJT/s346/Corp%20Wolf%20Cover.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="346" data-original-width="230" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhymewzuOTgSmw5UCTYUFX9kKyShkKuuGUo0IZfSlC0JhjWtVBQegzf9ZWTbW3t00LKLUI42p82i32UijNp3ygPDTZdOah7NSUTlDj6bsaUsIlIVCAMo9rG23PyvUX5OezxhuiZObD8EbJf78VhxKM0E5Qzh67Hh9fM_K7MoT9ltozu1AK4BMNvgOJT/s320/Corp%20Wolf%20Cover.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p>Stuart R. Westhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12199079894134598567noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-664025559144222907.post-90670465311860374722024-02-02T01:00:00.000-08:002024-02-02T01:00:00.145-08:00"I'm so glad you survived your autopsy."<p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPSdn4GQOgA7B0FyoSJddZ1c84MB1OkGraZeBZsWek1SUbmIY-WgLKESxrx5SflAskEpePiZ1_B-5O1SlsTzjMXl8i-Nea833FXvb1VLUpqLhr0Nws7V1_Iup2E2dtR_8mnjIQ9x_Tr_fjRKbOaxbm7T3CnMBmKs6JbkpUgRWrnie4pJYPjBndwubF/s1024/DALL%C2%B7E%202024-01-23%2013.23.41%20-%20a%20living%20man%20having%20an%20autopsy%20done%20on%20his%20back.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPSdn4GQOgA7B0FyoSJddZ1c84MB1OkGraZeBZsWek1SUbmIY-WgLKESxrx5SflAskEpePiZ1_B-5O1SlsTzjMXl8i-Nea833FXvb1VLUpqLhr0Nws7V1_Iup2E2dtR_8mnjIQ9x_Tr_fjRKbOaxbm7T3CnMBmKs6JbkpUgRWrnie4pJYPjBndwubF/s320/DALL%C2%B7E%202024-01-23%2013.23.41%20-%20a%20living%20man%20having%20an%20autopsy%20done%20on%20his%20back.png" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;">Over the holidays, the neighbors invited us over for wine. We commenced talking about our medical issues because...well, that's what people do when they get older. (I know it sounds boring, but heed my word, whippersnappers, you'll some day be in the same boat.)</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The problem is I'm not much of a medical guy. My knowledge of physiology pretty much comes from old Warner Brothers cartoons (Hey, you can learn a lot by watching Bugs Bunny torture Elmer Fudd!). So the conversation came around to our strange skin conditions, something that the male neighbor and I had in common. (I won't go into detail about my weird, necrotic, skin-eating rash because I've yakked about it in the past at great lengths and some of you may be eating breakfast. But thankfully, it seems to have finally resolved itself.).</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I said, "Gary, I went to numerous doctors, allergists, and dermatologists, and nobody could figure it out. One quack said it was caused by the sun. I'm never out in the sun! They even did an autopsy on my back!"</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Well... I was met with silence. Then the ridicule set in.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"I'm so glad you survived your autopsy, dear," offered my wife.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">More laughs while I sat there helpless, turning fourteen shades of red. "Yeah, um...well...I think I need to go tend to my TV dinner I left in the oven."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Then things got worse. We moved onto my horrible knee pain, something that's still bugging me. "I don't know, guys, but the pain keeps me up at night. I might've torn my hibiscus."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Again, silence. Then the laughter erupted. Now, the one thing I know even less about human anatomy is flowers. Apparently, I'd told them I'd torn my flower. How was I supposed to know "hibiscus" is a flower? It's not like they taught that in school. They definitely didn't have Daffy Duck talking about the hibiscus flower.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Sheesh. If this is the way my 2024 is gonna go, I think I'll just go back to bed and sleep the year away.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Speaking of really dumb guys, meet Zach Cavanaugh, loveable, yet dunder-headed male stripper (but don't call him that!). Zach's got a problem: he can't help but accidentally stumble across dead bodies constantly. It's up to his long-suffering, usually pregnant, but very competent sleuth sister to bail him out. You'll find lotsa zany situations and characters in my Zach and Zora comic mystery series, but don't take my word for it! <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Bad-Day-Banana-Hammock-Mysteries-ebook/dp/B08R27YGT8?asc_campaign=ebd2c6eb133725e5eb7e183f0de6eeae&asc_source=01H192EPQVEZ7PT5P11H54TN97&tag=namespacebran486-20" target="_blank">Go buy 'em already!</a></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcpk1XAe9l9ENryYZir_ugkpz83kakX60An87SIVlrQkKeZNcYX2JI1iBvKpyMxTD0ash_9riawLNGh6E_adVw6bGrFFj0-YOW8oHE_vqbc05nErPsBbJiVfZNAHgqu7QJcIWYXkyHBmUq9mEA51NGMhSS1dIt8OtH1q1XNtco4X5PqsAO6hTTtY6t/s2250/Bad%20Day%20in%20a%20Banana%20Hammock%20cover%20(low%20res).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2250" data-original-width="1500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcpk1XAe9l9ENryYZir_ugkpz83kakX60An87SIVlrQkKeZNcYX2JI1iBvKpyMxTD0ash_9riawLNGh6E_adVw6bGrFFj0-YOW8oHE_vqbc05nErPsBbJiVfZNAHgqu7QJcIWYXkyHBmUq9mEA51NGMhSS1dIt8OtH1q1XNtco4X5PqsAO6hTTtY6t/s320/Bad%20Day%20in%20a%20Banana%20Hammock%20cover%20(low%20res).jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Stuart R. Westhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12199079894134598567noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-664025559144222907.post-85325652018925323462024-01-26T01:00:00.000-08:002024-01-26T01:00:00.251-08:00"But:" The Great Qualifier<p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="vertical-align: inherit;"><span style="vertical-align: inherit;"><span style="vertical-align: inherit;"><span style="vertical-align: inherit;"></span></span></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="vertical-align: inherit;"><span style="vertical-align: inherit;"><span style="vertical-align: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4Y9WyhFiIpe_b7IjeYdgrTr72OE5Y3NMVZPN33kRThbeqIHEqPiEB9siRmGU3JWMCok9rhI1CX2cz2oksuN9HUpG7kKqoQWD-UlBLZAcOGYRFST0rX4Jb_x2W1Hx1nRBEB3z72Ub4bOUTIv_4cduotf9ixR41480ZWr6LXl85T0qwBivGqEwLvAkf/s1024/BUT%201.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4Y9WyhFiIpe_b7IjeYdgrTr72OE5Y3NMVZPN33kRThbeqIHEqPiEB9siRmGU3JWMCok9rhI1CX2cz2oksuN9HUpG7kKqoQWD-UlBLZAcOGYRFST0rX4Jb_x2W1Hx1nRBEB3z72Ub4bOUTIv_4cduotf9ixR41480ZWr6LXl85T0qwBivGqEwLvAkf/s320/BUT%201.png" width="320" /></a></span></span></span></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="vertical-align: inherit;"><span style="vertical-align: inherit;"><span style="vertical-align: inherit;">"I'm not a Trump fan, but he was our greatest president ever."</span></span></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="vertical-align: inherit;"><span style="vertical-align: inherit;"><span style="vertical-align: inherit;"><span style="vertical-align: inherit;">Well. Huh. </span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="vertical-align: inherit;"><span style="vertical-align: inherit;">Lately, I'm hearing a lot of statements constructed in the same manner: The sentence begins with a bold declarative statement. Then the word "but" always follows (kinda like the butt of a joke). And finally, a complete whopper follow-up statement that completely negates everything that's come before it. Whenever you hear the "but" sentence, you can always count on the speaker swinging high and big for full impact. And it always--ALWAYS--renders the first "I'm not a..." part of the statement totally irrelevant.</span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="vertical-align: inherit;"><span style="vertical-align: inherit;"><span style="vertical-align: inherit;"><span style="vertical-align: inherit;">I find that the "but" sentence generally can be broken down into three sub-categories: politics, racism, and conspiracy theories. (And what do these three categories have in common? We'll get to that!)</span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="vertical-align: inherit;"><span style="vertical-align: inherit;">These days, it's common to hear people defend Trump (even though they pretend to start out not doing so). (Yeah, I don't get it either. I am but a mere reporter stating the facts.) But whenever someone starts out with a "I'm not a Trump fan, but..." sentence, you can bank on their turning around and kissing his orange heiny.</span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="vertical-align: inherit;"><span style="vertical-align: inherit;">Here's another gem I've heard during the last horrible four years: "I'm not a MAGA follower, but the deep-state, evil Liberal satanists eat babies."</span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="vertical-align: inherit;"><span style="vertical-align: inherit;"><span style="vertical-align: inherit;"><span style="vertical-align: inherit;">Fun in the 21st century.</span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I tend to glaze over and tune out whenever someone hits me with the "I'm not a conspiracy theorist, but..." statement. You know it's going to be bad and there's no escape once they get on their conspiracy-painted soap-box. "I've got a TV dinner in the oven" won't work as an excuse to escape the conspiracy theorist once they have their hooks in you.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="vertical-align: inherit;"><span style="vertical-align: inherit;"><span style="vertical-align: inherit;"><span style="vertical-align: inherit;">Here's a recent example:</span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="vertical-align: inherit;"><span style="vertical-align: inherit;"><span style="vertical-align: inherit;"><span style="vertical-align: inherit;">"I'm not a conspiracy theorist, but Covid's nothing but a hoax."</span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"Um...yeah...about my TV dinner..."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="vertical-align: inherit;"><span style="vertical-align: inherit;">"It's true! Fox News says blah, blah, blah, yak, yak, yak...."</span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The true origins of Covid are also big in the "but" world. "I'm not a conspiracy theorist, but Fauci created Covid on purpose to infiltrate the deep-state into.....zzzzzzzzzz..."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Finally, this brings me to the third and final category of "but" statements, and probably the most heinous of all: racism. Here are a few nuggets of wisdom especially curated and culled from various family members over the years:</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"I'm not racist, but Mexicans are dirty."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"I'm not racist, but the colored need to stay with their own kind."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">YOW! Sometimes I think I was switched at birth.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I started thinking about the true underlying meaning behind the "but" statement. Since they always begin somewhat preemptively apologetic, the speaker has to be aware of how possibly controversial--and perhaps, out and out wrong--what they're about to say is. So why bother following through? Remember the semi-golden rule: "If you have nothing nice to say, then don't say anything at all." However, the "but" statement is tricky. It's set up to allow the offending speaker an escape hatch if necessary.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Finally, what do the three sub-categories of "but" statements have in common? Simple: MAGA. Politics, racism, and conspiracy theories are the bedrock "values" of this horrible cult. Since the advent of MAGA, "but" statements have been overflowing like lava spewing from a poisonous volcano. And the brunt of the blame has to fall on Donny Trump's orange shoulders. Since his followers see that he says whatever the hell he wants to and damned with the consequences, they believe they should follow suit.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZflGjkvctLkPL1myGe7V_7pB187Rpz9cfPemyQ5OW2AADcT2BR1Ysc00DUqFcUZIGq-X-bWhwM_QgP9pT0NhFZmrbVV1mvQPZ-v-luadwR8PxyVWyByaUnKqVyJdfTAaKkYAt1OM400wssz44nm7fFJXxu5WwklRWIjySZGn-l-0YRKqYhx8aTysN/s1920/Trump%20and%20kids%204.webp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1920" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZflGjkvctLkPL1myGe7V_7pB187Rpz9cfPemyQ5OW2AADcT2BR1Ysc00DUqFcUZIGq-X-bWhwM_QgP9pT0NhFZmrbVV1mvQPZ-v-luadwR8PxyVWyByaUnKqVyJdfTAaKkYAt1OM400wssz44nm7fFJXxu5WwklRWIjySZGn-l-0YRKqYhx8aTysN/s320/Trump%20and%20kids%204.webp" width="320" /></a></div>I don't hate Trump...but he truly, truly, truly, really, truly sucks. Gotcha!<p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Now that I've kicked over my own soap-box of righteousness, let's get back to the silly-ass world of escapism: check out my <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Tex-Witch-Boy-Stuart-West/dp/150924297X/?_encoding=UTF8&pd_rd_w=I3DTp&content-id=amzn1.sym.cf86ec3a-68a6-43e9-8115-04171136930a&pf_rd_p=cf86ec3a-68a6-43e9-8115-04171136930a&pf_rd_r=140-5112958-9536104&pd_rd_wg=5msN2&pd_rd_r=1324e688-84c2-497d-a6b7-b22b0388ee73&ref_=aufs_ap_sc_dsk" target="_blank">Tex, the Witch Boy trilogy</a>! Not only are they the first books I wrote, but they formed the bedrock of what was to follow in terms of characterization, humor, horror, suspense, and thematic substance. You're welcome!</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidlCfLP2M-rFVcdpPAjw9rwWtXafaxPY2LMK4ndKUFsuv2O8xF9JTJaAmqcz9K79CEgb1KgEum4KS2TupLXDjQev4yzDKFW4IuRXMMPyg-R5Ztk9C4YblMcCaIJw63dOL9emxDaBNax5D-LwUvNjpWLhcXhXkqbmcVN0vMj7oVGWSKLWdaWHNbicsZ/s343/Tex%20series.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="343" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidlCfLP2M-rFVcdpPAjw9rwWtXafaxPY2LMK4ndKUFsuv2O8xF9JTJaAmqcz9K79CEgb1KgEum4KS2TupLXDjQev4yzDKFW4IuRXMMPyg-R5Ztk9C4YblMcCaIJw63dOL9emxDaBNax5D-LwUvNjpWLhcXhXkqbmcVN0vMj7oVGWSKLWdaWHNbicsZ/s320/Tex%20series.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>Stuart R. Westhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12199079894134598567noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-664025559144222907.post-31226198343040677952024-01-19T01:00:00.000-08:002024-01-19T05:33:00.824-08:00Taylor Swift: Psy-Op Agent for Socialism!<span style="font-size: large;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOEZ6bfr_9LwWi9rTwwcBeO1-Q73aiFyCHipcoOgpOq1Lkc5dkCjBaV0TBQA6GhQHgHHflw5gliOCo2JPk5XwbwQ2k7or_OPwJSIR1ji_IThemiQvVYtyFdj5soUBv-D6jExv96Ss4x6CJ55SibYfwuqtQK5lXjZ5TZBwlcmLnkPTiXEQtWSt64J2V/s1280/Swifty%202.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="866" data-original-width="1280" height="217" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOEZ6bfr_9LwWi9rTwwcBeO1-Q73aiFyCHipcoOgpOq1Lkc5dkCjBaV0TBQA6GhQHgHHflw5gliOCo2JPk5XwbwQ2k7or_OPwJSIR1ji_IThemiQvVYtyFdj5soUBv-D6jExv96Ss4x6CJ55SibYfwuqtQK5lXjZ5TZBwlcmLnkPTiXEQtWSt64J2V/s320/Swifty%202.webp" width="320" /></a></div>Bigger than Elvis! More powerful than Oprah! Charging dupes a single ticket price able to aid third-world countries! And with more masterful secret mind power than Donald Trump! Yes, it's Taylor Swift, psy-op agent of socialism! </span><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">And she's got a license to trill!</span><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">It's come down to this. Thanks to those shrewd and integrity-filled investigative reporters at Fox news, newscaster Jesse Watters recently said, "Well, around four years ago, the pentagon psychological operations unit floated turning Taylor Swift into an asset during a NATO meeting. What kind of asset? A psy-op for combatting online misinformation."</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">To which I have to say, "Duh, took you guys long enough to figure this one out!" Watters further went on to elaborate on agent Swift: "She's all right, but I mean, have you ever wondered why or how she blew up like this?" Thank you, Mr. Watters for uncovering the truth! For some time now (and I know I'm not alone in this), I've pondered how this gawky little farm-girl mouseketeer could seemingly transform overnight into the World's Biggest Entertainer. Now we know why. It's because her meteoric success is due to the manipulations of rich, male liberals with an evil agenda to see that Biden gets reelected. The way of our country! (God forbid we should actually credit a woman for her own success.)</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">Former FBI agent Stuart Kaplan chimed in: "It's possible Taylor Swift, quite frankly, isn't aware that she's being used in a covert manner to swing voters." So...even Ms. Swift's evil machinations aren't her fault. At least these guys are consistent, giving credit where credit is due. (Makes me kinda wonder why Mr. Kaplan is a "former" FBI agent.)</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixcp_jvHh37W6VxZZl4prvIeJ7dqtsPaLmcXQEIsn46v34R6utFq5lQtKD6BiDzPX14DItltlqrerjFyFpHXg-AEjYTlLtsIiLPBDXafZ6s0fgobguL6XVdWbca6zWyNrCXL4Y1sAzJl8C1UICdb6MajI7YW2sKcESL5MWRaJrrO0Jbd2cMlq4gaIg/s3000/Swifty.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="3000" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixcp_jvHh37W6VxZZl4prvIeJ7dqtsPaLmcXQEIsn46v34R6utFq5lQtKD6BiDzPX14DItltlqrerjFyFpHXg-AEjYTlLtsIiLPBDXafZ6s0fgobguL6XVdWbca6zWyNrCXL4Y1sAzJl8C1UICdb6MajI7YW2sKcESL5MWRaJrrO0Jbd2cMlq4gaIg/s320/Swifty.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>When asked about this new startling conspiracy, pentagon spokesperson Sabrina Singh said, "As for this conspiracy theory, we're going to shake it off." Presumably, she was referring in a cheeky manner to Ms. Swift's deadly lyrics, but the nonchalant manner in which Ms. Singh "shook it off" betrays a callous and evil liberal intent to subvert voters over to the left. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnX63J9QpKLF0GEfx3Zhy8Rs6LJMeUGFenbGmXWDTqLAc8FwSUNp-G4E4tH3fjGlNw7QOXqG7Ta_LWZN4ToScpfTCfNGqkKKegj-oX1EMhFCWZIN8MD-gsbkhjvlZtAnWzaz1R6aFkfwGMXRZfiZNTVapWV_mH7g1BoFZy4N5W-3cTwW6x7oGH48D4/s1024/DALL%C2%B7E%202024-01-13%2009.47.27%20-%20Female%20singer%20using%20mental%20mind%20powers%20on%20crowd%20at%20concert.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnX63J9QpKLF0GEfx3Zhy8Rs6LJMeUGFenbGmXWDTqLAc8FwSUNp-G4E4tH3fjGlNw7QOXqG7Ta_LWZN4ToScpfTCfNGqkKKegj-oX1EMhFCWZIN8MD-gsbkhjvlZtAnWzaz1R6aFkfwGMXRZfiZNTVapWV_mH7g1BoFZy4N5W-3cTwW6x7oGH48D4/s320/DALL%C2%B7E%202024-01-13%2009.47.27%20-%20Female%20singer%20using%20mental%20mind%20powers%20on%20crowd%20at%20concert.png" width="320" /></a></div>Now I've known that Ms. Swift has been evil for some time. You can't escape her gawd-awful, ear-worm, bubblegum pop nonsense from the radio to elevators to grocery stores. And now that her evil, powerful, subliminal, and totally terrifying mind powers plot has been unveiled, I'm going to need to stuff cotton in my ears, so I don't suddenly find myself thinking unwanted thoughts that maybe abortion is okay or whatever.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">My daughter thinks that the villainous Ms. Swift's insidious plots don't end there. She believes that the nefarious Buffalo Bills have hired Taylor Swift to infiltrate the Kansas City Chiefs via Travis Kelce to wreck his game. And it's worked. Since they started dating, look at Kelce's less than stellar performance.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">Yes, the true threat to democracy isn't MAGA or Trump. It's Taylor Swift. Don't let the Swifties For Socialism get to YOU, too!</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: x-small;">This has been a paid advertisement from the Beyonce For President campaign.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">Speaking of total nonsense, check out my rollicking comic mystery series of <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Murder-Massage-Zach-Comic-Mysteries-ebook/dp/B09N8YMWSP?asc_campaign=ebd2c6eb133725e5eb7e183f0de6eeae&asc_source=01H192EPQVEZ7PT5P11H54TN97&tag=namespacebran486-20" target="_blank">Zach and Zora books</a>, the only series around boasting a lead character even dumber than today's politicians. I fully endorse this message!</span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg00pg_WRjh2EQRA2SXsfTamBHFvoOt__Y0Rzzim6ya2rcsEJWxo3j3Dgyn0lVRsMMPBN4tMYBki52DVmArDkNZqmFWam6PwU-blvCNyouS2z7UU3ufvszUaB9vX_NpN3UWMwU4BndLwhLW1MkZFUX6zjbRsRELDQ2qbzuuMTAGnVy2CnKgt7_gFk22/s2250/Murder%20by%20Massage%20cover.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2250" data-original-width="1500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg00pg_WRjh2EQRA2SXsfTamBHFvoOt__Y0Rzzim6ya2rcsEJWxo3j3Dgyn0lVRsMMPBN4tMYBki52DVmArDkNZqmFWam6PwU-blvCNyouS2z7UU3ufvszUaB9vX_NpN3UWMwU4BndLwhLW1MkZFUX6zjbRsRELDQ2qbzuuMTAGnVy2CnKgt7_gFk22/s320/Murder%20by%20Massage%20cover.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div></div>Stuart R. Westhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12199079894134598567noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-664025559144222907.post-90824335339770144072024-01-12T01:00:00.001-08:002024-01-12T01:00:00.139-08:00The Mathematical Division of Household Blame<p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEism5-znLfNt2ZxdlkH7mLJ-pcc1AgiZ7EyLsQKV1eBEI69aXrMwPibcRlLB51WD5NsKbUQfv8P561nE5qHhjoNFRE1yFIVxnsCWEhS1ufrq2B3t3KCQ1AMlNvqKAcUsdPsauNI3UWZPNcKK4Hcp9cFiCVVp-M8bTQopcoyKiSA9M_tqEatF09CcTvY/s1024/DALL%C2%B7E%202023-12-19%2012.41.12%20-%20A%20couple%20of%20man%20and%20women%20lawyers%20arguing%20in%20front%20of%20a%20refrigerator%20in%20a%20kitchen.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEism5-znLfNt2ZxdlkH7mLJ-pcc1AgiZ7EyLsQKV1eBEI69aXrMwPibcRlLB51WD5NsKbUQfv8P561nE5qHhjoNFRE1yFIVxnsCWEhS1ufrq2B3t3KCQ1AMlNvqKAcUsdPsauNI3UWZPNcKK4Hcp9cFiCVVp-M8bTQopcoyKiSA9M_tqEatF09CcTvY/s320/DALL%C2%B7E%202023-12-19%2012.41.12%20-%20A%20couple%20of%20man%20and%20women%20lawyers%20arguing%20in%20front%20of%20a%20refrigerator%20in%20a%20kitchen.png" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;">My wife and I have different duties at home which are pretty evenly split. However, this isn't the case when it comes to blame. For you see, I generally get about 90% of the blame for when there are food mishaps.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Why, I remember it like it was yesterday... (Cue the fuzzy blurred out swirly image for a flashback.) Wait a minute...it was yesterday!</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"Your Chinese food leaked juice all over the refrigerator," hollered my wife from the kitchen.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"But...it was for your benefit," I explained.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Silence. Crickets. Even more crickets.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Finally, "How in the hell was that for my benefit."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I finally got off the loveseat to go plead my case in the same room with her. "When you went to bed, you forgot to put your leftover Chinese food in the refrigerator. So I had to move mine to make way for yours. Apparently, when I moved mine (to make way for yours, I'd like to reiterate), it of necessity became canted, thus dribbling out the juice. For your benefit."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"Oh, no," she said, "you're not putting that on me!"</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"But it was for your benefit," I said, standing my ground. "So you should be the one to clean it."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"That's ridiculous. Okay...what if I was making cookies for you and I had a terrible flour accident. Would you clean it up?"</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"No," I said. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"'No?' Why? It's the same thing!"</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"Because you would eat the cookies, too. Your baking would benefit us both." I mean, this is clear, clean logic, right? Just follow the logic. Perfect sense.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Then she hit me with, "Okay, fine. What if I was making you coconut cookies and flour exploded everywhere?" <i>Aha</i>, I thought. Now she's using the same, strong logic right back at me, for she has an aversion toward coconut and won't touch it.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"That's different," I said. "Coconut cookies would be to my benefit, therefore rendering me the responsible party to clean up the flour explosion."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"Yeah, right. Like you'd clean it up."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I said, "I would! Go make coconut cookies and throw flour everywhere and watch me clean it!" <i>Gotcha</i>, I thought. I didn't think her hatred for coconut would even allow her to bake such cookies.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"Yeah, I'm not going to do that," she said.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Well, even though I laid out a flawless, logical defense in "Kitchen Court," I still lost the case and ended up cleaning the spilled Chinese sauce. (At least the sauce that I saw without moving items, which resulted in yet another Kitchen Court later.)</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I went back to the love-seat, while she was still banging away in the kitchen. Soon enough, she's in the refrigerator and hollering about all the food that's gone to waste.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"Do you hear me?" she shouted. "You've got to quit letting food go to waste!"</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"How is this my fault? You eat the food, too."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"Okay, I'd say it's about 85% your fault and 15% mine. We share the burden of responsibility."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"Wait a minute, hold on a second! That's not sharing. That's still blaming me for the majority! Where'd you come up with that over-inflated equation? Trump's accountants?"</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I need a specialized slide rule or something to dole out arbitrary percentages of blame to my wife the next time we enter Kitchen Court. Best to be prepared.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Speaking of horror stories, you'll find a lot of 'em in my collection of creepy tales, <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Twisted-Tales-Tornado-Alley-Collection-ebook/dp/B07HFLPQYV?ref_=ast_author_dp&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.6cApFjrMSmTmIMfUMQnINyKzM2mBlt780zX6TlVuKEAL_hmbcfGWwg1DY6STjSqRRlbzT7d6V11m1656pUI4FO0ZyqgLEnC1zHcLOK7nijBBuGtUantjtuG8UC6k6o_Xvwyx2eSqlVFusQmRZjx5GR3ryU8Dpsgtu4jHwVpTivJ2dy9x6lbPUZPMZMP3wACib9R0rXKDY1HmNcxvhVkUCrd7om2l1gumAfZY3LAm_40.Z4H6z-n11gZVUxzmSNZTBVN2PK0aBUnw6aSFZX7pNJE&dib_tag=AUTHOR" target="_blank">Twisted Tales From Tornado Alley</a></i>. Check it out!</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggLA5R8ZCSsx81wDg4JFrcyMMbY6z1GcY7eJdRnBbVlmNXJgSPTP6O0yXDmOhgP1hnx17147AsEIU4j6HipP-CyO4iNIouAz6TUEPG8GminL9X6BV2BmPsDdH9WGUnVvHyX69lOZhZsxwwlUtBrvLAmy8j1UPHRGNrbZ7782i6ko2TwM4HPjM_pKju/s2700/Twisted%20Tales_eBook.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2700" data-original-width="1800" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggLA5R8ZCSsx81wDg4JFrcyMMbY6z1GcY7eJdRnBbVlmNXJgSPTP6O0yXDmOhgP1hnx17147AsEIU4j6HipP-CyO4iNIouAz6TUEPG8GminL9X6BV2BmPsDdH9WGUnVvHyX69lOZhZsxwwlUtBrvLAmy8j1UPHRGNrbZ7782i6ko2TwM4HPjM_pKju/s320/Twisted%20Tales_eBook.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p>Stuart R. Westhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12199079894134598567noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-664025559144222907.post-42202801322786903452024-01-05T00:30:00.000-08:002024-01-05T00:30:00.140-08:00"One horse SOAP and sleigh!"<p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5-KiuFt8m0ZYkIi8vwG-GatLeneusTWVybmfyiJilW0Vmiq_oGlgVpfGTxyDDc6ivrZSJTF2i9utM1H3fy8fnCdlkx-xhSeL91djZeRRegj_U7ZM8EfzqdIFUKWaN9dXSNO-EIpjotr2X65ed8lEt6vxypdgykx6zog7F-KudcOyPSfqCK8n2fIIK/s1024/DALL%C2%B7E%202023-12-19%2012.15.55%20-%20A%20horse%20pulling%20a%20sleigh%20full%20of%20soap%20through%20the%20snow.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5-KiuFt8m0ZYkIi8vwG-GatLeneusTWVybmfyiJilW0Vmiq_oGlgVpfGTxyDDc6ivrZSJTF2i9utM1H3fy8fnCdlkx-xhSeL91djZeRRegj_U7ZM8EfzqdIFUKWaN9dXSNO-EIpjotr2X65ed8lEt6vxypdgykx6zog7F-KudcOyPSfqCK8n2fIIK/s320/DALL%C2%B7E%202023-12-19%2012.15.55%20-%20A%20horse%20pulling%20a%20sleigh%20full%20of%20soap%20through%20the%20snow.png" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;">Yep, you read that right. Throughout my childhood, I always thought one of the lyrics to "Jingle Bells" was "one horse <i>soap</i> and sleigh." I never questioned it, just went along my merry juvenile way singing my lil' foolish, gleeful, songbird head off like naïve kids who haven't yet been introduced to the Big Bad Real World do. My parents were no help, they didn't correct me, probably because they thought it was "cute" or something. (Kind of like how I would pronounce "S's" with a lisp which they found adorable, and thus encouraged it, while sending me right into an embarrassing remedial speech therapy class. Thanks, Mom and Dad!) Or maybe they thought those were the lyrics as well,</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">But I digress. As I grew older, I wondered what a one horse soap and sleigh was. At first, I thought maybe the soap on the sleigh's rails made it slicker in the snow. Then I thought not, for surely the snow would melt off the soap. Then I wondered if maybe EVERYBODY got the lyric wrong and it was supposed to be a "one horse <i>souped up</i> sleigh." Now that made sense. Yet it didn't. I knew the song was old, but it was probably even more ancient than beatnik slang like "souped up."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">As the years fell away and my cynicism grew along with my height and awkwardness, I thought that maybe the songwriters were just as sadistic as fairy tale writers and they were hiding a morbid message: the horse would be<i> slayed</i> (most definitely not "sleighed") and turned into soap. Yikes.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Actually I forgot all about it until this Christmas. One groggy morning in bed, I asked my wife, "What does 'one horse soap and sleigh' mean?'"</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">She gave me her patented crazed look and said "<i>What</i> are you talking about?"</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"Um, the song 'Jingle Bells.' There's a one horse soap and sleigh."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Her eyeroll was astronomical. "It's 'one horse <i>open</i> sleigh.'"</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I said, "Ohhhhhhhhh," while pretending to have some semblance of dignity and intelligence left.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">But my wife's no one to talk. If you were around in the 70's, undoubtedly you guys were throttled by that awful, maudlin Little River Band song, "Lonesome Loser." You know, the song where the groups singing is supposed to be celestial harmonies, but sounds more like a bag of cats thrown into a dog pound? Yeah, that one. For years, my wife thought the song was "Lonesome Lizard." Which makes absolutely no sense, especially for the poor lonesome reptile.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I think everybody has some song in their past where they got the lyrics wrong, A friend of mine who I lived with in college was one day singing along to the stereo. He was bebopping around the apartment, singing at the top of his lungs: "Mid-Summer's Dayyyyyy! Mid-Summer's DAYYYYYYYYYYY!"</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I said, "Whoa! What the hell are you singing, Jerry?"</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"'Mid-Summer's Day' by Men at Work. Duh."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Well. At least he got the band right. But the song was "It's a Mistake." How he got Mid-Summer's Day out of that is anyone's guess. Yet I made sure I laughed and laughed at him for too long a time.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">But I think I'm just deflecting attention from my bonehead decades long Christmas song faux pas.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">While on the topic of boneheads, it takes one to write one, I guess, and characters don't come any more boneheaded than one of the two leads in my Zach and Zora comical murder mystery series. You see, Zach is a male stripper (he prefers "male entertainment dancer") who constantly stumbles over dead bodies and is blamed for the murders by making really dumb life choices. It's up to his (usually pregnant and highly irritable) sleuth sister, Zora, to find the real killer and save her dumb brother's neck. Join the fun with the first book, <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Bad-Day-Banana-Hammock-Mysteries-ebook/dp/B08R27YGT8?ref_=ast_author_dp&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.6cApFjrMSmTmIMfUMQnINyKzM2mBlt780zX6TlVuKEAL_hmbcfGWwg1DY6STjSqRRlbzT7d6V11m1656pUI4FO0ZyqgLEnC1zHcLOK7nijBBuGtUantjtuG8UC6k6o_Xvwyx2eSqlVFusQmRZjx5GR3ryU8Dpsgtu4jHwVpTivJ2dy9x6lbPUZPMZMP3wACib9R0rXKDY1HmNcxvhVkUCrd7om2l1gumAfZY3LAm_40.Z4H6z-n11gZVUxzmSNZTBVN2PK0aBUnw6aSFZX7pNJE&dib_tag=AUTHOR" target="_blank">Bad Day in a Banana Hammock</a></i>!</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihyjqh7X3mdECcLLVI5pz48RwzMuCLbkNMFrFbu4e6i99H_EcIcmR_rPIRFBvic5dD1uuFmn6sm8jURnffUYWjIU7fDoDgbvWlqFPoxbCICCKa3OX6qP57cSnnT_lsUee88QsxowOYweP7mCeMwQvekAOBsZTstDqQJqDi5JTV2jq_XPZhVV1zz3l_/s2250/Bad%20Day%20in%20a%20Banana%20Hammock%20cover%20(low%20res).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2250" data-original-width="1500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihyjqh7X3mdECcLLVI5pz48RwzMuCLbkNMFrFbu4e6i99H_EcIcmR_rPIRFBvic5dD1uuFmn6sm8jURnffUYWjIU7fDoDgbvWlqFPoxbCICCKa3OX6qP57cSnnT_lsUee88QsxowOYweP7mCeMwQvekAOBsZTstDqQJqDi5JTV2jq_XPZhVV1zz3l_/s320/Bad%20Day%20in%20a%20Banana%20Hammock%20cover%20(low%20res).jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p><br /></p>Stuart R. Westhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12199079894134598567noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-664025559144222907.post-17772282222535253902023-12-29T01:00:00.000-08:002023-12-29T01:00:00.140-08:00The Tragedy of Humpty Dumpty<p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_Duo1jqZolltFEn9M9hgHzMur1uTpse-7qgp7WS4-od1vf61ZOSxIJjW_AVHH97d7L58ugUYxC0AQKT9Np2H2549IipKQ4rbhK4p8kZOMZgSvApVDRkFn04K9loWte0qKeSNTcbYI9OYykSdHGZ5EmxwB-UpuKwcovZYZWsUOnvhKPAJi10pmhQx3/s612/Humpty%20Dumpty%202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="612" data-original-width="612" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_Duo1jqZolltFEn9M9hgHzMur1uTpse-7qgp7WS4-od1vf61ZOSxIJjW_AVHH97d7L58ugUYxC0AQKT9Np2H2549IipKQ4rbhK4p8kZOMZgSvApVDRkFn04K9loWte0qKeSNTcbYI9OYykSdHGZ5EmxwB-UpuKwcovZYZWsUOnvhKPAJi10pmhQx3/s320/Humpty%20Dumpty%202.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;">Since childhood, I've had a certain love/hate relationship with Humpty Dumpty, maybe even what you might call an affinity for the poor guy. Or at least an understanding of his tragic plight. For you see, Mr. Dumpty is kind of a sad creature, just a yolk shy of being pathetic. I mean, honestly...why in hell is a guy made out of a fragile egg sitting on a wall in the first place? Just plain stupid. But as one who identifies with Humpty's outsider status and applauds his do-it-his-way mentality, I can't help but overlook his idiotic life choices. (It's a pity that to this day, my childhood book of nursery rhymes scarred me for life; I still vividly remember Humpty's corpse laying broken on the ground with yolk and his life force oozing out of him. Hardly what I'd consider a happy childhood bedtime tale. What's wrong with these fairy tale writers?)</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikV7GCJTOtYAlwVAjz-lDPmfs3ce9eSUdKIu5LQtS-1WJMwJCd4zPfLVg0bXLif8WZHAe099Vk14bxo7eNHOoWyKYo4_LM0XYC69mDUQN61kIsyHewyoVacCh7jGZ3iWC0lEmdqVPeCuVQGNFD6am_1Gxoeb8BSyMUaYcBYra6RKKIQIMn0oJe-zMc/s612/humptydumpty.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="612" data-original-width="612" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikV7GCJTOtYAlwVAjz-lDPmfs3ce9eSUdKIu5LQtS-1WJMwJCd4zPfLVg0bXLif8WZHAe099Vk14bxo7eNHOoWyKYo4_LM0XYC69mDUQN61kIsyHewyoVacCh7jGZ3iWC0lEmdqVPeCuVQGNFD6am_1Gxoeb8BSyMUaYcBYra6RKKIQIMn0oJe-zMc/s320/humptydumpty.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;">But it seems that my lifelong acquaintance with Mr. Dumpty still continues to this day. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">It all began with a crappy horror film from the 80's (as so many incidents in our house do). Now, my wife doesn't share my excitement for crummy genre films, but something about "Bloodsuckers From Outer Space" drew her in, the dumb comedy aspect of it, I'm sure. In the movie a character was wandering about a kitchen and we both noticed a particularly ugly cookie jar.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"That cookie jar," said my wife. "What...what it is?"</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Squinting at the screen, I replied, "I'm pretty sure that's Humpty Dumpty. I think." I felt fairly confident in my answer, seeing as how I'm one of the world's foremost experts on Humpty Dumpty.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"Sure is creepy," she said.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"I know, right? But it's cool! I like it! Don't you like it?"</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">My wife waffled around a while, before finally committing. "Yeah, I guess."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">So inspiration struck me, harder than Dumpty's smashing into the ground. With Christmas just weeks away, I thought it'd make a funny and surprising gift for my wife. Off to the intronets I trawled, finally hitting pay-dirt. Sure enough, Ebay sellers were putting up their "vintage Humpty Dumpty collectible cookie jars" for sale, albeit at exorbitant prices.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">But I found one on Mercari, an Ebay knockoff, at a cheaper, more affordable price. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Here's what arrived...</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRTqL9218qS8D7D5e5RDIa2vvNN76xWtcpoPNtfHWpXQTh4TvnKt4j8YHzZFgeuolD2BW5uGgxGp1mgqyhkKJ6YmY7jbIvSC-e9bHeQ7Uo36B4QqEoGPb5CUklKz4UtalNUFwdNMTx7B_rI3R8Oh-G_sucWvEpqv6Ed1v28_Bie1PbQptTB2uABJ36/s4032/IMG_0652%20(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRTqL9218qS8D7D5e5RDIa2vvNN76xWtcpoPNtfHWpXQTh4TvnKt4j8YHzZFgeuolD2BW5uGgxGp1mgqyhkKJ6YmY7jbIvSC-e9bHeQ7Uo36B4QqEoGPb5CUklKz4UtalNUFwdNMTx7B_rI3R8Oh-G_sucWvEpqv6Ed1v28_Bie1PbQptTB2uABJ36/s320/IMG_0652%20(1).jpg" width="240" /></a></div><span style="font-size: x-large;">Crap. So off I went to Mercari to get a refund. (Hang on a minute...it's time for a rant.) Now...have you guys ever ordered from Mercari? Word of advice: DON'T. Their website is incredibly confusing (purposefully so, I think) to navigate and it's next to impossible to contact an actual customer service rep. I tried to go through their proper channels, but the site wouldn't let me. All requests for refunds are channeled through a robot. The robot told me "I'm sorry, you have no purchases with us." <i>What??? Tell that to PayPal, you stoopid robot! </i>So I tried to contact the seller (and I should've known something was up because he goes by the name "Charlie Brown"). The seller responded and said, "Just go through the process online." But I couldn't because they didn't think I made a purchase! So, I carefully pored over the website looking for an email address or phone number. <i>Wait...there it is!</i> "Contact us!" So I hit the shiny contact button annnnnnnnd...it took me back to the robot who insisted I didn't buy a broken Humpty Dumpty. With exactly zero phone numbers or email addresses on the website, I turned to Dr. Google. The good doctor Google turned up a phone number. I called it and after punching in my phone number and all sorts of other stuff, the robot returned with "I'm sorry. Customer service is not available in your area." <i>Whaaaaaaaa?</i></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">So I went back to good ol' Charlie Brown and pleaded my case. Suddenly my messages to Charlie on Mercari were being deleted by the administration 'bots. By this time, I'm livid, working myself up into a lather. Finally, I found an email address online and sent them an angry message. Two days later, someone overseas writes back and tells me all the hoops I have to jump through by taking fifty pictures of packaging (which was nothing more than empty Amazon boxes) and sending them. And get this...they said in order to get a refund, I had to do it within twelve hours. So...I knocked out the photos and sent them immediately. Only to wait another two days for a reply. (They must really, REALLY be far overseas since there's always a 48 hour time lag). Anyway, after much more give and take and frustration, I finally--FINALLY--got a refund. (Rant over...now back to our regularly scheduled post...)</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">As I looked at the shattered pieces of Humpty and my shattered dream of giving it to my wife sank in, the irony of it all struck me: I'm going to do what all the king's men and all the king's horses couldn't do! I'd put Humpty Dumpty back together again! It'll be fun, I stupidly thought.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Now, this was my first time working with epoxy. Nobody told me of the intricate and tricky nature of it. I just thought <i>simple, squeeze it out, stick the pieces together, boom! Instant Humpty Dumpty. </i>But no. You had to work with it fast or the actual package and nozzle gets glued together, disabling any chance of ever getting any more of it out of the tube. I went through three tubes, singlehandedly keeping the epoxy manufacturers in business. And good luck getting it off your hands.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">As I screamed and cursed and thought how stupid I was for thinking this would be "fun," Humpty caved in on me several times. I started over four times. That's perseverance! Let's see the lazy king's horses do that! (And for God's sake, why is the king letting his horses operate on an egg-man? I don't believe their hooves are known for their surgical dexterity.)</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Finally, I finished. Or at least as good as it was gonna get. I had to finally give up on all of the small pieces on the back of his head as they just wouldn't take. But here's the finished result...</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhMa_VclY8dlRjRLn3Mn1SdhBa_AgJW22xsI2Cmdnhi6XfiSY8nCzoAEoRDHO3iafgRcqBT-CSmpWsD2rpXbNmsrot5piuHghLaZtDdxmg8eVSWcNK-mK7OYxXrlPJ6kLQze0f9unbFewfE7Ivs6A4aV9_Nlo7sFL3Ra6_5HXwjR1FP5uEIc42lYx0/s4032/IMG_0695.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhMa_VclY8dlRjRLn3Mn1SdhBa_AgJW22xsI2Cmdnhi6XfiSY8nCzoAEoRDHO3iafgRcqBT-CSmpWsD2rpXbNmsrot5piuHghLaZtDdxmg8eVSWcNK-mK7OYxXrlPJ6kLQze0f9unbFewfE7Ivs6A4aV9_Nlo7sFL3Ra6_5HXwjR1FP5uEIc42lYx0/s320/IMG_0695.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />Sure, he kinda looks like a freakish Batman villain, or maybe one of the king's horses put him together, but I was happy that my "fun" Christmas project was at an end.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisyJosvogwR8IKYHRx3Y7enjV5hznKik7kMO_jIAs4bLBdj1gdO7R58lgD7CesTREoKogT6eVb5CF22pZQKwrKQGFIRUxKwWhuWo0x4cMktiAaaG5gJWgZy-pNQISJliH3FsPvj7YQWSVXNDc_BJFcCUs3tYQ7Nkp4bJUbyqCJdU3l8icEpMVbTq-P/s4032/IMG_0696.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisyJosvogwR8IKYHRx3Y7enjV5hznKik7kMO_jIAs4bLBdj1gdO7R58lgD7CesTREoKogT6eVb5CF22pZQKwrKQGFIRUxKwWhuWo0x4cMktiAaaG5gJWgZy-pNQISJliH3FsPvj7YQWSVXNDc_BJFcCUs3tYQ7Nkp4bJUbyqCJdU3l8icEpMVbTq-P/s320/IMG_0696.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />And that's about when I found out my wife thought it was super-creepy and scary and never wanted this particular Humpty in the first place. Merry Christmas!</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Speaking of bad eggs, there's more than a few lurking about in my serial killer trilogy, <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Secret-Society-Killers-Incorporated-Book-ebook/dp/B07GCDC4W6?asc_campaign=ebd2c6eb133725e5eb7e183f0de6eeae&asc_source=01H192EPQVEZ7PT5P11H54TN97&tag=namespacebran486-20" target="_blank">Killers Incorporated</a></i>. No, I'm not talking about the serial killers; they're the good guys! It's complicated. Find out how complicated <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Secret-Society-Killers-Incorporated-Book-ebook/dp/B07GCDC4W6?asc_campaign=ebd2c6eb133725e5eb7e183f0de6eeae&asc_source=01H192EPQVEZ7PT5P11H54TN97&tag=namespacebran486-20" target="_blank">right here</a>!</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm3MTicRM3EkNHxvBpWGgOrfK_dza9F89IXjzSRegboFgQaWfe3dxb43yoVVfN8tC_irYE2bWeaVeNJ-b7DFWG7svEaEdZbzXFeYVTAyL2EldRG8YY8fcjvujd34wpM4k_N3DYjeXNSgfuBK-41ehk9EH7AtYE1a-eLE-Uc2CvxFlBEJHU9NsMNqov/s612/Secret%20Society%20cover2%20reduced.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="612" data-original-width="408" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm3MTicRM3EkNHxvBpWGgOrfK_dza9F89IXjzSRegboFgQaWfe3dxb43yoVVfN8tC_irYE2bWeaVeNJ-b7DFWG7svEaEdZbzXFeYVTAyL2EldRG8YY8fcjvujd34wpM4k_N3DYjeXNSgfuBK-41ehk9EH7AtYE1a-eLE-Uc2CvxFlBEJHU9NsMNqov/s320/Secret%20Society%20cover2%20reduced.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><br /></p>Stuart R. Westhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12199079894134598567noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-664025559144222907.post-29664555518025674432023-12-22T01:00:00.000-08:002023-12-22T01:00:00.143-08:00Holiday Traditions: the Good, the Bad, and the Ridiculous<p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmIoMXPrYBlhiyDdcZrH7HrKoG2ehpVuNhVZ8auTfI05xnbq4GLvWCWLpf6r0-ar5Gsdl84BAGwS6Cd8NlvCbM5r3amhLIcVAa5wqOOGhsulzjT04fx7qvshqIdwlJit93yACnZg7BXVDZcQgt4tdGypHfbFpovV2Hu5GGYr45FC2u_CI056mnv9nZ/s1024/DALL%C2%B7E%202023-12-08%2010.57.01%20-%20Kids%20falling%20asleep%20in%20church%20at%20christmas%20time.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmIoMXPrYBlhiyDdcZrH7HrKoG2ehpVuNhVZ8auTfI05xnbq4GLvWCWLpf6r0-ar5Gsdl84BAGwS6Cd8NlvCbM5r3amhLIcVAa5wqOOGhsulzjT04fx7qvshqIdwlJit93yACnZg7BXVDZcQgt4tdGypHfbFpovV2Hu5GGYr45FC2u_CI056mnv9nZ/s320/DALL%C2%B7E%202023-12-08%2010.57.01%20-%20Kids%20falling%20asleep%20in%20church%20at%20christmas%20time.png" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;">With the onslaught of the holidays (and yes, I do mean "onslaught"), I'm always prone to thinking of lost loved ones. And no one looms larger in my fond memories than my mother, the undisputed Queen of Christmas.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Every Christmas, it was always the same with her.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"Mom, what would you like for Christmas?" I'd ask every year, rendering me the poster boy for Einstein's definition of insanity.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"I don't want anything. Just for us to be one big happy family." This was her maddening stock answer, yet we continued to play the game yearly. It was maddening for several reasons: A) It didn't help anyone; and B) I'm not so sure we were <i>ever</i> "one big, happy family."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Don't get me wrong. There were good and happy times, but there was also a lot of discord over the years. And, no, I'm not blameless either (Hello, bad boy teenager years! Where've you been? Never mind.). Maybe when we were kids, I might've considered us a "big, happy family," but then again I remember being bullied and beaten by my older brother. I had big, happy bruises to show for it.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">But I digress... I believe Mom looked forward to the holidays more than anyone in our family and she was a staunch believer in tradition. For crying out loud, she kept up the Santa Claus routine up until we were in college. Did we object? Not really. <i>Why</i>, I hear you asking? Probably because it made her happy.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwGLugiCtdSd6eKasCNZalcblILMypp5NrhryZPRN6m-hWvXTeFfw8eA-9BkRwOM1AbXTxjDsuhYMmI1wdmRPyrL5kitA_B5wa0zabQAEv6zFxXSHWsFyURwOZj6KnC5cXEWEDTAN8MnLBtgFa1Kgr6OKoWsy2kNY_pckOovF_ULGtTSyplCrEDBtS/s1024/DALL%C2%B7E%202023-12-08%2011.00.20%20-%20Embarrassed%20adults%20getting%20Christmas%20gifts%20from%20Santa.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwGLugiCtdSd6eKasCNZalcblILMypp5NrhryZPRN6m-hWvXTeFfw8eA-9BkRwOM1AbXTxjDsuhYMmI1wdmRPyrL5kitA_B5wa0zabQAEv6zFxXSHWsFyURwOZj6KnC5cXEWEDTAN8MnLBtgFa1Kgr6OKoWsy2kNY_pckOovF_ULGtTSyplCrEDBtS/s320/DALL%C2%B7E%202023-12-08%2011.00.20%20-%20Embarrassed%20adults%20getting%20Christmas%20gifts%20from%20Santa.png" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;">She was such a traditionalist that one year when I suggested we have Christmas at my house because I didn't want her doing all the work, she looked at me like I'd just admitted to murdering Santa Claus.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Her jaw dropped. Her gaze stabbed me with visual icicles. "Why, Stuart...you KNOW I have Christmas every year. You KNOW that!"</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Sacrilege! Never again did I dare to bring that up.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Another Christmas tradition was going to church on Christmas Eve. Oh, man, did I ever hate that, especially as a kid. It's miserable enough for children to suffer through a stuffy sermon while awaiting the Magical Day of Christmas to arrive, but the church my parents chose to torture us with was incredibly mind-numbingly, butt-deadeningly long and dull. At times, those services could last up to two hours . In fact, it wasn't just at Christmas, but every service I ever attended was excruciatingly unendurable. Pretty soon, the church expanded into several locations and the preacher couldn't keep up so he videotaped himself from another church. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFk1_SC6y8BaukAerEpJCDEuuk-nZbzE4LiMr4j8wNLBIGJQU9Bwr84huLBBDFEHPgAVrT3kmXRWOrjIeqoneuskc-rdaP6FdFuz_TMGHr-tElFSiRrdLfbP1YeraR1V7sUNoAqRHOzIdzKJKg-PX3KjZUZ04xAksADJaxyi0yspApDIMXI0cP6Pgk/s1024/DALL%C2%B7E%202023-12-08%2011.02.09%20-%20Preacher%20recording%20himself%20in%20bed%20giving%20sermon.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFk1_SC6y8BaukAerEpJCDEuuk-nZbzE4LiMr4j8wNLBIGJQU9Bwr84huLBBDFEHPgAVrT3kmXRWOrjIeqoneuskc-rdaP6FdFuz_TMGHr-tElFSiRrdLfbP1YeraR1V7sUNoAqRHOzIdzKJKg-PX3KjZUZ04xAksADJaxyi0yspApDIMXI0cP6Pgk/s320/DALL%C2%B7E%202023-12-08%2011.02.09%20-%20Preacher%20recording%20himself%20in%20bed%20giving%20sermon.png" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;">(Much to my nieces' amusement, I nicknamed it "Super Extended Video Church," and swore that the preacher was recording his message because he couldn't be bothered to get out of bed. While my nieces were amused, my mom wasn't so much.)</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">And then there were the family breakfasts where we traditionally ate at a hotel's buffet. This is where my mom would attack us, holding out her plate, asking everyone around the table in turn, "Would you like some of my food? How 'bout it? No? What about you? Take my bacon! TAKE IT!"</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCgV7QMlQ6Jh_rzTO034_Lq8XmU3fnqqYRuUA5qbr0WZ2ngEaBtUEhfTM0JA7KVi5P2nhtaEPoc6nka-2auC0_f-ZH4or9Hx0PyvrcrWh4DKKOJyxrANjA3IXNLedcnEljy9u1LAK1PiLTaEHgf3J4O2AL0E4-gTeo1PRiAq3uG9Cma6TiFjvN72st/s1024/DALL%C2%B7E%202023-12-08%2011.04.08%20-%20Elderly%20mother%20offering%20family%20her%20food%20at%20a%20buffet.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCgV7QMlQ6Jh_rzTO034_Lq8XmU3fnqqYRuUA5qbr0WZ2ngEaBtUEhfTM0JA7KVi5P2nhtaEPoc6nka-2auC0_f-ZH4or9Hx0PyvrcrWh4DKKOJyxrANjA3IXNLedcnEljy9u1LAK1PiLTaEHgf3J4O2AL0E4-gTeo1PRiAq3uG9Cma6TiFjvN72st/s320/DALL%C2%B7E%202023-12-08%2011.04.08%20-%20Elderly%20mother%20offering%20family%20her%20food%20at%20a%20buffet.png" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;">Now, I suppose it had something to do with my mom's midwestern upbringing, always displaying her Missouri graciousness and hosting even while dining out. But I really didn't get it. It's not like all the food we'd care to eat was less than six feet away in the buffet line. I suppose she wanted to save us that unnecessary six foot walk. Or something.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">There were many, many more traditions that we adhered to, mostly of my mom's (and dad's) making. And we continued them up until my mom passed away, even though we'd outgrown a lot of them or even if some of them no longer made sense. Keeping the traditions alive made her happy, and seeing her happy put a kick into my step as well.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">So, every Christmas, I do get nostalgic and think back on the nutty, crazy, goofy, silly, yet ultimately endearing traditions that we shared as a family. For at least one day out of the year, I suppose we were "one big, happy family," warts and all. Old traditions have somewhat fallen by the wayside as I suspect they do in every family, while new ones are forged and the circle continues. Mostly, though, I miss my parents. I tip my eggnog to them and now you guys have gone and got me all mushy. And I hate being mushy.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Happy holidays everyone and enjoy your traditions, new and old.</span></p><p><br /></p>Stuart R. Westhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12199079894134598567noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-664025559144222907.post-30480559333561917312023-12-15T01:00:00.000-08:002023-12-15T01:00:00.134-08:00I See Dead People! Or Something...<p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqO0_-JWMo5aql1VoVhcE5iKoKrNj-TkC-VOuVbdwAxf2HYIXGzZSvx4IyNXOkabAcup9ZW6l_6ucfBAm-5OnilAH2uGHQFm7X5XPuv6spUwNJKdQ6EyQJLnw0vBFEE1u1-h7E9-ElLG47HEoQumwFJvEY6fXYUKlzAISKVBIRyd2Ra8sqRoDNogM5/s1024/DALL%C2%B7E%202023-12-08%2011.43.34%20-%20Man%20being%20haunted%20by%20dark%20ghosts%20that%20keep%20zipping%20and%20flying%20by%20him.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqO0_-JWMo5aql1VoVhcE5iKoKrNj-TkC-VOuVbdwAxf2HYIXGzZSvx4IyNXOkabAcup9ZW6l_6ucfBAm-5OnilAH2uGHQFm7X5XPuv6spUwNJKdQ6EyQJLnw0vBFEE1u1-h7E9-ElLG47HEoQumwFJvEY6fXYUKlzAISKVBIRyd2Ra8sqRoDNogM5/s320/DALL%C2%B7E%202023-12-08%2011.43.34%20-%20Man%20being%20haunted%20by%20dark%20ghosts%20that%20keep%20zipping%20and%20flying%20by%20him.png" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;">Well, another day, another new physical ailment. The curse of growing old I suppose. My wife tends to see that glass as half-full. Not me, I'm a hole in the damn bucket that's not fixable kinda guy. I know that makes me unpleasant to be around (just ask my wife), but let's see how you react when everything in your body hurts.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">But I digress...</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">You guys know what "floaters" are? No, I'm not talking about the dead stiffs TV cops pull out of the river and I'm definitely not referring to the after-effects of people who have too much fiber in their diet (if you know what I mean and maybe we better just stop talking about that right now).</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">No more digressions!</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Back on point... The floaters I'm referring to are small specks or "clouds" that move across your line of sight. They become detached from your retina (or the vitreous connected to it) and there ain't no cure for it. Great! It's gonna kinda be hard to get used to this...</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Why, I remember my first floater like it was yesterday... In fact, it was yesterday which is why I remember the specifics. Cue flashback music and swirly screen and...fade out...</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">It hit me suddenly. Stepping out of the shower, I turned my head toward the towel rack and suddenly a wisp of black smoke swam by me, then disappeared. I freaked out. Surely all the horror films and books that I'd consumed had come back to get me with a vengeance, for the Haunting of Stuart West had begun. I turned around, hoping for some rational explanation and the ghost zipped by me again. Standing in the bathroom, dripping wet and naked, I let loose an ear-piercing scream, much worse than when my wife spots an arachnid. Even my deaf dog came to see what was the matter.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Soon enough, all sorts of spirits and wisps were speeding by me, toying with me, always in the corner of my eye, but never staying long enough to solidify.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlHGyCTaMzmlIxK2bEZukpzSNJe4cIUs6kUv1RM7H-qKysB8prHzSwErFeP0VW8udGN6h2y4cLOAYyYJp4J9nEaVPsMK5VvYpOeyD2f_MY6BGTFy6E1_ez7HMrqTopz7yElhUbBv7MYWwZnkQtzr33u-GxaCJksprQayZNhMVd0EbQKbhLZaOpzi7E/s1024/DALL%C2%B7E%202023-12-08%2011.44.17%20-%20Man%20being%20haunted%20by%20dark%20ghosts%20that%20keep%20zipping%20and%20flying%20by%20him.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlHGyCTaMzmlIxK2bEZukpzSNJe4cIUs6kUv1RM7H-qKysB8prHzSwErFeP0VW8udGN6h2y4cLOAYyYJp4J9nEaVPsMK5VvYpOeyD2f_MY6BGTFy6E1_ez7HMrqTopz7yElhUbBv7MYWwZnkQtzr33u-GxaCJksprQayZNhMVd0EbQKbhLZaOpzi7E/s320/DALL%C2%B7E%202023-12-08%2011.44.17%20-%20Man%20being%20haunted%20by%20dark%20ghosts%20that%20keep%20zipping%20and%20flying%20by%20him.png" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;">I did what any mature, responsible adult would do: I called my wife at work.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"Hi...um...I'm seeing dead people," I said.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Silence. Quiet. Dead quiet. Deader and quieter than the spirits haunting me from the periphery of my vision.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Finally, "What?"</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I explained. And she explained to me what they were.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"Floaters? I thought that was what you might find in the toilet if you've had too much--"</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"Don't be dumb," she said. Then she told me that there was nothing to be done about them. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">So I have to get used to them. I haven't yet. Once I've temporarily forgotten about them, a sudden turn of the head will bring them back to haunt me again. I'm trying to learn to embrace my constant new buddies, my ghostly apparitions piggy-backing onto my eyesight, but it's a chore. I'll never again take for granted those victims in horror films who are going through similar hauntings.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">But I'd much rather have the kind of floaters you get when you've had too much fiber. At least they're not constantly with you.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Hoka-hoka-hey! While I'm battering you with juvenile humor (I'm six years old!), why not check out my incredibly juvenile Zach and Zora comic mystery series? The first book's title is <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Bad-Day-Banana-Hammock-Mysteries-ebook/dp/B08R27YGT8?asc_campaign=ebd2c6eb133725e5eb7e183f0de6eeae&asc_source=01H192EPQVEZ7PT5P11H54TN97&tag=namespacebran486-20" target="_blank">Bad Day in a Banana Hammock</a></i> and the humor just goes careening downhill after that. But don't take my word for it! Check 'em out yourself right about <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Bad-Day-Banana-Hammock-Mysteries-ebook/dp/B08R27YGT8?asc_campaign=ebd2c6eb133725e5eb7e183f0de6eeae&asc_source=01H192EPQVEZ7PT5P11H54TN97&tag=namespacebran486-20" target="_blank">here</a>!</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP0VWwQJOJah_nAYbTMB1enGpSLFRDu-Bux39tDS55_XaRcnKGZ88iLP1DOtnHS6iOp0cf2MPmPl14PqQCgN-hFvJj46r9wUTptR0Mry82T3EiQZw-NImOxzInotegyaRCK61_jCHTqKc-RM69LCI38wH74hVrJy7GPs7vAErY9mFAlRUUaV61wK-2/s2250/Bad%20Day%20in%20a%20Banana%20Hammock%20cover%20(low%20res).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2250" data-original-width="1500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP0VWwQJOJah_nAYbTMB1enGpSLFRDu-Bux39tDS55_XaRcnKGZ88iLP1DOtnHS6iOp0cf2MPmPl14PqQCgN-hFvJj46r9wUTptR0Mry82T3EiQZw-NImOxzInotegyaRCK61_jCHTqKc-RM69LCI38wH74hVrJy7GPs7vAErY9mFAlRUUaV61wK-2/s320/Bad%20Day%20in%20a%20Banana%20Hammock%20cover%20(low%20res).jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p>Stuart R. Westhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12199079894134598567noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-664025559144222907.post-63661386585802950232023-12-08T01:00:00.000-08:002023-12-08T01:00:00.136-08:00Pharmacy Etiquette<p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU1ZLJ-p9F8BB8co2_nVzaNuyD__R5oU3_XeKy2HqFHXHuMoPiIJfyhZjb3tHE84a_KGB9jS58f8RmILYGc1aMjAsQkgFF8JNZ_-G65_boX43H-MfLtSQLV9Ov3Vr7kX3sFU3UwSazsgDDUl381pximSdLWL9rDqW59ObWU1c__SVpZp_q-DlmDzIt/s1024/DALL%C2%B7E%202023-11-29%2012.58.37%20-%20line%20of%20angry,%20impatient%20customers%20at%20pharmacy.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU1ZLJ-p9F8BB8co2_nVzaNuyD__R5oU3_XeKy2HqFHXHuMoPiIJfyhZjb3tHE84a_KGB9jS58f8RmILYGc1aMjAsQkgFF8JNZ_-G65_boX43H-MfLtSQLV9Ov3Vr7kX3sFU3UwSazsgDDUl381pximSdLWL9rDqW59ObWU1c__SVpZp_q-DlmDzIt/s320/DALL%C2%B7E%202023-11-29%2012.58.37%20-%20line%20of%20angry,%20impatient%20customers%20at%20pharmacy.png" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;">You'd think I'd know how to behave in a pharmacy, right? Apparently not. It's not like I haven't been properly schooled either; my wife is a pharmacist and my daughter has worked in one, so no problem. Except ask the very Angry Karen who I managed to hack off at the pharmacy last week.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Of course with the holidays quickly approaching, several days before Thanksgiving, my body decided to betray me. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"Ha ha!" it railed. "You were all set to gorge yourself silly so I'm stopping you from doing that! Poof! You feel like a poo-poo platter!" (Quick juvenile sidebar: I used to enjoy ordering poo-poo platters at Chinese restaurants. Not because I liked the food; no way! I just enjoyed saying it out loud and having a little giggle. Yes, I'm six years old. But I digress...)</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">So, my wife takes off to enjoy being with the family, leaving me home in a pile of tissues and hacking my lungs out. Naturally, I thought I had Covid. Again. So I took a test. It was indeterminate. There were two red lines. <i>What?</i> There was no protocol for two red lines. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I waited and took another test the next day. Still same strange results. <i>Huh</i>, I thought. <i>Either I'm dead and in the Twilight Zone or something seems off</i>.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Sure enough, the two tests had expired. Back to the drawing board with yet another test. This one came out as negative, but after inspecting the various packets and stuff, one of them had expired by several months. Another test was enjoyed by my nostrils and flooding eyes!</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Finally, I bit the bullet and went to Urgent Care. Now the only thing I hate more than going to the doctor is going to Urgent Care. Here, you'll generally wait for hours and hours and hours in a waiting room packed with the sickest people this side of a Covid ward. But this time I had a plan. As they opened at 10:00 A.M., I decided to get there, wait it out in front of the doors like a Black Friday Walmart Raider, and get a jump on the sick masses.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I got in. And of course, first thing they wanted to do was give me a Covid test. Fun! While I should've been packing myself silly until I was sick with all sorts of high carb foods, I was having my nostrils tortured by Nurse Ratched.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">So, bronchitis, bla, bla, bla. They phoned it into a nearby pharmacy (my regular one was closed on Sunday because no one is allowed to get sick on the Lord's Day.).</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I gave it a good hour before I showed up. The pharmacist on duty was young and angry, clearly wanting his Sunday back, didn't speak until I did, no time for pleasantries (in fact everyone I dealt with there NEVER spoke to me first, the onus always being on me), and not once even looked up at me. "It'll be...thirty minutes," he said. While I sat down, he repeated this line numerous times to other customers, always with the well-rehearsed pause in the same place as if he was actually giving the time frame ample consideration. I mean, AS IF.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">While I sat, coughing behind my mask, a long line of other drug-needing customers lined up. Sure enough after thirty minutes of drudgery (there oughta be a law against vapid non-stop Christmas music in public places this early), the eye-contact-avoiding pharmacist blipped out my name. I jumped out of my chair to go approach him. And he ignored me.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I thought, well, maybe I'm in the wrong line. So without giving it a second thought I raced over to the clerk at the pick-up line.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Using awkward hand gestures, I said, "Um, that guy over there just called my name."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The clerk is looking over my shoulder at the other waiting customers, anywhere but me. Man, what charm school did they all graduate from?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">But then it hit me...<i>did I just cut in line? Surely not. I mean, my name was called. And I'd already done my due diligence by waiting in line the first time, so my behavior is perfectly acceptable. Right? RIGHT?</i></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">By the time my bout of doubt and second doubt had fully ensnared me within its nefarious clutches, I could feel unrest at my back. Daggers, even.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I turned, mustered up an awkward smile, and said to the first person in line, "Hey, I'm sorry if I cut in line. I didn't mean to... I'd already waited in line before and, um, he just called my name...and, um..." My hands and thumbs gesticulated in every direction, seeking out visual aid in my time of need and failing me horribly, rendering me into a drunken traffic cop.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The woman in charge of the restless natives was ballcapped, young, dressed in expensive looking designer workout clothes, and very, VERY angry. She said nothing. I kinda was expecting a small smile, maybe a handwave, a "oh, you're fine."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Instead I got the most hateful glare, slow shake of the head, and upturned sneer I've ever been accorded. She followed up with an arm-fold and a very audible snort through her inflated and enflamed nostrils. Absolutely spewing out her incredibly self-entitled rich, white yuppie anger. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3dsKu9NO5snlVazZO9zRR1qEkvjibZiF05U4hv_uCiRnSdWNxFtQvifkhGpG2gycDjneU0CpUBX3h3s7Nsnb4aSopUhtWIWxhmMWcK09NP93Zqt08_Wu4K84r8LnIT42zLP8OwmBm1_mISOnkXJCbCZ9t28Z6A876bqSPogrDNXV346w7DCglCr18/s1024/DALL%C2%B7E%202023-11-29%2013.00.06%20-%20Screaming,%20angry%20young%20self-entitled%20white%20Karen%20yelling%20in%20drug%20store.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3dsKu9NO5snlVazZO9zRR1qEkvjibZiF05U4hv_uCiRnSdWNxFtQvifkhGpG2gycDjneU0CpUBX3h3s7Nsnb4aSopUhtWIWxhmMWcK09NP93Zqt08_Wu4K84r8LnIT42zLP8OwmBm1_mISOnkXJCbCZ9t28Z6A876bqSPogrDNXV346w7DCglCr18/s320/DALL%C2%B7E%202023-11-29%2013.00.06%20-%20Screaming,%20angry%20young%20self-entitled%20white%20Karen%20yelling%20in%20drug%20store.png" width="320" /></a></div><br />In the halls of CVS, I faced down the fury of Karen Unleashed.<p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I've seen how things like this can escalate on YouTube, so I hauled ass, arms full of prescriptions, out of there.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Later I asked both my wife and daughter if what I had done constituted poor pharmacy etiquette. To my relief, they both said no, since I'd already waited in line.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">But try telling that to Karen, Angry Queen of CVS. Undoubtedly, it's my fault, though. Had I kept my mouth shut and not offered an apology (even though I didn't think it truly necessary, just covering the bases), then I wouldn't have fed her flames of self-righteous indignation. Akin to feeding online trolls, sometimes I just can't help myself.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Let this be a warning, friends. Beware of Karens in pharmacies. They're mad, they're there, and they want to see the manager NOW!</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">While I've got bad decisions on my mind, consider poor Shawn Biltmore. Stuck in a dead-end, miserable drudge of corporate nonsense job, his love-life is also going nowhere. Until he gets bitten by a werewolf. Things change. And not necessarily for the better. Yet it doesn't stop Shawn from forging ahead from one bad decision to another. Yes sir, it's corporate satire at its fiercest, funneled through the lens of a horror tale and more werewolves than you can toss a stick to. Check out the horror, suspense, and dark humor of <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Corporate-Wolf-Stuart-R-West/dp/1947227378/?_encoding=UTF8&pd_rd_w=a7Stl&content-id=amzn1.sym.cf86ec3a-68a6-43e9-8115-04171136930a&pf_rd_p=cf86ec3a-68a6-43e9-8115-04171136930a&pf_rd_r=140-5112958-9536104&pd_rd_wg=btcF3&pd_rd_r=09141518-184d-48e2-a156-b9946b59ca9f&ref_=aufs_ap_sc_dsk" target="_blank">Corporate Wolf</a></i>. Tell them Karen sent you. And then demand to see the manager.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizDMPfya-f7UpeenFO0V4X25CeaY5LLANAkHJoA9mOLPITEg043Hcs7YvQspi-0Uib85IkxpG_WD8DbZbsgo9I_t3IUeS7UqTuVGluufZFRtM9p26dSFc3uodZOO6PXAfUj3Xe9G0vOwYmhxNwjOYMCEEuS0ylKzLG795cOrHOqIAtW56Z6GlNEtZp/s346/Corp%20Wolf%20Cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="346" data-original-width="230" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizDMPfya-f7UpeenFO0V4X25CeaY5LLANAkHJoA9mOLPITEg043Hcs7YvQspi-0Uib85IkxpG_WD8DbZbsgo9I_t3IUeS7UqTuVGluufZFRtM9p26dSFc3uodZOO6PXAfUj3Xe9G0vOwYmhxNwjOYMCEEuS0ylKzLG795cOrHOqIAtW56Z6GlNEtZp/s320/Corp%20Wolf%20Cover.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p><br /></p>Stuart R. Westhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12199079894134598567noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-664025559144222907.post-68202357811833018822023-12-01T01:00:00.001-08:002023-12-01T01:00:00.145-08:00Revenge of the Angry Drunken Dads!<span style="font-size: large;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiXeGvWCnU_rW6RyFu2uPS6axw3P8SV1si0z4p11U72x4UMHVc4-w0KGegtJ1Wz8GBw5yV8dbe5gBVQ7o46nidzjEJa1qM9bbTdBvSnnTBpYEGMCXPqvk2QnWDEndT3c-L-fdsk8QN5v6GET6vXIsXk7gq5ihaTbMri_tuBWQVZ2OItH8h_Nlf9IzL/s3088/IMG_0600.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="2316" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiXeGvWCnU_rW6RyFu2uPS6axw3P8SV1si0z4p11U72x4UMHVc4-w0KGegtJ1Wz8GBw5yV8dbe5gBVQ7o46nidzjEJa1qM9bbTdBvSnnTBpYEGMCXPqvk2QnWDEndT3c-L-fdsk8QN5v6GET6vXIsXk7gq5ihaTbMri_tuBWQVZ2OItH8h_Nlf9IzL/s320/IMG_0600.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>Just when you thought it was safe to go back to Lawrence, Kansas , the Angry Drunken Dads return! Some of you may recall my first dangerous sojourn to Lawrence last year for the Father's Day celebration with my brother and nieces to the University of Kansas, my alma mater (and if you don't remember it, go refresh your memory <a href="https://stuartrwest.blogspot.com/2022/12/drunk-angry-dad-convention.html">HERE</a>. Go on... I'll wait). What's supposed to be a celebration of fathers and their kids at college has--and still is--a reason for dads to go wild, show extreme bad behavior, get stupid hammered, try to relive their glory days, and get in fights. It's AWESOME!</span><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">First of all, </span><span style="font-size: x-large;">it never ceases to amaze me how my nieces aren't embarrassed by me and their dad; I couldn't even imagine my parents stepping foot into a bar without disturbing the living daylights out of me. But, hey, as long as the girls are good with it, I'm in!</span></div><div><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: x-large;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi78AW6ZuaJ1hpM390QEWXMQTN_iYWkxJc2Igw09xqDMAqvFNwf2q8IFgSssHMf3ySUWvxpoHttv2lHnr5KPrSx8ZzwFXTjcB36HKTc2pmJ_yiPlL7dUQSvtzmYGk8Im1gU56Ihb8A8yorfCI_FFaOJlPA7ig-SUF4_Uobprvkc6J8DwmEhQwoY2mFv/s4032/IMG_0025.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi78AW6ZuaJ1hpM390QEWXMQTN_iYWkxJc2Igw09xqDMAqvFNwf2q8IFgSssHMf3ySUWvxpoHttv2lHnr5KPrSx8ZzwFXTjcB36HKTc2pmJ_yiPlL7dUQSvtzmYGk8Im1gU56Ihb8A8yorfCI_FFaOJlPA7ig-SUF4_Uobprvkc6J8DwmEhQwoY2mFv/s320/IMG_0025.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>We started our annual adventure by visiting my niece's sorority house. Well...that's not quite accurate; it was a fraternity that the sorority was now living in.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">"What? Where're the frat boys?" I asked.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">My niece replied, "They got kicked off of campus. So, while they rebuild our house, they put us in here. It's got mold everywhere."</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">Huh. The mind boggles about how bad the frat guys must've been to get kicked out of their house and off campus. Furthermore, I wondered what they did to accumulate their mold collection. Needless to say, I washed my hands frequently.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">And while in the bathroom, there were a couple of girls in there.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">I hollered, "Hey, don't worry about me, I'll just be over here at the urinals." </span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">Now one thing we hadn't considered on our excursion was that Drunken Angry Dads are generally solitary creatures, not prone to running in packs. </span><span style="font-size: x-large;">Which is why my brother and I ended up looking like the girls' "two dads."</span><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-large;">In the spirit of angry drunkeness, we decided to embrace it and run with it, enjoying introducing ourselves as their two dads. And it STILL didn't embarrass the girls. Tough crowd, tough crowd.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKLIaOFablSWB4JsIbhQqrIDrapu66ftsTaelqnXcczegm3bc1NjUzk8FdcmnyXIkjMKmoMB77QPeKf6veUQGL7Y4L4l8rVqGtaCjESjkPaSgZENPcn9xN2JrQLLzau0OcUukPKD5R2CxxU55qfQq5nY1h91RnQ519ynz-VAKfL2Aoj82SK2wlJeAm/s4032/IMG_0018.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKLIaOFablSWB4JsIbhQqrIDrapu66ftsTaelqnXcczegm3bc1NjUzk8FdcmnyXIkjMKmoMB77QPeKf6veUQGL7Y4L4l8rVqGtaCjESjkPaSgZENPcn9xN2JrQLLzau0OcUukPKD5R2CxxU55qfQq5nY1h91RnQ519ynz-VAKfL2Aoj82SK2wlJeAm/s320/IMG_0018.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>Onward HO! Luckily, the ex-frat house was just a hop, skip and jump away from the girls' favorite bars. But on the way there, we ran into a couple of dads who were threatening everyone on the street with keg stands. (For the uninitiated, keg stands are where you do a handstand on top of a keg and drink as long as possible; I don't get it either, but those are just some of the rules of the Angry Drunken Dad Convention.)</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">These two little drunk dads were trying to coerce all of us into doing a keg stand.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">They hoisted one of my nieces up and barely managed to keep her there. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dy_ZqGjeQ8v4IZ7bzFDwFrzYOByP-KlxFdIpK3fKWO7_6WrtWppUsV0sEdycTHR0I3TNE6TtU5EGx9e-eqfLQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>"C'mon," they said to me, "your turn."</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">I looked at these small men and scoffed. "Ah...you guys can't lift me."</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">"Oh, we'll get you up," said the runt of the litter.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">I passed, unwilling to throw my back out for a keg stand. However, I was talked into drinking some nutty cocktail out of a community bucket that another drunken dad was passing around. Throwing caution--and germs and sickness!--to the wind, I sipped mightily. (And, lo, it came to pass that I fell sick the following week!)</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">First stop was Bullwinkles, the bar where a very drunk girl gave me a five minute head massage last year. Sure enough, she was there, getting her drink on. But this year she had forsaken me, having taken up with another old bald guy. She's got a type. Ah, such a fickle head massager.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">In the crowd, drunk dads bopped about to the blaring rap music, twisting their feet, shaking the two-fingered pointy rap deal, and painfully trying to look young and cool. Among this year's celebrities was Steve Bannon, who obviously was on the run from Johnny Law, hiding out in a Kansas college bar. Here I am in front of Bannon.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD3Ld1qLS_YEmIAPMuZIipvRIJlMBQt0K4ODc73Zk7wfulxqrhtN9gvVcSLr59gi6LGiCxPMcwgixa2WlZxW5YGXbKVHjPG8zgJX9Ry3N7JfScZzu7cdw4nKOKSW84F5vHJY6nQ4A25GRJ7c_i5bfVk7RCbQ1jhpx6OlPeAC7Wrk48ghJIWuqWhJGB/s4032/IMG_5173.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD3Ld1qLS_YEmIAPMuZIipvRIJlMBQt0K4ODc73Zk7wfulxqrhtN9gvVcSLr59gi6LGiCxPMcwgixa2WlZxW5YGXbKVHjPG8zgJX9Ry3N7JfScZzu7cdw4nKOKSW84F5vHJY6nQ4A25GRJ7c_i5bfVk7RCbQ1jhpx6OlPeAC7Wrk48ghJIWuqWhJGB/s320/IMG_5173.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>Too loud to chat, the rap music blaring at ear-busting decibels, we pretty much drank in silence. Some idiot girls brought in two tiny "purse puppies" who were clearly terrified and shaking by the crowd and noise. Time to go!</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">On our way to the next bar, I asked, "Is rap the music of choice these days? I don't get it."</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">My brother says, "Yeah, I didn't get it at first either. But I've come to accept it." So if my brother accepts it, all is right in Lawrence, Kansas.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">Next stop, Loogies! Now at this bar, the music of choice was '80's alt rock, one of my faves. So maybe it was the excessive amount of beer or maybe it was just my jam, but I turned into one of those be-bopping drunken dads (but not angry, mind you, not yet). </span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtHj-vj2c186WyZG6T3pIMFv7N_nVVJ2fYN6INfoXUJUQ7qFNL89URFWVWIiBjPJQ2nEN7_mJuNEb4UV1vCO7ecmjTOI-N2hXLh_3EOoA21kb7szXr0Lw7_ZMTOkMol_ker5xnXLOeIT0L9e2LpDzP5T2nBBkJmoYZ8XqeDgrzN_F0kC58aJyAUkHY/s4032/IMG_5174.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtHj-vj2c186WyZG6T3pIMFv7N_nVVJ2fYN6INfoXUJUQ7qFNL89URFWVWIiBjPJQ2nEN7_mJuNEb4UV1vCO7ecmjTOI-N2hXLh_3EOoA21kb7szXr0Lw7_ZMTOkMol_ker5xnXLOeIT0L9e2LpDzP5T2nBBkJmoYZ8XqeDgrzN_F0kC58aJyAUkHY/s320/IMG_5174.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>My niece was saying how her hardest class was The History of Rock and Roll. To which I just expressed shock.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">"C'mon, how hard can it be? You got the blues, Chuck Berry, Elvis, then the Beatles, and finally rap. Boom! History!"</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">I proceeded to quiz her on who the current singer blasting over the speakers was. I was absolutely appalled that she didn't know who David Bowie was. What are they teaching these guys in college anyway?</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqkv_ZYCt2Ld3Ild9qUB30by9k6p1a3ZEdmRC92zGuIcSnLwCQ2J9CI0T1MNdqIr5j5w0LF7owbDoPSnaOPygZjX8PwUM3_3suSTbP-tjH7Fe4sKrZYbeJM26LyhW4VELoDcUZYwuBesKYI_LLBd7egdzJMnZIjwc0ByQk0UPX9ffI8bjDcICiUKlm/s4032/IMG_5188.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqkv_ZYCt2Ld3Ild9qUB30by9k6p1a3ZEdmRC92zGuIcSnLwCQ2J9CI0T1MNdqIr5j5w0LF7owbDoPSnaOPygZjX8PwUM3_3suSTbP-tjH7Fe4sKrZYbeJM26LyhW4VELoDcUZYwuBesKYI_LLBd7egdzJMnZIjwc0ByQk0UPX9ffI8bjDcICiUKlm/s320/IMG_5188.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>Earlier I said that everyone at KU listens to rap. Another thing they all do is vape. Every last student there. Smoking is so outre these days. In fact the only smoker I saw was Steve Bannon (natch). But every last damn student was toking away on their little boxes. Naturally, we had to make a pitstop at one of these vape shops.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">Now, I've never been in one of these places before and doubt I ever will again. First of all, it smelled like Steve Bannon's socks being burned in a fireplace. Second, it's outrageously overwhelming. There was a massive wall just loaded with different flavors, types, scents, whatevers. Huge sensory overload. There was a ginormous section devoted to Mike Tyson flavors alone (and of course when I think of vaping, I think of Mike Tyson. Or whatever).</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">My brother asked the little hippy working there what good "ice" flavors he had.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">I proffered, "Hey, what about Vanilla Ice?"</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">My brother giggled, the girls looked embarrassed, and the clerk sneered at me and yelled at me for leaning on the glass case.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5tK75LKB65kHGyP6KH54UB5BcavtuVpMMXCW21z_xIi3qEYycqATQNGwrHKF-FwnRX3ZkLjMO1nH6G45iQPlzqEiiTJ8lLVEm_FsqNMVsLe9168RKr4AMAK53z86lOXPMaaX7MxMjWIOAWwK0CPqXunBunmBi3q3pz7xFs8igA5_dJmL-GTj17AkT/s1024/DALL%C2%B7E%202023-11-29%2012.00.55%20-%20angry%20hipster%20vape%20store%20clerk.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5tK75LKB65kHGyP6KH54UB5BcavtuVpMMXCW21z_xIi3qEYycqATQNGwrHKF-FwnRX3ZkLjMO1nH6G45iQPlzqEiiTJ8lLVEm_FsqNMVsLe9168RKr4AMAK53z86lOXPMaaX7MxMjWIOAWwK0CPqXunBunmBi3q3pz7xFs8igA5_dJmL-GTj17AkT/s320/DALL%C2%B7E%202023-11-29%2012.00.55%20-%20angry%20hipster%20vape%20store%20clerk.png" width="320" /></a></div>Our next stop on the Angry Drunken Dad tour was a bar so crowded we couldn't even get to the bar, so we abandoned ship and went to Leroy's, a pool hall. We gathered into a recently abandoned booth and drank.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">Soon, though, a couple guys in their late twenties or early thirties came up and stood before us, saying nothing.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">"Oh," I said, not wanting to get in an Angry Drunken Dad brawl, "did we, um...ah...did we take your table?"</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">"Yeah," said one guy, "we just went to the bathroom." Which was kinda weird. I knew women went in pairs to "powder their noses," but I didn't know guys did. Oh, wait! Maybe they were "powdering INTO their noses."</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">Anyway, the guys settled down, one wandered off, and I thought the other guy would never leave. Turned out he played for KU back in the '90's so he had a LOT to say about the Jayhawks football team. We ended up on a friendly note, he wanting to shake hands. And I suddenly developed nervous not-knowing-what-to-do etiquette. First I offered a fist bump, then retracted, slid into a regular handshake, pulled away, and ridiculously ended up in an old-fashioned "soul hand shake" the kind that hasn't been a thing since the '70's. No idea why, chalk it up to beer and my desire to be cool. And like so many other Drunken Dads, I failed miserably.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNOIHcsrvlW14LM93mj6BYULwRioovclKVpQz9a6ow_lb_oX7wWd8OHRGr9oqyY_t3QP5S_DYl8TmLSNDeR7vzEmKF6ahxLRM0Bj-heWUiaL-xrX9kiKXQ_X4EiTEq3VG0uXRSpqEzETfn1YCnZATdgiGrQUoVMTJe3YuPla_VhgJ4EYtxMBNqXki9/s4032/IMG_5193.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNOIHcsrvlW14LM93mj6BYULwRioovclKVpQz9a6ow_lb_oX7wWd8OHRGr9oqyY_t3QP5S_DYl8TmLSNDeR7vzEmKF6ahxLRM0Bj-heWUiaL-xrX9kiKXQ_X4EiTEq3VG0uXRSpqEzETfn1YCnZATdgiGrQUoVMTJe3YuPla_VhgJ4EYtxMBNqXki9/s320/IMG_5193.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Of course we had to end up at the Hawk. Now "The Hawk" was my college hang-out back in the day, a cheap place to drink (Thursday nights were quarter draws!) and go nuts. But, my oh my, how times have changed. I honestly don't understand how college kids can get their drink on at the crazy prices (and vaping ain't cheap). Having had a particularly grotesque experience at the Hawk last year, this year was pretty much the same, down to that ever-present odor. In fact, every bar we went to had that oh-so-familiar smell. The scent of higher education!</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">Here we met one of my niece's friends, the fourth starting quarterback for the Jayhawks. If only one more quarterback had been injured in that day's game, he might've gotten off the bench! Still, it didn't detract from his own set of groupies hanging all over him.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">As day turned into night and more Drunken Dads staggered about, delusional in their beliefs that they were still the Kings of the World, another group became readily apparent, particularly in their despondency. This would be the Dejected Dormitory Dude pack.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghO4lZOtjgfxKyDBBfdHI_P6t7E7PxuDtTdjVnYf78DWSKZAzSahKHmvDGIEfzUwbEs5xyFP-UGM_nbYq1gpLmKkMss_HeUrks3Jfc-yYIgVlAM9fdcUS4b78-3L1xMWrI_ew_Oqo5zeQLlbgNJYKzAuteCIQL8Lc1QlNNdJj5XUdrWTsuYjI91xzs/s1024/DALL%C2%B7E%202023-11-29%2012.00.10%20-%20three%20thin%20depressed%20round%20shouldered%20dormitory%20geeks%20leaving%20a%20bar.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghO4lZOtjgfxKyDBBfdHI_P6t7E7PxuDtTdjVnYf78DWSKZAzSahKHmvDGIEfzUwbEs5xyFP-UGM_nbYq1gpLmKkMss_HeUrks3Jfc-yYIgVlAM9fdcUS4b78-3L1xMWrI_ew_Oqo5zeQLlbgNJYKzAuteCIQL8Lc1QlNNdJj5XUdrWTsuYjI91xzs/s320/DALL%C2%B7E%202023-11-29%2012.00.10%20-%20three%20thin%20depressed%20round%20shouldered%20dormitory%20geeks%20leaving%20a%20bar.png" width="320" /></a></div>Thin as rails, unable to afford (or pick out) stylish clothing, sporting haircuts that only a mother could love, they were easily identified by their round-shouldered dejection. When they'd leave the bar, it wasn't the boisterous Hey-Ho, Let's Go of the frat rats.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">No, I could practically read their thoughts, having been one of the downtrodden myself many years ago: "<i>Oh well...struck out again. May as well go back and play Grand Theft Auto</i>."</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">As we wound down our exciting Angry Drunk Dad Day with a delicious (except not) dinner at Quik-Trip, a sudden epiphany struck me.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">"Hey," I asked one niece, "do the moms act this way on Soused Mother's Day?"</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">"Oh, yeah," she answered with an eyeroll. Man. I, for one, am gonna move heaven and earth to crash that shindig next year!</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjswmvxuS12CJIKJXsmYNiH_roj2oQ_P2A_QpV1z_R2R4bHNEGNxcZgmBQXP8RAy6Fi_-0hWqMdcW3HWB6QEvPsr3H1R0D0NhHxBcdDvqShWQcQkUoly7_49G8AF6x2X2dEw1Kb7mocIUSeqcLCjwJC8RybwzCWeBUGaLWch8xJWACnmQW33YF4YXgq/s3088/IMG_0604.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="2316" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjswmvxuS12CJIKJXsmYNiH_roj2oQ_P2A_QpV1z_R2R4bHNEGNxcZgmBQXP8RAy6Fi_-0hWqMdcW3HWB6QEvPsr3H1R0D0NhHxBcdDvqShWQcQkUoly7_49G8AF6x2X2dEw1Kb7mocIUSeqcLCjwJC8RybwzCWeBUGaLWch8xJWACnmQW33YF4YXgq/s320/IMG_0604.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>Speaking of crashing events, you might want to stay away from the Dandy Drop Inn, a quaint little bed 'n breakfast located deep into the Midwest. There've been rumblings that some of the people visiting aren't the most...well, friendly of folks. Checking in is easy...checking out's killer. Read all about it in my helpful travelogue, <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Dread-Breakfast-Stuart-R-West/dp/0998405515/?_encoding=UTF8&pd_rd_w=YQh8G&content-id=amzn1.sym.cf86ec3a-68a6-43e9-8115-04171136930a&pf_rd_p=cf86ec3a-68a6-43e9-8115-04171136930a&pf_rd_r=140-5112958-9536104&pd_rd_wg=v80D5&pd_rd_r=9bf8fedd-6c28-4b38-9f76-8d87442da2f6&ref_=aufs_ap_sc_dsk" target="_blank">Dread and Breakfast</a></i>.</span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXp4eF9H-9I4DK1gL-pFTb074aEV8mZX78At9Ta98N32VWemyaK6YjO0O0wG_TnrRmczUVq6habgULBN5JwVQFvMdAb7xDlDmndePk0tzeFiGsZ7qJLadyuwqCgOOdqpQDGhDyZKqFtvYxifE9U_YkN-j13bQDSpsHgK7mc1av1xtu2e9WIHYW-oy5/s1350/Dread%20and%20Breakfast%20-%20Stuart%20R%20West%20-%20Reduced.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1350" data-original-width="900" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXp4eF9H-9I4DK1gL-pFTb074aEV8mZX78At9Ta98N32VWemyaK6YjO0O0wG_TnrRmczUVq6habgULBN5JwVQFvMdAb7xDlDmndePk0tzeFiGsZ7qJLadyuwqCgOOdqpQDGhDyZKqFtvYxifE9U_YkN-j13bQDSpsHgK7mc1av1xtu2e9WIHYW-oy5/s320/Dread%20and%20Breakfast%20-%20Stuart%20R%20West%20-%20Reduced.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>Stuart R. Westhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12199079894134598567noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-664025559144222907.post-88914734471907466132023-11-24T01:00:00.005-08:002023-11-24T01:00:00.145-08:00Hazardous to pests and oafs<p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzE0vpT52NYTRdnSvvMtMWwi-C6AK_JhWTBAKwMoaXZipGYAjHyXRugnB3xYIFOwP7l9YIyWqGJjPo38CnrW_5PsPSqYsGfZYJqjIQMp9RZjMMZmpTvDfvYbMBjyjzdMez4Ajy5mAdzqSAfyRz1VfaK1VWcTWGKGd2zgNwP-BnUjSCO3cNuRSvgiUX/s1024/Pests%20Oafs%202.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzE0vpT52NYTRdnSvvMtMWwi-C6AK_JhWTBAKwMoaXZipGYAjHyXRugnB3xYIFOwP7l9YIyWqGJjPo38CnrW_5PsPSqYsGfZYJqjIQMp9RZjMMZmpTvDfvYbMBjyjzdMez4Ajy5mAdzqSAfyRz1VfaK1VWcTWGKGd2zgNwP-BnUjSCO3cNuRSvgiUX/s320/Pests%20Oafs%202.png" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;">Sometimes I just can't help myself. Blessed (or cursed, more like) with an innate sense of curiosity, said curiosity has gotten me into a few messes during my lifetime. And yet, none quite as messy as a couple weeks ago.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I was upstairs in our office, fiddling around on my computer when I noticed a strange new item I hadn't seen before.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><i>What's this strange, yet oddly compelling and weirdly attractive item I've never seen before</i>, I pondered. <i>Where did it come from? What is its purpose? I'm absolutely drawn to this mystery item with the attractive design wrapped around it, so much so that I MUST hold it.</i></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">So, curiosity drew me to it. Or I should say curiosity drew it to me. And you know what they say about that poor, damned cat, right?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-XxJG7860whJBPrXDDI4u4cMLt11gAcK6aStCRssRoahRMbGcu-Wv0nivc-vL6NXUHxM_Ko_0BgT5FuOD9Ng5CWk3k-mTwK0vk-Kt8WH7jt5pR6L4-Yat6UCYhW7sRmjgU3Eo22ImywSaEZRW7UDWBgkoQJkwwZ7J7zf-nNB490TxWM6IwlS4PRt3/s4032/Pests%20Oafs.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-XxJG7860whJBPrXDDI4u4cMLt11gAcK6aStCRssRoahRMbGcu-Wv0nivc-vL6NXUHxM_Ko_0BgT5FuOD9Ng5CWk3k-mTwK0vk-Kt8WH7jt5pR6L4-Yat6UCYhW7sRmjgU3Eo22ImywSaEZRW7UDWBgkoQJkwwZ7J7zf-nNB490TxWM6IwlS4PRt3/s320/Pests%20Oafs.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;">I clutched the mystery obelisk around its middle and it clutched me right back. I gasped, a short intake of shock. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><i>What fresh hell is this? Why won't it let me go??? Am I in a Hellraiser movie</i>???</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I shook my hand, panicking, yet the stubborn object held on, much worse than my several Super Glue mishaps in the past. I jumped out of my chair, used my other hand to pull it away, yet that hand became equally ensnared around the insidious man-trap. Using my body, I pushed it up against the wall. Now my shirt was glued to the damned, damnable object from Hell.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Hopping around the room, waving my arm like a hillbilly who bit off more than he could chew (or vice versa) when he went noodling for the king of catfish, I flailed into plants and knocked over lamps.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"Help," I screamed. "Help! Help!" But it was to no avail. I was alone in the home. Unless you count my freaked out dogs who were just staring at me.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Finally, through the grace of God (and leverage, can't dismiss leverage), I managed to dislodge the hellish man-trap and flung it across the room.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">My hands still sticky, I phoned my wife. Stat. "WHAT was that damned thing?"</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">After she was finished laughing at my trauma, she said, "A gnat trap. You're not supposed to pick it up. Duh. Now go wash your hands thoroughly."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Well. Did I feel stupid. But in my defense, there was no packaging. Packaging that might've said...oh, I dunno..."Warning! Harmful to pests, insects, and big, dumb, oafish men." Furthermore, why in the hell would the manufacturers make a pest trap so...so...<i>damned</i> attractive?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">It's not like a pack of flies (are they "packs?") say to one another, "Hey, Charlie, check out that way-cool design on that decidedly retro-looking obelisk over yonder!"</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"Wow," says Charlie, "I find myself strangely compelled to land on it to check it out further! But look out for the big, dumb oafish man sitting next to it."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Instead of a compelling design, I would rather have them imprint "WARNING! STICKY AS HELL!" all over it in big, bombastic, dreadfully dark letters. I doubt it would make much of a difference to gnats.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Speaking of guys who make some really dumb decisions, meet Tex McKenna, the protagonist of my <i>Tex, the Witch Boy</i> trilogy (well, quartet, kinda). But unlike me, Tex is a teenager, so making bad decisions is tantamount to growing up. (There's, um, no excuse for me, however.) Tex is also a witch and embroiled in a serial killer murder mystery at his high school. It's complicated. To find out how complicated, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Tex-Witch-Boy-Stuart-West-ebook/dp/B09X3TB8XX?ref_=ast_author_dp" target="_blank">check the books out here!</a></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgdb2EJtA0gnlPvDBMSQ8A2qO5PQPPdggOYfKGjI5X4Ulm0v6fBh7Gl-8y4orMVZl6PB-ObFFGcOz_XxJ-jvGcW86BFhRILm-Jq8K-k_UqLDgByYzbL9fafTjXkr3QgB2If8cVjzLlPoVGiLaiuTXp0GVP8A1-BRbMoZzsNmD9uPKySAnSbzz4LfiV/s343/Tex%20series.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="343" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgdb2EJtA0gnlPvDBMSQ8A2qO5PQPPdggOYfKGjI5X4Ulm0v6fBh7Gl-8y4orMVZl6PB-ObFFGcOz_XxJ-jvGcW86BFhRILm-Jq8K-k_UqLDgByYzbL9fafTjXkr3QgB2If8cVjzLlPoVGiLaiuTXp0GVP8A1-BRbMoZzsNmD9uPKySAnSbzz4LfiV/s320/Tex%20series.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Stuart R. Westhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12199079894134598567noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-664025559144222907.post-80882184686161597372023-11-17T00:30:00.001-08:002023-11-17T00:30:00.161-08:00"I Don't Want To Die For David Sedaris!"<p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVg57ZEku7FxGbUZz_GeKXaaUaZO_z9u5Vp3qt4F0PWHRPV_SeOj4DQNzYIoVxg_pyIuwWeyPashwGLrhyA8luP5g_B_DtUtSyRQrTh_R_y0-yCa0-JFV7roAIM658DY03lwrd7aKGh9YjeN5T922i8e3CCimr1q3V1K7GhVDtuu26O4O9SgDWY7eB/s1024/Sedaris%201.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVg57ZEku7FxGbUZz_GeKXaaUaZO_z9u5Vp3qt4F0PWHRPV_SeOj4DQNzYIoVxg_pyIuwWeyPashwGLrhyA8luP5g_B_DtUtSyRQrTh_R_y0-yCa0-JFV7roAIM658DY03lwrd7aKGh9YjeN5T922i8e3CCimr1q3V1K7GhVDtuu26O4O9SgDWY7eB/s320/Sedaris%201.png" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;">We had tickets to go see David Sedaris, had 'em for a long time. But the closer the show date came, I started having doubts. Something I couldn't quite put my finger on.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I had no doubts regarding Sedaris, a particularly insightful and amusing anecdotist. But with the show in October quickly approaching, my doubts began to solidify.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The day of the show, I was getting dressed. Kinda hemming and hawing and dragging my feet.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"This shirt feels too small. Does it look too small?" I whined to my wife. Standing in front of the mirror, I looked like a tightly packed sausage, splitting at the casing.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"Does it feel comfortable," she asked in return.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"I guess. If I suck my gut in."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"You can suck your gut in for David Sedaris," she said.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Then it hit me. Jackpot! The answer to my doubts about going to the show that night. "But...but...I don't want to <i>die</i> for David Sedaris!" </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">For you see, it was the time of the year and I had yet to get my new Covid shot. Now I know that these days it's practically de rigueur to stop worrying about Covid and move on with your life. But not too long before this October play-date, I had attended a funeral of someone who had passed away from the dreaded disease. And from what I'd been reading, the newest Covid strain was making a dent into people once again. I wasn't quite ready to throw the mask back on (and how did I tolerate that for as long as I did?), but the old creeping, crawling, scary fears were coming back.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Now, don't get me wrong, it wasn't for lack of trying that I'd failed to acquire my shot. I'd been trying for three weeks.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">At my grocery store, I thought I could waltz right in, wait five minutes and get jabbed like I'd done in the past.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"Do you have an appointment?" asked the pharmacist on duty.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"Ah, no...I didn't know I needed one."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"Yes. We're kinda short on vaccine this year, so we're only doing it by appointment."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">So, I needed to cut a little red tape. No problem. I whipped out my phone and asked, "So...what's your phone number?"</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">She looked at me incredulously, tolerating no fools. "You CAN'T just call now for an appointment." I could tell she struggled to tamper down an eyeroll. "We don't have any openings until next week."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"Okay. So...can I sign up now?"</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"It's best if you do it online." She tapped on a flyer with the website address.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"Fine!" I huffed and screamed on the way out. "But if I die, it's on YOU!" (Note: I only imagined shouting this last line. Not even I'm that big of a jerk.)</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">When I got home, I prepared for battle with technology. <i>Great</i>, I thought. <i>It says I need good, clear photos of my health insurance card</i>.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">So, through extraordinary pains and effort, I took photos of my card. As a cute bonus, I held it up next to my face to show the pharm tech my winning smile. I emailed the pics to my computer and began to complete the process of online appointment setting.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">But the mindless automaton behind the process told me, "<i>I'm sorry. We can't find any stores in your area</i>."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><i>WHAT? I was just there! Stoopid, stoopid, stoopid damn automaton couldn't find a grocery store right in front of you, grumble, brumble, grumble</i>...</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">So, Plan B... While picking up a prescription for my wife at our local pharmacy, I asked the pharmacist, "Hey, do you have to have an appointment to get a Covid shot?"</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">She said, "No, we take walk-ins."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I checked the time. "Great...but I can't do it now. I've got somewhere to be." (Like she cared about this or something.) "I'll just come back tomorrow! How does that sound?"</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"Sounds good," she said in a manner that was decidedly not so good.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The next day there was a different pharmacist on duty. "Hi, I'd like to get my Covid shot!"</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"Well, we have plenty of the vaccine on hand, but we're doing it by appointment only," he says.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"What? But...but...but..."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"And we're pretty full up now. I think the first opening is...next Monday."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"Okay," I groused, "Sign me up."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">He taps another flyer. "Scan this and do it online."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Once home, I go to work. Photos of insurance card? Check. Did it find my store? Check. Will I be able to sign up for...for...</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"<i>I'm sorry</i>," the screen read. "<i>At this time there are no available appointments</i>." To make matters worse, the automated response didn't sound "sorry" in the least.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Out of desperation, I went through all of the local (and near local) pharmacies and grocery stores I could find on my phone, frantically searching for the life-saving vaccine. I struck out time and time again. It was quite a different scenario than when the vaccine first hit here. At that time, the government was actually paying people to get vaxxed. Now you couldn't buy a shot.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Finally--<i>FINALLY</i>--I was able to beat the system and schedule an appointment a week out from the date. Days after my David Sedaris show. <i>Gulp</i>!</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">You know, I had Covid once before. But mercifully, it was after I'd had the first shots, thus rendering what could've been a death sentence into about four days of misery. I don't have time or patience for Covid deniers. Frankly, I can't even believe there are such a thing. Anyone who believes that Covid isn't real is an idiot and a walking insult to the three million plus people who've died from it. So kindly keep your stupidity to yourselves. Along with your germs.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I survived the Sedaris show (and had forgotten my mask, too, showing how used to life without it I had become!), but the two guys behind me had me scared. The only two guys constantly coughing throughout the sold-out auditorium.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">While I'm mulling over stupid people, guys don't get any dumber than Zach, one half of the protagonist team in my comic mystery Zach and Zora series. It's that old cliché of a dunderheaded male stripper with a heart of gold who can't help but stumble across corpses all the time, until his long-suffering, usually pregnant sister, Zora, has to find out who the true murderer is. Be there for all the laughs, murder, mystery, and wicked dance moves you can handle. Start at the beginning with <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Bad-Day-Banana-Hammock-Mysteries-ebook/dp/B08R27YGT8?asc_campaign=ebd2c6eb133725e5eb7e183f0de6eeae&asc_source=01H192EPQVEZ7PT5P11H54TN97&tag=namespacebran486-20" target="_blank">Bad Day in a Banana Hammock</a></i>!</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT2rtqu8d9C_jEsLh_KDqFnAaoNsSanitt17EjuOYsbJlKMP9GEvztEAYPZRUX11FxHmdlWv8joliBVRP9uGErwjm-sVAB0lkoWXOwfsGm6ncpD2paNhqkmyIGR8lO6DBdW7BCQfAfitzpJKwXWUKDl0chFUllnrTNGa48H-sJPnoFY1uPSmA8H_6-/s2250/Bad%20Day%20in%20a%20Banana%20Hammock%20cover%20(low%20res)(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2250" data-original-width="1500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT2rtqu8d9C_jEsLh_KDqFnAaoNsSanitt17EjuOYsbJlKMP9GEvztEAYPZRUX11FxHmdlWv8joliBVRP9uGErwjm-sVAB0lkoWXOwfsGm6ncpD2paNhqkmyIGR8lO6DBdW7BCQfAfitzpJKwXWUKDl0chFUllnrTNGa48H-sJPnoFY1uPSmA8H_6-/s320/Bad%20Day%20in%20a%20Banana%20Hammock%20cover%20(low%20res)(1).jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p>Stuart R. Westhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12199079894134598567noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-664025559144222907.post-76913140304891757652023-11-10T01:00:00.000-08:002023-11-10T01:00:00.151-08:00Mr. Fix-It Has Gone Missing!<p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2XlPxIA-z8L3NRtit6gJpyht3nrwTu9TsouYp7ZpIHDIoaYIFphds1zOzWtambQQh1AHkZe2srdPgnaHmZS3bDAsddwFBDtQUHBQOxsX6HCwKX0VSRDXULH0PC0T2jv5lt4HY4IcVZdcDxFXlb3xev9ACqYP-EyTj3xKr9zzl2vOM33SZ6qrOu2m9/s1024/DALL%C2%B7E%202023-10-21%2012.08.06%20-%20A%20missing%20older%20handyman%20photo%20on%20a%20milk%20carton.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2XlPxIA-z8L3NRtit6gJpyht3nrwTu9TsouYp7ZpIHDIoaYIFphds1zOzWtambQQh1AHkZe2srdPgnaHmZS3bDAsddwFBDtQUHBQOxsX6HCwKX0VSRDXULH0PC0T2jv5lt4HY4IcVZdcDxFXlb3xev9ACqYP-EyTj3xKr9zzl2vOM33SZ6qrOu2m9/s320/DALL%C2%B7E%202023-10-21%2012.08.06%20-%20A%20missing%20older%20handyman%20photo%20on%20a%20milk%20carton.png" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;">A feeling of dread fell over me like a purple bruise-colored storm cloud. Again, I checked that I had the right hours on Mr. Fix-It's shop. Yep, 10:00 A.M. The neon sign in the window declared "Open" in bright, cheery, yellow letters. Yet it didn't match my mood as I pulled on the door handle again, just making sure I hadn't lost that much muscle mass due to aging. Or maybe latent OCD. Either way, it remained locked.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I rattled the door, thinking that possibly Mr. Fix-It--another victim of inescapable aging--had pulled a morning siesta, dozing off behind his desk while watching day-time, screaming TV. My hands cupped, I peered into the store-wide window. Nothing. Not even a shining ray of hope beaming from beneath the bathroom door.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><i>Huh</i>.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I went to my car, thought I'd wait it out. In the car, my mind rattled like a maraca tossed around by a bratty toddler. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><i>What could've possibly happened to Mr. Fix-It? It reminds me of that true crime mini-series I watched where nobody knew the housewife had been brutally slaughtered behind her locked doors. Mr. Fix-It's gotta be raking in the cash for all of those high-dollar repairs. A victim of robbery. Better call Five-O</i>.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-xoO6E3jAFSFNcyDuJNmvWKahFBAm0a8JGaX1oRqwEYn0tBPLabpVF3ZNRPm9ukXlnMUrezie1CoK34X86SSax8muM03tjLIZX-pqyytUx7Psc2nwgrnzlRHIBPV3OzyH5EHfnW1O0y9iuzsQX9Z3MN0hymiJLgblI0FqLDV_QmtsC_Dg3dHda4Ss/s1024/DALL%C2%B7E%202023-10-21%2012.07.03%20-%20A%20handyman%20laying%20dead%20on%20the%20floor%20in%20his%20shop.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-xoO6E3jAFSFNcyDuJNmvWKahFBAm0a8JGaX1oRqwEYn0tBPLabpVF3ZNRPm9ukXlnMUrezie1CoK34X86SSax8muM03tjLIZX-pqyytUx7Psc2nwgrnzlRHIBPV3OzyH5EHfnW1O0y9iuzsQX9Z3MN0hymiJLgblI0FqLDV_QmtsC_Dg3dHda4Ss/s320/DALL%C2%B7E%202023-10-21%2012.07.03%20-%20A%20handyman%20laying%20dead%20on%20the%20floor%20in%20his%20shop.png" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;">But before I did that, I called the store number and watched carefully as I sat parked mere feet from the front window. Looking--no, <i>hoping</i>--for movement inside.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Instead, I got a cold, metallic, recorded voice. A voice that sent ice slaloming down my ski-slope of a back. A voice from beyond the grave. "Hello, you've reached Mr. Fix-It. I'm sorry we're unable to help you right now because we're with another customer. Please leave your name and number and we'll get back to you shortly. Have a nice day."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I held the phone glued to my ear as the line went dead. As dead as Mr. Fix-It, no doubt. Slowly, the phone dropped to my side. Could I be misreading the happenstances? I squinted, looking inside again. Maybe Mr. Fix-It was helping a secret customer in the back room, a celebrity perhaps who wanted to keep a low profile, not wanting to let Joe Public know that he had a vacuum cleaner on the blink. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><i>But...but...there ARE no celebrities in Kansas City. Yet...the recording steadfastly insisted that Mr. Fix-It was with another customer.</i></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">So, I waited. I picked up my phone, dialed in 911. My finger hovered over the button, close to detonating. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">But what would I be detonating?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><i>Wait, just wait, wait a gol-darned minute! What if Five-O suspects me? After all, my fingerprints are all over the door handle, my DNA smeared onto the plate-glass window. Maybe Mr. Fix-It had even installed a security camera, capturing footage of me, madly yanking at the door. No, better to keep it cool. That's right. Play it cool, reallllll cool, the way I roll.</i></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">So I rolled out of there, taking back roads all the way home, my gaze glued onto the rearview mirror, looking for Johnny Five-O's red and blue cherries to be twirling a psychedelic light-show of guilt, guilt, GUILT.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The following week I had many restless nights, unable to sleep. Wondering if I did the right thing. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">What if I'd left Mr. Fix-It, laying in a pool of his own blood, gasping for breath, holding onto dear, sweet life, scrawling my name in his own blood and implicating me, thus sending me down the river, where I'd end up in the Big House, wearing caked-on deep-blue mascara while holding onto a big thug's belt-loop?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">What other options did I have? Friday night as I lay in bed, sweating, expecting the worst, and knowing that the even worse worst was just around the corner, I made up my mind. A decision that would undoubtedly change my life forever.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">After my sixth night of sleeplessness, I decided to return to the scene of the crime.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">With great trepidation, I drove to my destiny, fearing I'd see yellow tape in front of Mr. Fix-It's store, designating it a crime scene. I pulled in front of the store, parked and turned off the ignition. No crime tape, but the cops had probably </span><span style="font-size: x-large;">already</span><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-large;">been there and were looking for me by now, APB's posted city-wide. The neon light in the door still proclaimed "Open," but that didn't signify anything. I wondered if Mr. Fix-It still lay rotting in the back room, starting to stink by now, flies buzzing around his corpse and starting to lay eggs in his ears.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Then...suddenly...the door swept open. Broom in hand, Mr. Fix-It stepped out!</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Near tears of relief, I jumped out of the car and ran to Mr. Fix-It, my voice trembling as much as my hands.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"Mr. Fix-It," I screamed, "I've been so worried! I was...I came here last Saturday at 10:20 and you weren't here!" My arms wanted to wrap around Mr. Fix-It's neck and pull him into a long, loving embrace, but my mind--somehow, <i>wisely</i>--forbade the move.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Mr. Fix-It took a step back and said, "Oh. On Saturdays, we sleep in a little bit and don't get here until 10:30."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">My mouth dropped. A blood red veil shaded over my line of vision. I stumbled back a step, felt my hands shaking again, this time not out of a sense of great loss and morbid fear, but out of an uncontrollable, inevitable, building rage.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"What?" The only word I could mutter.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"Saturdays we like to take it easy and grab an extra half hour of shuteye before we get here, " he said, smiling a very dumb, caught with his hand-in- the-cookie-jar grin.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"But...but...your door...your <i>website</i>...says you open on Saturdays at 10."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"Oh, well." Still grinning like a mischievous school-boy who'd been held back for fifty years, he shrugged.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"God dammit," I raged, "maybe you should fix your stupid website! Or how about you fix your DAMN ALARM CLOCK, MR. EFFING FIX-IT!"</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Another shrug was his way of apologizing. "What can I say?"</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">So I took out a gun and shot him. Hey, it's Kansas.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">(The story you've just read is true. Sort of. Kind of. Maybe if you're really drunk and half-out of your mind, it's true. Whatever, it's true enough.)</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Speaking of huge-ass lies, most of my books are filled with characters spouting them. That's where the mystery usually comes from. I mean, come on, how many murderers tell the truth right up front? <a href="https://www.amazon.com/stores/Stuart-R.-West/author/B00B419X5C?ref=ap_rdr&store_ref=ap_rdr&isDramIntegrated=true&shoppingPortalEnabled=true" target="_blank">Check out my Amazon page to get started! </a></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif1T0TssZCQwic_GuOaHcYD3pIdnQdx3w9sxG8ns__UDQwx7BvPgYHFfDx5w5tnvo7FFnlbt_6ktPaQ_AhoNvd1_cuKolKEjV0BfFgEpDlAaY-29W9hRhwUCohVy90EZqpw0eWESs_OjC-DKCw46SQKBG2A1_PFv8RVEAwu7KznzXiaqLFQzAX64l7/s2700/Twisted%20Tales_eBook.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2700" data-original-width="1800" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif1T0TssZCQwic_GuOaHcYD3pIdnQdx3w9sxG8ns__UDQwx7BvPgYHFfDx5w5tnvo7FFnlbt_6ktPaQ_AhoNvd1_cuKolKEjV0BfFgEpDlAaY-29W9hRhwUCohVy90EZqpw0eWESs_OjC-DKCw46SQKBG2A1_PFv8RVEAwu7KznzXiaqLFQzAX64l7/s320/Twisted%20Tales_eBook.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><br /></p>Stuart R. Westhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12199079894134598567noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-664025559144222907.post-56480679608706552392023-11-03T01:00:00.003-07:002023-11-03T01:00:00.136-07:00The Curse of Halloween 2023<p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiVsL0O7qxCHdHo1mr4TXKnxUYXSRFN5UmolFsJ7gi-ErNhBSH5Dgumz7WbxvIFJ2tesSfk5JYUyFly63htrWYxTR_t1QChI6ypMEeMKUnH39s4bMOPWUEWjHfCbXK-ji1cezkNAnsclqY_l5O9N8LPurq-_jc8ANSl5sDpZprp1iqpMdLpcOYNrLE/s4032/Curse%201.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiVsL0O7qxCHdHo1mr4TXKnxUYXSRFN5UmolFsJ7gi-ErNhBSH5Dgumz7WbxvIFJ2tesSfk5JYUyFly63htrWYxTR_t1QChI6ypMEeMKUnH39s4bMOPWUEWjHfCbXK-ji1cezkNAnsclqY_l5O9N8LPurq-_jc8ANSl5sDpZprp1iqpMdLpcOYNrLE/s320/Curse%201.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;">The day after every Halloween, a curse falls upon our house. No, for a change, I'm not talking about American politics. That's a curse of a different sort.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Rather, every day following Halloween, something shrinks in our house. This year it was a wine glass.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Check out the photo above...</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">No, it's not a hoax! Not a dream! Not an imaginary story! And we didn't buy cutesy Matryoshka doll wine glasses to nest within one another.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">These matching set of glasses were gifted to my wife this year at a work party. And they were of the same size. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Not anymore.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">After using them Halloween night, my wife put hers into the dishwasher. The next morning...it HAD TURNED INTO A SHRUNKEN HEAD VERSION OF IT'S FORMER SELF! AIEEEEEEE! *Choke!* *Gasp!*</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Perfectly reduced including the slogan upon the glass, identical in every detail but size.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"The curse is back," I said.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"I know. And I really liked those glasses," said my wife.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"Well...you do drink smaller wine portions than me," I volleyed, trying to be the optimistic, "glass-half-sized"...er, I mean, the "glass-half-full" kinda guy that doesn't come easily to me.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I suppose our curse started about four years ago. The first thing we noticed that had shrunk around Halloween was the economy, and hence, our budget.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Now I hear all of you supernatural pooh-poohers saying, "That's no curse! That happened to everyone!"</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I say thee NAY for I have the startling facts that I'll lay out upon you.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The following year, I awoke after Halloween and threw on the EXACT, SAME (REDUNDANT) SWEATSHIRT I'd had on the night before. Yet...and yet...it had mysteriously shrunk, particularly around the gut! The night before it had fit. But the cold hard facts were plain and staring me in the face: we had a Halloween curse upon our household.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">You want more facts? The next Halloween, THE SAME THING HAPPENED TO MY JEANS! I couldn't even button them the following morning! And they hadn't been in the washer or dryer either!!!</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRbKbrG3H9-R5pkZNqs_j6ucmma-3ipMsQZNgzTGcaJRT8bWGvi_TnoKwD67ghGT0y_acz0e9a1dwQCgQwCAUKWyTOsbS91K4MB5Rv7vvMNJKOChObbghcpPz4hGhyphenhyphenCkiBib_dm8Tse529Otzun-nQOL4LqlXpcZFPUkdAMlroooQZxVLw0uDULKAL/s1280/Curse%203.webp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRbKbrG3H9-R5pkZNqs_j6ucmma-3ipMsQZNgzTGcaJRT8bWGvi_TnoKwD67ghGT0y_acz0e9a1dwQCgQwCAUKWyTOsbS91K4MB5Rv7vvMNJKOChObbghcpPz4hGhyphenhyphenCkiBib_dm8Tse529Otzun-nQOL4LqlXpcZFPUkdAMlroooQZxVLw0uDULKAL/s320/Curse%203.webp" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;">Clearly, our house is built upon an old Indian burial ground. Hey, I don't make stuff up. I'm a hard-hitting journalist who just reports the facts. And I believe all of the facts presented to me on TV and the internets.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">While we're on the topic of all things spooky and Native American supernatural hijinks, check out my book, <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Ghosts-Gannaway-Stuart-R-West-ebook/dp/B07FT586LV/?_encoding=UTF8&pd_rd_w=RYsiU&content-id=amzn1.sym.579192ca-1482-4409-abe7-9e14f17ac827&pf_rd_p=579192ca-1482-4409-abe7-9e14f17ac827&pf_rd_r=140-5112958-9536104&pd_rd_wg=Zck1Z&pd_rd_r=9833989a-db08-43a1-9e96-11a7b7e30df7&ref_=aufs_ap_sc_dsk" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Ghosts of Gannaway</span></a></i>. It's another hard-hitting piece of journalism about a cursed mining town, culled from the true facts of yesteryear. And every...WORD...IS...TRUE! (Well...except for the stuff about the curse, the ghosts, the haunted museum, the murders, the...)</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggNi5LJbhYFln-enWzhPeI0QE-DM6ew_DxHAO2fu1TeEdphqT88a1YRfhyphenhyphengfNTu5bDyQybh9smRdQ8RlFkh25WYtOyRAcrjHiU5d5NhqEkXXR3WVypgiyAt1fmObv0VcMXFoTBy48rDgSAuBDLnjbkL-ELxDnzLoCW578JyAaxC7yu0UB48Pm06pOO/s500/Gannaway.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="333" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggNi5LJbhYFln-enWzhPeI0QE-DM6ew_DxHAO2fu1TeEdphqT88a1YRfhyphenhyphengfNTu5bDyQybh9smRdQ8RlFkh25WYtOyRAcrjHiU5d5NhqEkXXR3WVypgiyAt1fmObv0VcMXFoTBy48rDgSAuBDLnjbkL-ELxDnzLoCW578JyAaxC7yu0UB48Pm06pOO/s320/Gannaway.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p><br /></p>Stuart R. Westhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12199079894134598567noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-664025559144222907.post-65352014016031894332023-10-27T01:00:00.004-07:002023-10-27T01:00:00.152-07:00Nightmare in Aisle 26<p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu0oJeb8FawoG4HhQXB8h2-5FvgX12Nc-6zvsNl-6UhotP7zvNFv2SJmsBs0X6nlpRlknLZGyRmleO-2_KxgbTKEfyLIawi-mdTrIZd313TkS8_fa53J668EtNGR_QsmrSKIHNAmRsx4SoAwvoqnmYB_3UxtuB8i0_EJz-KdR6HccejIOhkB8pLgBp/s1024/DALL%C2%B7E%202023-10-19%2010.42.14%20-%20Green%20haired%20older%20female%20grocery%20store%20clerk%20getting%20angry%20at%20her%20electronic%20tablet.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu0oJeb8FawoG4HhQXB8h2-5FvgX12Nc-6zvsNl-6UhotP7zvNFv2SJmsBs0X6nlpRlknLZGyRmleO-2_KxgbTKEfyLIawi-mdTrIZd313TkS8_fa53J668EtNGR_QsmrSKIHNAmRsx4SoAwvoqnmYB_3UxtuB8i0_EJz-KdR6HccejIOhkB8pLgBp/s320/DALL%C2%B7E%202023-10-19%2010.42.14%20-%20Green%20haired%20older%20female%20grocery%20store%20clerk%20getting%20angry%20at%20her%20electronic%20tablet.png" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;">My grocery store has decided to change up its "perks" program. Ordinarily, this shouldn't be an issue. But it's different when the damn program doesn't work. (For the uninitated, the "perks" program gives the grocery shopper gas savings and special deals on food; my wife and I used to not believe in such crass mercantilism and invasion of privacy, but with the gas prices what they are these days, we've become believers.)</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">So, I have an established card with the old "perks" program. Stupidly, I thought it'd just roll over to the new program. But, no, things aren't ever that easy. Before my weekly grocery shopping run, I stop in at the customer service desk. But there's no customer servicing to be done and no one in sight. I wait...and I wait...and I wait. Meanwhile, just a few feet from me is a young clerk, standing there, doing absolutely nothing but avoiding eye contact with me.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimvkrUWJe8kNu6j_ouG1eTzbzxQ8jcnKuy22C1Q8Ox1pijpP15yeWbnMtERctBlZ6KIknYyiWkzH_VYgR00tb-ZJkvcXe_AsY6BhQpVc27Gam8GKL1-lHKuu0mBwvNanUHvf9i69w-xn0XG7i1GB0Xs3yMgvhCBLz1tApqrO55rEiYcOawIPzE-SrL/s1024/DALL%C2%B7E%202023-10-19%2010.43.58%20-%20Young%20grocery%20store%20male%20clerk%20ignoring%20customers.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimvkrUWJe8kNu6j_ouG1eTzbzxQ8jcnKuy22C1Q8Ox1pijpP15yeWbnMtERctBlZ6KIknYyiWkzH_VYgR00tb-ZJkvcXe_AsY6BhQpVc27Gam8GKL1-lHKuu0mBwvNanUHvf9i69w-xn0XG7i1GB0Xs3yMgvhCBLz1tApqrO55rEiYcOawIPzE-SrL/s320/DALL%C2%B7E%202023-10-19%2010.43.58%20-%20Young%20grocery%20store%20male%20clerk%20ignoring%20customers.png" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;">Finally, a woman appears. I asked "Do I need a new perks card? Or what?" (Because I'm already getting a little huffed.) A deer caught in the headlights, her eyes flutter to and from, panic overtaking her. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"No," she finally says, "but you'll need to activate the new program."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"Great! Activate me!" I proofer my old card like it's Willy Wonka's golden ticket.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">She refuses to take it. "No, no, I can't do that. You'll have to wait until 9:00 before the lady who's going to do it gets here."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"Okay, whatever, guess I'll go get my shopping done." Usually it only takes me about ten minutes to whip through the store. But since I had a grueling 25 minutes to kill, I took my time, lollygagging around in the medical aisle, reading all the labels like some kinda weirdo.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Ding! 9:00! I head back to the customer non-service desk. "Hi! I'm back. Where's the perks lady?"</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"Um...she's not here yet. Why don't you go do your shopping and come back?" she says, while I'm leaning on an obviously full cart.<br /><br />Suddenly, the non-helper kiddie clerk starts shouting, "She's here! I see her, Jan, she's here! Finally, she's here!" (I realized the kid's job was to rat out other employees and not much else.)</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">So, the new woman (who seemed to me to be much too old for green dyed hair, but whatever, it takes all kinds) rolls up to the the customer service desk and the initial woman--Jan--fills her in. "Marsha, you've got to start activating the new perks cards."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"What?" Marsha is stunned by this news, her mouth opening and closing like a land-locked fish. "Nobody told me that!"</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"Well, they just told me. This gentleman has been waiting for you." Jan juts a thumb at me while they both pretend like I'm not there.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">At long last, Marsha pastes on a smile and turns to me. "Follow me."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I follow her to a desk with a "Perks!" sign on it near the front door. Marsha then starts playing with two different tablets, growing more agitated and flustered.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"I'm sorry, sir, but the system's not letting me in." Then she whips her phone out. "Let me try on this."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">So, I'm waiting and waiting and waiting, standing in front of green-haired Marsha fiddling around with two tablets and her phone. "It's just not working, sir. Hang on a minute." She gets up to leave, takes a look at me, then decides I look suspicious and comes back to gather her electronics. "I'll be back shortly."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Meanwhile, another older woman with a very menacing glare rolls an empty cart up next to me. I say, "Looks like this might take a while."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"Yeah, I can see that," she says, staring at me while not seeing me, not really. "While we wait, perhaps you'd be interested in seeing my nails. They please a lot of people."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Okay, my supposed ten minute grocery gathering trip just grew stranger. "Oh, um...sure...let's see your nails...or whatever."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">She stands up from leaning on her cart and wiggles her fingers, giving them that special jazz hands touch. Little eyeballs and ghosts and spiders adorn the tips.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"Ohhhh, that's really....ah...that's really...you must really like Halloween."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Ms. Spooky-Fingers face puckers up and she glowers at me. "Why would you say that?" she says and shakes her head.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxwnUQfQfxlQUmB1sCYa5rOrNqZ4LsX63SZ-DMx_iHOjoX9hHGDQo6Om9mVvfoS6mw51WDOHA14jL9AV8I8lB3f61x3hX63WALgdyQDgn45YbjNxLqYgrrvy6TvC1scXTxshe6wCUygVJQcLjGVaH2WCGeHvFVWCxn1Z4OntGtD3cA4PJ8HwYPLkxE/s1024/DALL%C2%B7E%202023-10-19%2010.46.53%20-%20crazy%20old%20woman%20with%20scary%20fingernails.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxwnUQfQfxlQUmB1sCYa5rOrNqZ4LsX63SZ-DMx_iHOjoX9hHGDQo6Om9mVvfoS6mw51WDOHA14jL9AV8I8lB3f61x3hX63WALgdyQDgn45YbjNxLqYgrrvy6TvC1scXTxshe6wCUygVJQcLjGVaH2WCGeHvFVWCxn1Z4OntGtD3cA4PJ8HwYPLkxE/s320/DALL%C2%B7E%202023-10-19%2010.46.53%20-%20crazy%20old%20woman%20with%20scary%20fingernails.png" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;">Thankfully, Marsha rode back in to my rescue. Completely out-of-breath, she huffs out, "Okay, I think we've got it worked out." She starts back to fiddling with her armada of electronics. Again frustration sets in. "Hmmm...I don't know why...wait! Here we go!"</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Over to the side of us, the little kiddie clerk narc pumps a fist and shouts, "Yesssssss!"</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Marsha begins to quiz me about my life. By this time, we've gathered quite a group of "Perks Desirers," many of them grumbling about how they couldn't sign up online or how they've had to come back several days or how their savings wasn't counted at the gas pump. But Marsha is relentless, asking me my address, phone number and age in front of the crowd at my back.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Suddenly, Marsha "Jeckyll and Hydes" back into frustration again. "<i>Why</i> won't this let me in? It was working a <i>minute</i> ago! Why the... What's going on with...<i>DAMMIT</i>!" She counts to ten, takes a breath and says to me, "I'm sorry, sir. Why don't you go do your shopping and come back."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I sigh and wave a game show hostess hand over my full (now melting) cart.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">She excuses herself again and bolts, leaving me at the mercy of Ms. Spooky-Fingers again.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"I don't care as long as I'm out of here by ten," she says. "I've got to go get a shot in my eye again."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I sigh, do an internal eyeroll and know full well I shouldn't get sucked into her spiderweb of craziness. But I can't resist, either due to the social niceties of humanity or just dumb curiosity. "Ohhh? Do you have macular degeneration?"</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Again, she gives me the evil eye. "Nooooo! I had a stroke in my eye! Can you <i>believe</i> that?"</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"Um, well, no...I guess not. Did the...ah...doctor say how it happened?"<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"No! I was on the phone waiting for six hours, too!"</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><i>Please, Marsha, please come back, please come back, please bring your green-haired self back and</i>...</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">My prayers worked! Marsha reappeared like a green-haired, out-of-breath genie!</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"I'm sorry it's taking so long. Yesterday, the system went down. I've got to talk to the assistant manager about this."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">So, we're all waiting for the assistant manager to come down and pull a perkish hail Mary. I'm stuck between Ms. Spooky-Fingers and Marsha of the Green Hair getting angry at electronics. Finally, the little rat fink clerk shouts, "Ahoy! Here she comes, Marsha! She's here!"</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Some young kid (I've eaten potato chips older than her) enters the fray and says, "I'm sorry, everybody. The perks system is down again."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">There was a good hour-and-a-half shot out of my day. "Well...how am I supposed to get my gas points?" I ask in a pissy manner.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"Oh, the old cards still work."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Huh. Imagine that. Maybe they should've told me that ninety minutes ago. Just another perk of the store, I guess.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Speaking of perks, you'll receive absolutely none from reading my books. But I would recommend you do so anyway. And why not start with my ghostly mystery, <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Peculiar-County-Stuart-R-West-ebook/dp/B0945PL7YD/?_encoding=UTF8&pd_rd_w=mbOVF&content-id=amzn1.sym.579192ca-1482-4409-abe7-9e14f17ac827&pf_rd_p=579192ca-1482-4409-abe7-9e14f17ac827&pf_rd_r=140-5112958-9536104&pd_rd_wg=pEpkr&pd_rd_r=108dec9a-f4ea-466d-8de3-0bcc27a21dbe&ref_=aufs_ap_sc_dsk" target="_blank">Peculiar County</a></i>? (It's my personal favorite of all of my books. There's your damn perk!)</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj7YV8RsU6Cxdb8hYX-zOZM2_elopYUMRA8yc2DDSB9ACBQ72lworJs2fm5un-Lipsa4wJigDzk2L4o0JzSz0gxwfo97xJO95TtzQiKPmO12cCzAPtPLapZzuEb21eaTB8lrXyu5WWkoH1bJVIYS9SjoA4AV8wmbMLiaH7wVz4ebIz70V0WzL334vT/s500/Peculiar%20County.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="333" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj7YV8RsU6Cxdb8hYX-zOZM2_elopYUMRA8yc2DDSB9ACBQ72lworJs2fm5un-Lipsa4wJigDzk2L4o0JzSz0gxwfo97xJO95TtzQiKPmO12cCzAPtPLapZzuEb21eaTB8lrXyu5WWkoH1bJVIYS9SjoA4AV8wmbMLiaH7wVz4ebIz70V0WzL334vT/s320/Peculiar%20County.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p>Stuart R. Westhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12199079894134598567noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-664025559144222907.post-39433995569670329472023-10-20T01:00:00.024-07:002023-10-20T01:00:00.145-07:00Cone-a-copia<p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: x-large; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGmv-EbFqxyNrBCqMckMO734zVCP07cwfkKktxWEBpcQvfQ5rdg3H5vkC-zBTKBm2GL1uKEZbkSAXv9GlZ_mNr4bY5Za_mH65HOUIKweKLPBqqfkcr-PV7krtELRz1Q50765IKuAA9XzFiWlZViPzEDvT4TQW_bZMSQ8gsvV0B5ZDCPbxyCpbNXtA-/s2471/Cone%204.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2398" data-original-width="2471" height="311" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGmv-EbFqxyNrBCqMckMO734zVCP07cwfkKktxWEBpcQvfQ5rdg3H5vkC-zBTKBm2GL1uKEZbkSAXv9GlZ_mNr4bY5Za_mH65HOUIKweKLPBqqfkcr-PV7krtELRz1Q50765IKuAA9XzFiWlZViPzEDvT4TQW_bZMSQ8gsvV0B5ZDCPbxyCpbNXtA-/s320/Cone%204.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">I hate dog cones. Probably not as much as dogs do, but I'm right up there with them. So imagine the fun that developed when one of our dogs and one of my daughter's dogs ended up in cones at the same damn time! My wife and I were juggling responsibilities between our house and my daughters' trying to keep the conesiness of it all relatively sane and safe for humans and dogs alike.</span></div></span></div><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">Here's what happened to poor little Mr. Loomis...</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwqp95GoOIXld9T3A_IfcNmVTVRraazvZIoqfekAeSS6Dp19uplaXe8kAyvrJ8oiftBWSTOEDPmHLtt4wBBRw' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><p style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">While playing with the fence-jumping neighbors' golden lab, Loomis got caught in the crossfire between his larger (younger) sister and the lab. While inside, I heard a blood-curdling shriek from Loomis and went out to see what the problem was. Apparently, the neighbor heard it too, but his dog clearly felt guilt-ridden and wouldn't heed his owner's calling, instead looking forlornly, tail between legs, back at Loomis.</span></span></p><p></p><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">But the damage had been done.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxHv-x_GFQRk9QH4LwdC-dodgPJpuc7AT2NWrtTHidxL2NAGh2-r29Np3CTJU2TCmsaXjexcta2gPRvSR2m-A' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></span></div><span style="font-size: large;">A couple days later, I noticed that Loomis' eye had gunked up. Naturally, I noticed this the day before I was to go help out my daughter with her dogs and the day before my wife was leaving town.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"Hmmm, there appears to be something wrong with Loomis' eye," I said.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The vet verified this. "Well, he has an ulcer on his eye and it's a bad one."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">An ulcer??? In the eye??? My limited medical knowledge thought that an ulcer was something you develop in your stomach because you're worried about making financial ends meet or the current state of politics or what decent clothes I may have that still fit. Definitely not an eye issue!</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">So, armed with seven kinds of eyedrops and 34--count 'em, 34!--applications through the day (and all spaced apart, natch), we went down the long road of coneheadedness. The cone was clearly too large for Mr. Loomis. He'd sadly drag it through the backyard, face down into the dirt. Inside, he'd bang into everything he possibly could. At night, when he'd go into the bathroom for a drink of water, he'd constantly shut the door onto himself by bashing the door with his cone. Worse than having a baby, I was up numerous times through several nights.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">And all the time, Loomis would give me a look suggesting, "Why in the HELL are you punishing me, bald baby man?"</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">So we bought him a "comfy cone." Comfy cones are designed to be...well, comfy. Softer and smaller and more pliable than the damn plastic cones of torture, I wasn't sure how it would work, if it'd keep Loomis from rubbing his eye. I believe it helped, but he was still locking himself into the bathroom. He even did it when he finally got the cone off, maybe seeking fun where he could or he'd emBARKed on a revenge tour to destroy my sleep. Loomis certainly hated the velcro ripping sound when we'd put the cone on him, paddling his paws madly, trying to make a getaway from the constant torture.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Meanwhile, in my daughter's town, Merle had surgery to remove some masses. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLMvmCVhXLkiSp_MyrM-OSEBl2qtAtCpuoKAspbrj5m-GE9OB_lrDtLtNYhbbRIW2x4Mr7timIW9HCUZOKGwfwd7WW-ouOP26oanSN2XhLjKN9Vkh14NPEPovJdLQg_V4uGd16sRb-7SY5phiSOJFS1XtocjKnhtlFeZ6ALD7I8ehum9lCXlOa-Y9O/s4032/Cone%207.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLMvmCVhXLkiSp_MyrM-OSEBl2qtAtCpuoKAspbrj5m-GE9OB_lrDtLtNYhbbRIW2x4Mr7timIW9HCUZOKGwfwd7WW-ouOP26oanSN2XhLjKN9Vkh14NPEPovJdLQg_V4uGd16sRb-7SY5phiSOJFS1XtocjKnhtlFeZ6ALD7I8ehum9lCXlOa-Y9O/s320/Cone%207.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;">Now, Merle is a huge, honkin' Redbone Coonhound who sounds and acts like an angry walrus, probably not the ideal candidate for The Great Coning. But cone him we did, although he rarely kept it on. And talk about banging around into things. My Gawd, you'd think it was Fourth of July, 24-7: BANG! CRACK! SPILL! TUMBLE, TUMBLE, TUMBLE...wash, rinse, repeat.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">When the vet told us he needed to keep the cone on for two weeks, we screamed "TWO WEEKS???" causing the entire vet clinic to erupt in a pandemonium of barking, led by Merle himself, who I'm sure didn't even understand why he was barking, but he loves the act sooooooooo much.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">My daughter took a cue from us and ordered Merle a "Comfy Cone." I had doubts, mainly because Merle possesses super-animal strength and is able to bend steel bars with the power of his jaws. But Merle had doubts because when we opened the comfy cone package, the item was pink.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"That is NOT what I ordered," said my daughter, taking in the pinkishness of it all. "Amazon's trying to make my dog a sissy."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I tried to comfort her trauma over the emasculation of Merle by telling her her dog looked like he was wearing a bad-ass hoodie. Just a pink one (tee hee hee).</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxqWloAq-oWmubGrxbchVypF307gfNl4jmqwl9UigdrwKgUhGh0pL6D0jm-vh_876fr4DQGA1lQfoC6bYyzzsoB7XhoeJvPUBpvp1cALb_xlWdEBu9yg8uoxAEoXGrqRDnIPDSV2PH0hyphenhyphendqHqj4M3rUhRBrqHAvo1IHBjzA8-2yP4lT8BccCpPP_S_/s4032/Cone%205.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxqWloAq-oWmubGrxbchVypF307gfNl4jmqwl9UigdrwKgUhGh0pL6D0jm-vh_876fr4DQGA1lQfoC6bYyzzsoB7XhoeJvPUBpvp1cALb_xlWdEBu9yg8uoxAEoXGrqRDnIPDSV2PH0hyphenhyphendqHqj4M3rUhRBrqHAvo1IHBjzA8-2yP4lT8BccCpPP_S_/s320/Cone%205.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;">As of this writing, we've finally done away with the two cones (or four, if you're keeping count). My wife thinks I anthropomorphize the dogs and their responses to cones too much. But their abject misery is way too palpable to ignore and the looks on their faces are just heartbreaking. Bah. The only good cone is of the ice cream variety.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">While I'm yakking about dogs, a dog plays an important role in my book <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Secret-Society-Killers-Incorporated-Book-ebook/dp/B07GCDC4W6?tag=namespacebran486-20&asc_campaign=ebd2c6eb133725e5eb7e183f0de6eeae&asc_source=01H192EPQVEZ7PT5P11H54TN97" target="_blank">Secret Society</a></i>, the first in the Killers Incorporated trilogy. But that's not all! There are more serial killers to be found in the pages of these morbidly amusing, dark, suspense thrillers than you can shake a dog at. And they're the "good guys." It's complicated. <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Secret-Society-Killers-Incorporated-Book-ebook/dp/B07GCDC4W6?tag=namespacebran486-20&asc_campaign=ebd2c6eb133725e5eb7e183f0de6eeae&asc_source=01H192EPQVEZ7PT5P11H54TN97" target="_blank">Read all about it here!</a> (No dogs were harmed during the writing of this book, unless you count a "coning," which I certainly think is harmful to a dog's mental state of mind, so never mind my ASPCA disclaimer.)</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlUv2bYLY-tqaKQ2fEf8JdxGlhQ1riCQE3lonjM3l-Lib_pB2G1SvSZDo4vSNyDjaxvd9ySFIUzCNlMTVpFn3ZpdEHl1BNU6dtZISgSxo-dmED_aCOHXtV16rowbBzh2aVcaNh5AgFfENXWGchvadkj5VuTTI3GwrYis1o-TPNr96ni40UuHLIPXQz/s612/Secret%20Society%20cover2%20reduced.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="612" data-original-width="408" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlUv2bYLY-tqaKQ2fEf8JdxGlhQ1riCQE3lonjM3l-Lib_pB2G1SvSZDo4vSNyDjaxvd9ySFIUzCNlMTVpFn3ZpdEHl1BNU6dtZISgSxo-dmED_aCOHXtV16rowbBzh2aVcaNh5AgFfENXWGchvadkj5VuTTI3GwrYis1o-TPNr96ni40UuHLIPXQz/s320/Secret%20Society%20cover2%20reduced.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p>Stuart R. Westhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12199079894134598567noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-664025559144222907.post-39660518021158587072023-10-13T01:00:00.000-07:002023-10-13T01:00:00.154-07:00Big, Fat Guys<p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdXv-ACJQ9B649CcuNVv9KjO0_ir6yMw5sgLENEcfYSUM82CxcsOyfxV4OFZ3BeCXOVlQcuuZq_hE5D9k8ttkl9KvOyoFwl_kLKUCgd7Tkj-Edl_vcIlCYJxUuPFW3Kaj06dDvhOhFZJ08-NtgNtSQfmHlYjEJDLH-qpChnFpBO-FGH8pd-eFqp5FA/s620/Big%20Fat%20Guys%201.webp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="413" data-original-width="620" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdXv-ACJQ9B649CcuNVv9KjO0_ir6yMw5sgLENEcfYSUM82CxcsOyfxV4OFZ3BeCXOVlQcuuZq_hE5D9k8ttkl9KvOyoFwl_kLKUCgd7Tkj-Edl_vcIlCYJxUuPFW3Kaj06dDvhOhFZJ08-NtgNtSQfmHlYjEJDLH-qpChnFpBO-FGH8pd-eFqp5FA/s320/Big%20Fat%20Guys%201.webp" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;">There's no denying that the world has it in for "big, fat guys." The blessedly thin look down their noses with disdain at overweight people, one of the more common, yet relatively restrained "hate groups" in our country. We even have an ex-president (and let's keep it that way) who insults a Republican competitor with fat insults (and honestly, shouldn't this guy look in a mirror? All of those Big Macs are going somewhere. Recently he claimed he was 6'3" and 215 pounds. HA HA HA HA HA HA HA! ).</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Recently, I've come to realize something odd about how people refer to overweight folks. Have you ever noticed that it's always "big, fat guy?" It's never just, "hey, check out that big guy over there," or "Wow, look at that fat guy!" Nope, it's always "get a load of that BIG, FAT guy!"</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Why do we need both "big" and "fat?" Aren't they kind of redundant? Is it merely trying to doubly amplify one's size in derision? When you refer to an underweight person, you don't call them a "thin, skinny guy." And sometimes, people like to go for the trifecta of fat insults and up the ante to "big, giant, fat guy."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">And it's always "guy." People don't like to personalize it, maybe too afraid to get to know the big, fat guy and hang a name on him. "Say, there goes big, fat Phil" is just unheard of in polite circles.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">But how best to politely describe overweight people? The "experts (a bunch of THIN experts, I have no doubt)" have presented some guidelines:</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">*Plump: This sounds so veddy British and polite, that it already wins you over. In fact, there's a jolliness attached to it, evoking everyone's favorite good-natured "plump" fellow, Santa Claus. Come to think of it, as a child I don't EVER recall my peers referring to Santa as that "creepy big, fat guy who breaks into homes." No, they kept their mouths glued until December 26th when things reverted back to business as usual and open fire was declared on the hapless, overweight kid on the playground.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">*Big-Boned: I don't know. This one kinda sounds like an excuse the thin give overweight people to explain their girth while they don't really buy into it for one minute. Besides, I don't think big bones really add to your overall size. Unless you're a Tyrannosaurus Rex or whatever.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">*Heavy Set: I suppose this one's okay. At least it doesn't fly to the stratosphere with "BIG" and "FAT," leaving a little bit of leeway in the wide range of "heavy settedness."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">*Larger: Well, duh. But larger than what or whom? Who's the standard bearer for weight? I mean, this kinda changes with the times, doesn't it? Look at the movies made between the '20's and '50's, where </span><span style="font-size: x-large;">many leading starlets (and men) tipped the scales.</span><span style="font-size: x-large;"> Our currently popular, bone-thin, heroin-chic models wouldn't have a place on the silver screen back in the day.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM9cMDmzLPP5Kz_7uZD3dhyb1AdnHPJHTIdl_lfSSXNdpoKjzpLqCM5O5hB0Sme0OJ8mp7RMmD_LOrHsdenwGjWtW00wj2HdYWfeperDrhj7UMOBDtMwaJcVIufdmbUTY1UWAenyXf9LI1fMSxsQsTo9BTqozM0h07BnGj15ScKMcJUPHDgeOasrpd/s500/Big%20Fat%20Guys%202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="341" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM9cMDmzLPP5Kz_7uZD3dhyb1AdnHPJHTIdl_lfSSXNdpoKjzpLqCM5O5hB0Sme0OJ8mp7RMmD_LOrHsdenwGjWtW00wj2HdYWfeperDrhj7UMOBDtMwaJcVIufdmbUTY1UWAenyXf9LI1fMSxsQsTo9BTqozM0h07BnGj15ScKMcJUPHDgeOasrpd/s320/Big%20Fat%20Guys%202.jpg" width="218" /></a></div><span style="font-size: x-large;">*Overweight: This is a favorite of doctors. Used by anyone else, it's insulting. But those glib, thin doctors get away with it frequently. (Besides, I don't know if I'd trust a doctor who diagnoses you as "pleasantly plump.")</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">*Morbidly Obese: No. JUST no. Talk about insulting. And people who use it usually don't even understand the terminology. The word "morbid" constitutes sickness and death. Once, in my heavier youth, my dad actually called me this. Thanks Dad!</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">*Plus Size: Often used in modelling, I assume this term makes people feel okay about themselves, because hey! It's modelling! Personally, I find it slightly insulting, but really, all of these are. But if it makes an overweight person okay with who they are, more power to them.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">*Curvy: This is the term a buddy uses when he sets you up with his girlfriend's friend. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">*Full-Figured: see "Curvy."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">*Stocky, Stout, Burly, Bulky, and Husky: These are all interchangeable and bring to mind muscle more than sheer mass. So large guys might readily adopt these euphemisms.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">There you have but a slight selection of euphemisms and code words for overweight people. Tons more than there are for thin people, just part of the overweight bias prevalent in our culture. I've been on both sides of the spectrum, many times up and down through my life (currently I'm tipping those scales upward again, but I'll be back down again at some point), so I feel I'm uniquely qualified to be able to talk about subject. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Really, it probably depends on the individual what you refer to them as, but why refer to their weight at all? Proper names or even "hey, you!" are much preferred.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Now that I'm off my soapbox, it's shameless plug time! <i>Elspeth, the Living Dead Girl</i> is a YA paranormal murder mystery with loads of humor and suspense about, well...a living dead girl. It's complicated. Find out how complicated <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Elspeth-Living-Dead-Girl-Stuart-ebook/dp/B0C1HJY8XX?ref_=ast_author_dp" target="_blank">riiiiiiiiiiiiiight HERE!</a></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp-K5XQvZWBbeR-jYnrOoSdj51SbvkM7lN8pwtXmq6mLKrNQT_kKvhdflVBVUnIy4l3o2Md91XNHGKOgeHDXslbB1A1XzX-tQjxD6Y48nn-0ct3TSrFWXy37a92hyvfL82R1zNatLfFzaq6FOumOZbJOr8ZF0VEFyfxAZyaICF3k5q5oJVHkNuYQfi/s481/Elspeth,%20the%20Living%20Dead%20Girl.webp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="481" data-original-width="300" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp-K5XQvZWBbeR-jYnrOoSdj51SbvkM7lN8pwtXmq6mLKrNQT_kKvhdflVBVUnIy4l3o2Md91XNHGKOgeHDXslbB1A1XzX-tQjxD6Y48nn-0ct3TSrFWXy37a92hyvfL82R1zNatLfFzaq6FOumOZbJOr8ZF0VEFyfxAZyaICF3k5q5oJVHkNuYQfi/s320/Elspeth,%20the%20Living%20Dead%20Girl.webp" width="200" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Stuart R. Westhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12199079894134598567noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-664025559144222907.post-89319781206215206052023-10-06T01:00:00.016-07:002023-10-06T01:00:00.152-07:00The Blue Jay of Nutrition<p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOjWs-Reyn6PxoerPWJFH6HT_hof9-VGYDW5iSEY4lIHi9ts3g-0XM8sf5sYTvQgLJBdlTucnI9_3RQPdCCThwPkpznTKA9vs00mi-xHaJMxEO0N9W0Vc2yI1xr3HSUe7PyZUPFlpc_bJhf3zLpN7z_B-sbM9KbHaxVwlPKGDbtvbYatZTnPf0KK45/s225/Blue%20Jay%205.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOjWs-Reyn6PxoerPWJFH6HT_hof9-VGYDW5iSEY4lIHi9ts3g-0XM8sf5sYTvQgLJBdlTucnI9_3RQPdCCThwPkpznTKA9vs00mi-xHaJMxEO0N9W0Vc2yI1xr3HSUe7PyZUPFlpc_bJhf3zLpN7z_B-sbM9KbHaxVwlPKGDbtvbYatZTnPf0KK45/s1600/Blue%20Jay%205.jpg" width="225" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;">Recently, my wife and I were kicking around Weston, Kansas, a quaint, small town known for wineries (yay!) and "antiquing (boo! And don't ever, ever, EVER use that "word" around me)." When we left, I noticed a small store off the beaten path.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"Blue Jay Nutrition," I scoffed. "I wonder what <i>they</i> sell!"</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">My wife says, "Nutrition. Duh." Then she waited a beat. "Wait...did you think that it was nutrition for blue jays?" She starts laughing and laughing and attracting attention to my dunder-headed faux pas.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"Well...kinda." I hung my head, burning redder than a fire hydrant.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">In retrospect, I should've known better. But my brain blipped and I followed the logic. For a ludicrous moment, I imagined the store's proprietor giving a tour to visiting school children. "Okay, today I'm going to show you what blue jays eat for their nutritious needs. Other bird's eggs. That's the end of our tour, boys and girls, please donate your lunch money on your way out. See ya!"</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Well, it was kinda a dumb name for a store, so don't judge me.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Of course this sent me down the path of finding other really dumb business/store names. The results will make you say "what the hell were they thinking?"</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaj-0N3rZviep_zOXCPqtPPeP9fTLW_IUX-CoTSU3FfQhQOF3oe7iCTDgmiZKARMR9p2L_eV4qjqHvMsUTOAOwNYRIBCNPgsqJf_b_mpccLPPtkUExhShW2Pqv-qcEiUIfRGaBx2lngfc6JQsxpxtEkhDBotHXQgBoGYYJEZjI08U1ySFMyEOlOHug/s250/Blue%20Jay%201.webp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="187" data-original-width="250" height="187" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaj-0N3rZviep_zOXCPqtPPeP9fTLW_IUX-CoTSU3FfQhQOF3oe7iCTDgmiZKARMR9p2L_eV4qjqHvMsUTOAOwNYRIBCNPgsqJf_b_mpccLPPtkUExhShW2Pqv-qcEiUIfRGaBx2lngfc6JQsxpxtEkhDBotHXQgBoGYYJEZjI08U1ySFMyEOlOHug/s1600/Blue%20Jay%201.webp" width="250" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;">There's "The Morning Wood Company." Not a joke, not an imaginary story, not a dream! It gets even worse with their slogan: "You've Got To Get Up Early To Beat Us." I'd like to think that the proprietor of Morning Wood knew exactly what he was doing, but...would it equate to good business?</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZflERWpbsWptvCwhpoBEgkF2qOaT3au2Fja2hTs_ea5cstVPKu2wVCD7a536UtuZRq2jsqSyg7biwHtRvShe9zZG9GgLOQTsjFpqr0FKejl1cF9sLW2trnaTfAyXEAJPNFVePsZYBPaZ2tUD8mldx-GGaqVvHGOkgE1Lv82bfeVgD4oRjj7V3qCNm/s250/Blue%20jay%202.webp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="188" data-original-width="250" height="188" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZflERWpbsWptvCwhpoBEgkF2qOaT3au2Fja2hTs_ea5cstVPKu2wVCD7a536UtuZRq2jsqSyg7biwHtRvShe9zZG9GgLOQTsjFpqr0FKejl1cF9sLW2trnaTfAyXEAJPNFVePsZYBPaZ2tUD8mldx-GGaqVvHGOkgE1Lv82bfeVgD4oRjj7V3qCNm/s1600/Blue%20jay%202.webp" width="250" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;">How about "Bunghole Liquors?" I'm not even going to comment on this one. Well, maybe I will. If the owners name is "Bunghole," surely a lifetime of childhood humiliation would've sent him fleeing to the courthouse by now to have his name legally changed.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgurXwuRwBLUqxtgWLDqtkh10Wcchg2KpVrhbO5-q6z_eES9yzWF4p7yOfqkR9yUA_SRnCI5ccPHmMhMyW92SQ8h5UWf3V_6IGzBhFMQmalsE6t2CED82s_rxEIuZZNYhi0wu1_o3tBwXtbip75ZLHszDgFsRLefocvMm4RTEsy1rEOCm3TtH3FhNio/s250/Blue%20Jay%203.webp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="188" data-original-width="250" height="188" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgurXwuRwBLUqxtgWLDqtkh10Wcchg2KpVrhbO5-q6z_eES9yzWF4p7yOfqkR9yUA_SRnCI5ccPHmMhMyW92SQ8h5UWf3V_6IGzBhFMQmalsE6t2CED82s_rxEIuZZNYhi0wu1_o3tBwXtbip75ZLHszDgFsRLefocvMm4RTEsy1rEOCm3TtH3FhNio/s1600/Blue%20Jay%203.webp" width="250" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;">"Poopsie's" isn't so bad, I suppose... If it were a children's fun palace or toy store. Maybe. But it's a restaurant. Next!</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"Sam & Ella's Chicken Palace" is next on the list. This one took me a moment to figure through. But keep saying "Sam 'n Ella" out loud and you'll realize it's about the worst possible advertisement for a chicken palace one could imagine.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoBGY1p6FEByEQfaKNXlAzRxd-B5RLZCwXqpN1oouL61glW5ZwwT6ymLuu0PdaHa83HdGj5gtTsMGcDfmkGBFbpGU7QmAxN_YBEVKEwy6klyrtoYHq_pyZOTo24mMEmmUjorazZWmZqSJuaMWGRC89ClUumMRC5hNlKNNhhrZ4IyBTCG2LfDxnpnjw/s250/Blue%20Jay%204.webp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="152" data-original-width="250" height="152" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoBGY1p6FEByEQfaKNXlAzRxd-B5RLZCwXqpN1oouL61glW5ZwwT6ymLuu0PdaHa83HdGj5gtTsMGcDfmkGBFbpGU7QmAxN_YBEVKEwy6klyrtoYHq_pyZOTo24mMEmmUjorazZWmZqSJuaMWGRC89ClUumMRC5hNlKNNhhrZ4IyBTCG2LfDxnpnjw/s1600/Blue%20Jay%204.webp" width="250" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;">Here's one that dads everywhere will be sure to enjoy: "Passmore Gas & Propane." C'mon, Dad, let's hear that one again! </span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"Master Bait & Tackle!" Well...I'm not sure how these two activities (if you will) go hand-in-hand (if you will even more!), but I won't be darkening their doorway any time soon (unless I'm wearing a trench coat and nothing underneath, if you will infinity!).</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">We'll wrap things up with "Dumass Taco." I kinda think these guys knew what they were doing since their logo is a donkey. Just don't confuse them with their competitor down the street, "Braniac Burrito."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">There you have just a few entries into the remarkably creative (or astoundingly narrow-minded and just plain dumb) arena of mercantilism. Okay! It's going on lunch-time, so I think I'll go and pop off at the local "Kum 'n Go" for something good... Wait... Um...</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix0QUDXQPYs4ErEVZecj7vRYyj9NvW80P9JJZvD_oxH3ZkmkYgelmPfazsj0NH9EiCCaFl2tVq6LluVbxwfKbIZ_wohAPM90AXrpJCHo8-khejL2aweODs7H6s2hlLbwKgZwSjwbRelSeJ_kqSrvP7O75tAJ2Xyqxd8YXFUwnwCQ8Fi4JnxsK5Bhx8/s281/Blue%20Jay.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="180" data-original-width="281" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix0QUDXQPYs4ErEVZecj7vRYyj9NvW80P9JJZvD_oxH3ZkmkYgelmPfazsj0NH9EiCCaFl2tVq6LluVbxwfKbIZ_wohAPM90AXrpJCHo8-khejL2aweODs7H6s2hlLbwKgZwSjwbRelSeJ_kqSrvP7O75tAJ2Xyqxd8YXFUwnwCQ8Fi4JnxsK5Bhx8/s1600/Blue%20Jay.jpg" width="281" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;">While we're on the topic of dunderheaded and idiotic buffoons, meet Zach Caulfield, male stripper par excellence (but he prefers "male entertainment dancer") and incredibly unlucky dead body magnet! Thank God for his sleuthing sister, Zora, who bails him out of trouble time and time again by finding the real murderers (even when she's carting around her four kids, natch). Read the wacky hijinx and cases of MURDERRRRRRRRR in the <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Murder-Massage-Zach-Comic-Mysteries-ebook/dp/B09N8YMWSP?tag=namespacebran486-20&asc_campaign=ebd2c6eb133725e5eb7e183f0de6eeae&asc_source=01H192EPQVEZ7PT5P11H54TN97" target="_blank">Zach and Zora comic mystery series!</a></span><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidpR4RC4SQ06sF5Qb6y1cYlebnCfQ9frFt-Wq3QRJHZH4TrZpF8Tbxiqrld_3pEDqOORq449134xMWY1-v-Ty386bRSGoMPuN_GUhQ7IWE-0mdz9PH02ZDKvNwrBsM8aVk046Lq_f9ZD_Xzh35JiryXUxwH5WkjddTxqqKhNzJLTGRw1VpvvutIj90/s2250/Murder%20by%20Massage%20cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2250" data-original-width="1500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidpR4RC4SQ06sF5Qb6y1cYlebnCfQ9frFt-Wq3QRJHZH4TrZpF8Tbxiqrld_3pEDqOORq449134xMWY1-v-Ty386bRSGoMPuN_GUhQ7IWE-0mdz9PH02ZDKvNwrBsM8aVk046Lq_f9ZD_Xzh35JiryXUxwH5WkjddTxqqKhNzJLTGRw1VpvvutIj90/s320/Murder%20by%20Massage%20cover.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p><br /></p>Stuart R. Westhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12199079894134598567noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-664025559144222907.post-85613348238899963272023-09-29T01:00:00.033-07:002023-09-29T05:29:39.010-07:00Another Day, Another Indictment... <p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFqPdhlcPm2PBEtobbinkROb0SvOg7oMglqKQMrkJVjIIdxkbz6l4A6ZgOjbQFFLVaEqeX29CD96P1IpfGgDI5XtgNCxPtUCoKKgNxh40GAD1k-PxKv0bZVNqObFwhyUx_kUT51BGn51JXg_EUUKVE-QH3qsup7DWGmSucFRwjAsUdTilj27GCb0Lo/s274/Indictment%207.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="184" data-original-width="274" height="184" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFqPdhlcPm2PBEtobbinkROb0SvOg7oMglqKQMrkJVjIIdxkbz6l4A6ZgOjbQFFLVaEqeX29CD96P1IpfGgDI5XtgNCxPtUCoKKgNxh40GAD1k-PxKv0bZVNqObFwhyUx_kUT51BGn51JXg_EUUKVE-QH3qsup7DWGmSucFRwjAsUdTilj27GCb0Lo/s1600/Indictment%207.jpg" width="274" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;">This is getting a little old. I'd kinda think that even the MAGA crowd might be getting a little tired of it, too. Donny Trump, of course, has been indicted four--count 'em, four!--times during a four-and-a-half month time span with 91 felonies under his (needs to be loosened a few notches) belt. And of course he was just ruled guilty of fraud in a New York civil case.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Damn. In the United States history, we've never had a president indicted before. Yet...yet...here's the punchline: Trump's currently tied with our current president in voting polls!</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">How can this possibly be? Don't get me wrong, I have issues with Biden, too. He's by far not my ideal president. But when compared to the lying, traitorous, bullying, raping, crooked, misogynistic, racist, blowhard, hate-mongering, philandering, Big Mac chowing orange alternative, Joe looks like Honest Abe. At least Joe's trying to assist the country, more than Donny ever did. Trump's wallet and ego always comes first, even ahead of family.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Wake up, half the country!</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZlHPscg-zDKy6ap3eZU3jUWjaSkmjQ8t11Y4rgZCu_eaG4wPapNPpAuEJz5EPOFzpL-S4A4qkj2oeQ_x_VJZbTxkjXEwh4qHSG-gzaps6NNkX8u6wQfkOdQeuV9LB5_8PDJSPz_E0eyT5K0QEJ8ygrVEDDwZgMOoPayGKjFGnEG7-p390LwbYEfRT/s894/Indictment%206.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="708" data-original-width="894" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZlHPscg-zDKy6ap3eZU3jUWjaSkmjQ8t11Y4rgZCu_eaG4wPapNPpAuEJz5EPOFzpL-S4A4qkj2oeQ_x_VJZbTxkjXEwh4qHSG-gzaps6NNkX8u6wQfkOdQeuV9LB5_8PDJSPz_E0eyT5K0QEJ8ygrVEDDwZgMOoPayGKjFGnEG7-p390LwbYEfRT/s320/Indictment%206.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;">Do you really want to be dragged along with Trump's self-proclaimed four-year "revenge term?" That's all that's on his mind. Yep, he's railed about how he's going to imprison his "enemies (i.e., honest politicians who don't buy into his lies)," defund the Justice Department (the only branch willing to go after him), and eliminate any executive branch's checks and powers over his tyrannical stranglehold over our country. This ain't how a president's supposed to act.</span><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">Unbelievably, his grotesque and cheap theatrics just become more childish and deranged. This week he called for departing Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, General Mark Milley to be put to death. Unbelievable. AND he's called upon his spineless Republican sycophant senators to shut down the government. Why? Because he thinks it might keep him out of prison, a desperate last chance to "defund the election interference against him." He doesn't care about how bad this would be for our country or the millions of government employees who will have to work without pay checks. Despicable, you betcha! I'd even go so far as to call it traitorous.<br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">C'mon! Before the 2020 election and especially after the infamous January 6th insurrection, Trump hasn't shut up whining about how the election was rigged, contrary to not a shred of evidence being presented. Quite the opposite: any evidence that was found pointed to a tight, secure, and legally binding election.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Check out this quote about Donny from 2016:</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span face=""YahooSans VF", "Yahoo Sans", YahooSans, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228;">“You know, every time Donald thinks things are not going in his direction he claims, whatever it is, is rigged against him. The FBI conducted a year-long investigation into my emails, they concluded there was no case. He said the FBI was rigged. He lost the Iowa caucus, he lost the Wisconsin primary. He said the Republican primary was rigged against him. </span><span face=""YahooSans VF", "Yahoo Sans", YahooSans, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228;">This is how Donald thinks. And it’s funny, but it’s also really troubling. That is not the way our democracy works. We’ve been around for 240 years, we’ve had free and fair elections, we’ve accepted the outcomes when we may not have liked them. And that is what must be expected of anyone standing on a debate stage during a general election.”</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">This came from Hillary Clinton! In 2016, before Trump ever stepped into and polluted the White House! Say what you will about Hillary, but she was certainly prescient. I believe she has more super mind-powers than Trump does, even when he claimed he could declassify a document just by looking at it.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYu8pYkrMrwzvYe_Bv80JEwmmOlUcA2RoNnCe9w1Sk3yHF2t2pKz6xSh38A-TMqacocaU_-gi8mtQ4C9tmz5XT54qD7n_P2RcEF41eSyL_eJSUiLdMlq7dwUP6u5EsraI6ck-68ZCoHYTOct2sPVDrEJXX4cOZw-R7noUXaeRwlt3ldM4ZNQs74V_c/s800/Indictment%205.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="800" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYu8pYkrMrwzvYe_Bv80JEwmmOlUcA2RoNnCe9w1Sk3yHF2t2pKz6xSh38A-TMqacocaU_-gi8mtQ4C9tmz5XT54qD7n_P2RcEF41eSyL_eJSUiLdMlq7dwUP6u5EsraI6ck-68ZCoHYTOct2sPVDrEJXX4cOZw-R7noUXaeRwlt3ldM4ZNQs74V_c/s320/Indictment%205.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;">Okay, so Donny had his original "Big Lie" regarding the "rigged election." Half our country bought into it. Now he's following it up with an equally insidious Big Lie: "Election Interference!"</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Every time, Donny gets indicted, he claims it's the evil, satanic liberals, bla, bla, bla persecuting him and interfering with a fair election. And, of course, his faithful cult buys into this crap. Worse, it appears to be growing.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">WHY? The only thing I can possibly think of is that the more people hear something, the more brainwashed they become. Hell, Trump's in the news now more than he was president! I'm sick of reading the paper (okay, perusing the intronet's headlines) and reading hard-hitting journalism about how Trump has insulted the Justice Department for the kazillionth time.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">This isn't election interference. It's called justice. From what I've read, there's more hard evidence incriminating Trump on a number of charges than anyone ever presented regarding the so-called "rigged" election of 2024. Facts don't lie, people! Contrary to what the My Pillow guy says and we all know he's a highly qualified expert on the subject, right?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Wake up, Maga! Your cult leader is a horrid person who cares not for you, nor his country. He cares about money, power, BIG TV ratings, porn stars, and Big Macs. In that order.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I tell you what, this gets my dander up! Don't make me have to tell you guys this again...</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">While I'm trying to calm down, I may as well hit you up with the hard sell... Check out my book, <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Ghosts-Gannaway-Stuart-R-West-ebook/dp/B07FT586LV/?_encoding=UTF8&pd_rd_w=t0gbv&content-id=amzn1.sym.579192ca-1482-4409-abe7-9e14f17ac827&pf_rd_p=579192ca-1482-4409-abe7-9e14f17ac827&pf_rd_r=140-5112958-9536104&pd_rd_wg=MFGLU&pd_rd_r=07e4e41b-a30d-4d73-a4db-30fa763c1260&ref_=aufs_ap_sc_dsk" target="_blank">Ghosts of Gannaway</a></i>. It's a historically-based ghost story about a small mining town in Kansas, run by the evil, greedy man who owns the mine and will throw everyone under the bus (well, train, in this case) to further line his wallet. Hmmm...sound familiar?</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqecdUMnlMGUPNNJ4vRdRdecBVQ_8M5MNLYYge5utFYnJtM8vucTlUlFbrudL7wAznO2XbUTTjK-zd06_u8IxuxV1lKsZ2yPkq9LlvfZ3rMM8W7phGJRTbQsPOl4TmwywJ9vJi0K6x45Med9K4SkSA2rMLqxbfnisvmh36Fs5LMV9cvFCIggZ4DJaU/s500/Gannaway.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="333" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqecdUMnlMGUPNNJ4vRdRdecBVQ_8M5MNLYYge5utFYnJtM8vucTlUlFbrudL7wAznO2XbUTTjK-zd06_u8IxuxV1lKsZ2yPkq9LlvfZ3rMM8W7phGJRTbQsPOl4TmwywJ9vJi0K6x45Med9K4SkSA2rMLqxbfnisvmh36Fs5LMV9cvFCIggZ4DJaU/s320/Gannaway.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p></div>Stuart R. Westhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12199079894134598567noreply@blogger.com0