Shopping With Mom, Part Kazillion

In my continuous efforts to save my mother money, I made the mistake of taking her to a different grocery store than the one she's accustomed to. I never learn.

With great trepidation, I called her the next day.

"Well, I don't think those chicken tenders you made me buy were real," she said.

"What?" (Sigh.) "I didn't make you buy--"

"I think the tenders were squirrel or cat."

"Mom, they weren't--"

"I KNOW what they were, I know what I know. It wasn't real chicken, that's for sure. I have a tummy ache."

First of all, if you've lived ninety years, you shouldn't be allowed to say "tummy." Second of all, really, "squirrel?" Third, she thinks Trump's a "God-fearing man," so credibility kinda goes out the window.

"Fine, Mom, we'll go back to your expensive grocery store," I said.

"I know what I know." End of conversation!

My mom knows what she knows and is a tad peculiar, but nothing's more peculiar than this: 

"I was blown away by Stuart R. West’s writing in Peculiar County. The dialogue is colloquial and fresh and full of fun descriptive phrases. I’ve read a few of his other novels, and they definitely deliver a hypnotic and horrifying read. Get ready for enough twists and turns to upset your stomach when you pick up Peculiar County." 5-star review from thriller author MJ LaBeff. Just click already.

Kryptonian Super-Pants!

Okay. Supergirl has super-powers. She has super-breath (I imagine super minty and cool). Back in the day, she even had a super-cat named Streaky. Nobody remembers Streaky, but when I was a kid, I stumbled across an old Legion of Superheroes comic where there was an ENTIRE Legion of Super-pets! Of course the membership included Krypto, Superman's dog. And Streaky, keeping it super-cat real (peace!). There was even a super-horse. Which is all very strange considering there were only two or three humanoid survivors from Krypton's explosion, yet a whole league of super-pets made the splash-down to Earth. But I'm super digressing...)

So while super-fighting super bad guys, you'd think Supergirl would benefit from some super-pants. Alas, it's not the case. In our current, hyper-sensitive Me-Too era (absolutely no thanks to our sub-super-president), Supergirl's still out there battling super bads while wearing a super mini-skirt.

Barely functional. Let alone super. I mean you don't see Superman flying the skies sporting a super banana hammock.

Let's super break this super double-standard down. While Supergirl's cruising over the city, she's shooting super-moon. When she gets knocked on her super arse, her ankles are up around her super ears. Sure, her super mini-skirt frees up her legs a bit to super high kick to the joy of teen boys, but still...enough's enough. Even Supergirl's bad gals and guys wear super-slacks, no super wardrobe-challenged fools in the face of danger.

We need to start a petition. It's 2018. Let's give Supergirl the super-slacks she deserves! Power to the pants! Bitches be wearing britches (sorry, couldn't resist)!

Have you checked out my super-fun books?

One super-click away from super-awesome reading pleasure!

Night of the Living Pretentious Guy

Once a year in Kansas City--always during the coldest week in January, it seems--the annual tradition of "Restaurant Week" occurs. A great deal of hoity-toity restaurants conspire to offer fancy-schmancy dinners for $30 and lunches for $15. It's a great way to try joints we've only read about, always mean to try, and then forget about them. And if you like bisque, you're in luck. (But you've gotta really like bisque; lots and lots and lots of bisque).

At one of these upper-scale joints (so upper-scale, I had to actually iron khakis!), we found ourselves enjoying some excellent food. However, the place was dark and murky, full of interior bubble windows, adorned with odd, swooping walls, and splashed with dour and shimmering aquas and teals: the ambiance of an aquarium. Worse, the tables were so close to one another, I became extremely familiar with the waiter's butt.

And then THEY sat down next to us. 

At first, they seemed harmless enough: an older couple and a younger couple (I envied the guy because HE got to wear jeans). That's where my envy stopped. Desperate to impress the older couple (I kinda assumed they were the younger gal's parents), the young guy wouldn't--couldn't--shut up. When he wasn't bragging about himself, he let the world know about his seemingly endless array of impressive best friends who'd done everything from curing cancer to revolutionizing the world of cuisine.

"My best friend's the head chef at The Drunken Antler," he bragged. "I guarantee it'll change the way you see beef."

An actual quote! (The only way I ever see beef is on a plate; definitely NOT the cute barnyard animals. But now that this has been imprinted on my brain, I just might have to go vegetarian.)

"When you go," Mr. Hotcha continued, "I need to be the one to take you. I want to study the look of satisfaction on your face."

Noooooooo! Trapped, nowhere to go, uncomfortable in my khakis, I was held captive to the relentless pontificating.

"My other best friend is a world-class mixologist in Portland. He's created some top-of-the-line tastes and drinks, the best anywhere."

Make it stop! Please!

But the younger guy didn't. I don't think he could. Like a Hyde persona, the driving force of pretentiousness swept him away. He monopolized our waiter (although to be fair, I got a lotta butt-face time with him), and soon Mr. Too-Cool-For-School somehow roped the bartender into his growing cult. 

This time the older guy (run, potential father-in-law, run fast and hard!) reiterated all of Mr. Young Pretentious Guy's brags to the bartender.


The bartender, squirmy and ill-at-ease, jut out a stand-up comic's hand, and said, "You know, I just mix drinks, and sometimes, you know, I add stuff to 'em. You know." With a perpetual grimace on his face and a finger working loose his collar, the bartender couldn't wait to escape back to the safety of his bar. We felt his pain.

Having run out of best friends to yak about, Mr. Pompous decided the time had come for him to wax on about himself. And wax on he did. "The other day, I gave a presentation (snootily pronounced "PREE-san-tation"), and made sure to run long, carrying over into our lunch break. I've found that's the most efficient way to present my case and keep the nay-sayers' questions at bay. Quite an effective tool."

Only tool I saw was sporting trendy and perfectly manicured 5:00 shadow.

We gobbled and got out before the pretentiousness rubbed off on us.

Beware the pretentious, ladies and gents. They're out there. Waiting. Lurking. Pontificating.

There's not an ounce of pretentiousness in Nightmare of Nannies. Just good ol' fashioned mystery and stoopid comedy.

One click away keeps the pretension at bay!

Jury Doody!

My wife got the mail that fateful day, said "uh-oh," as she tossed the inexplicably foreboding government letter toward me. Surprise! I'd been chosen for jury duty! (Cue the wah-wah-wah-wahhhh mocking trombone).

Noooo! (Rendering it an even larger injustice, for years my wife has actually longed to pull jury duty. It's a cruel world).

Well, I'd managed to dodge the jury duty bullet twice before in my life time. (Years ago, I'd written the Government that my dad was in a wheelchair {true!} and that I was needed to take care of him {kinda true, but not really!}. It'd worked twice.) Feeling invulnerable, I figured I could dodge the bullet a third time. I wrote that my mother was ailing (true and constantly!) and that I was "on-call" at all times to take care of her (sorta' true if you kinda smudge the boundaries of what's "true" and whatever). This time, the cold-hearted judge didn't take pity on me.

So, on a recent cold, snow-storm threatening Monday morning, I hauled myself through gridlocked highway traffic to Olathe (and why in the world they'd put the Big Courts clear out there was beyond me). Like lemmings driven to their death, tons of people grumpily shuffled toward the courthouse. As it was Monday morning, I'd never seen quite a collection of bleary-eyed, clearly hung-over, grumpier people together at once.

At the security check, I de-shoed, unbelted, emptied my valuables into a bucket, got beeped at, then was sent through the puzzling labyrinth of the courthouse. Worse than a rat in a maze, I had to go down a flight of stairs to a room, up another flight, down the hall, down another flight, then up another flight. Finally, I entered the courtroom.

A woman who made Fran Drescher sound absolutely dulcet directed us toward where we were expected to sit. She looked at my paperwork and laughed. Actually laughed! "You're juror number one," she managed between sadistic guffaws. 

This didn't bode well. So much for a fast exit. All week long, I'd been working on a strategy to be dismissed during the "voir dire" process (oral and visual examination of the potential jurors). I figured I might try a surly and mean "hang 'em all and hang 'em high" attitude. But all now seemed lost as I settled into chair number ONE.

And there I sat for an hour. By my estimation, over a hundred potential jurors crammed into the courtroom. A lot to choose from, I thought as I looked at my non-existent wristwatch. An older man sat down in front of me, flying his flannel and sporting a mess of Grizzly Adams beard and hair. My peer. Breathing like a pneumatic nail gun, his face redder than a fire hydrant, he turned around and angrily huffed at me like some kind of out-of-control Lifetime movie husband, the only guy grumpier than me in the courtroom. At that point I figured it was gonna be a long trial.

Not Fran Drescher did her best to entertain us, answer questions, and warn of the oncoming snow storm. While she couldn't get into the specifics, she did say this was a criminal trial--a big one!--and could take up to several weeks. My Spidey Senses started tingling. Even though I didn't want to be there, the trial might provide some excellent writing research and ideas.

Some woman asked Fran Drescher's twin how they picked potential jurors. "Driving and voting records and bad luck," she said. The woman's question was two-fold, however. "But this is the fourth time I've been here this year," the woman implored. "What's up with that?"

Pseudo Fran Drescher responded, "That sucks." (A truly governmental response if I've ever heard one.)

Suddenly a yuppie--flashy in Friday casual wear--took the podium. He said he was our judge (No robe, no liver spots, no tremors while rattling a gavel. Feh. Not my kinda judge.) and apologized for keeping us waiting. Apparently they'd reached a plea agreement and we were free to go.

What?

Just as I'd resigned myself to a long drawn-out affair, almost excited about the sordid adventure awaiting me, then POOF, we were ushered out of the courtroom (and up stairs, then down stairs, then up again, and...).

Oddly disappointed, I trawled home. But at least I wouldn't be called again for another year. Then again...that "rule" didn't hold true for the poor four-time lottery loser in the courtroom.

To paraphrase Almost Fran Drescher, "That sucked!"

A jury of peers has declared Bad Day in a Banana Hammock a very funny mystery with a finding of a 4.2 rating. 22 jurors surely can't ALL be wrong.

Hear ye, hear ye, click here to read the book in session!

Mandatory Sex Practice!

Recently, my awesome mother-in-law sent us a post-holiday card. Within it was a personalized message to me.

"Stuart," it read, "you better start practicing your Sex--will expect entertainment in the nursing home."

Huh.

After I rolled my tongue up off the floor and tucked it back into my mouth, I reread the card. Yep. Same thing.

What the...

The ramifications of her note were mind-boggling. And not even a bit cryptic. Kinda an order from her.

Which begs the question: what in the world have my wife and her mom been talking about? Furthermore, what does my mother-in-law mean by "practice?" Surely, she can't be advocating more masturbation, right? I mean, I don't want to go blind or grow lycanthropically hairy palms.

I suppose I could use a little boning up on my sex technique. But honestly, I'd rather not hear it from my mother-in-law.

And what kind of nursing home are we talking about here where sex is used to entertain the crowd? I imagine the facility has quite a long waiting list. (I'd better get signed up now.)

After the fireworks in my head died out, I took a closer look at the note. "Stuart," it read a bit differently this time, "you better start practicing your Sax..."

Ooooooohhhhhhh...... Okay. That's a bit better.

Speaking of things better not thought about for the sake of humanity, have you heard the one about the male stripper and his detective sister? No? Well, you're late to the party! Click here already! 

I Survived Four Thrilling Dimensions of Intergalactic Terror!

Not too long ago my wife and I went to the new Star Wars movie. (Okay, let's get this outta the way... I know the Star Wars fanboys are up in arms over the movie and for the life of me, I can't figure out why. It's a Star Wars movie! You get lots and lots of The Force, good guys, bad guys, explosions, chases, laser fights, battles, betrayals, heroic stuff, aliens, silly haircuts, even sillier sets... You know... Star Wars! I was neither thrilled by nor angry at the movie. It is what it is and it is perfectly mediocre.)

What did thrill me, however, was the prospect of seeing The Last Jedi in super-amazo MX4D! 

"Bonus! What in God's name is MX4D?" I ask the ticketeer.

"It's the newest evolution in the 4D cinema experience where you actually “feel” the movie," the Ticket Master recites in a bland voice. "Enjoy the magic of the movies."

(At the B&B theater chain, I believe employees are required by law to say that last bit about the magic of the movies. Too bad they never conjure any magic in their tone. But I suppose magic is sorely lacking in minimum wage jobs.)

However, the magic-loving Ticket Holder still hadn't answered my question. "So...we 'feel' the movie?" I reiterate.

"That's right, sir."

I sorely want to ask the Ticket Fairy how this MX4D process works for a porn movie, but I know my wife won't approve. 

Regardless, we roll the dice, take a chance. My wife shrugs, says, "Let's do it. Something different."

"Okay! Two tickets, please."

"Alright..." the ticket girl intones. "Two senior tickets."

"Um, not yet," I say. "We still have several years before--"

"That'll be $34.00," she responds. "Enjoy the magic of the--"

"What theater?" 

We pay the outrageous price. I figure even if we're not senior citizens yet, I can't imagine how much the "regular citizens" tickets cost. Some damn movie magic at work there.

We settle into our strange, hard, uncomfortably plastic seats. Put our feet onto the raised platform. I look for a seat-belt, but can't find one, and resign myself to sitting in this awful bucket for three hours.

The usual pre-advertisements (bah! You whippersnappers remember when they didn't show commercials at the movies? Maybe I deserve my senior citizen discount.) run their course as do the endless trailers. Then the screen hits us with more warnings than a Viagra ad.

"Warning," a solemn voice admonishes, "if you're pregnant, sick, old, or near death; if you have a bad back, neck, or any open sores; if you haven't been to the restroom in over an hour; if you're prone to fainting, psychadelically freaking out, or screaming at vicious strobe lights; if you're the litigious sort, than the MX4D experience is not for you. We'd advise you to leave right now and the theatre staff will try not to shame you. Now, sit back and enjoy the magic of the movies."

I whisper to my wife, "What strange magic have we fallen prey to?"

The movie starts. So far, so good as the friendly and familiar Star Wars scrawl trawls off into space. Then...BOOM!

Over the next three hours, we're tipped and dipped, battered by mechanical punches to the butt and back, and have water and cold wind blasted at our faces. With all the smoke on hand in the movie, we're subjected to a smoke scent that smells more like plastic. Snow is dropped. Fog rolls out. And we experience what a small, drunken alien's breath is like.

It truly is the magic of the movies! Yet, oddly enough, all of the movement seems just a beat late for the on-screen action to the point of distraction.

One good thing? If you're ever constipated, the MX4D experience will loosen those bowels. Kinda like being strapped onto an industrial-sized paint-shaker for three hours.

Magic!

For even more magic, check out Peculiar County...

Beware the Christmas Carolers!

It's the holidays. That terrifying time of the year when every time the doorbell ding-dongs, I fear carolers may sing at me.

An absolutely terrifying prospect. Oh, the humanity!

I don't do well with people performing in my face. Whether it be singing, acting, dancing, whatever, it doesn't matter. I'm not sure how to respond, particularly if the talent's terrible.

My poker-face is lousy. Nervous muscles twitch. One eyelid flutters, the other remains land-locked in a passive lie. I paste on a smile, a jittery one, one that looks like the Joker's having an epileptic fit, while I try to make it through the performance on my stoop.

This year, I've been lucky so far. No singing visitors yet. But every time the UPS guy rings the doorbell, my heart skips a beat. Caroling will happen eventually, yes it will. When it does, I hope I handle it with a modicum of decency: no screaming, hurling, and a minimum of eye-rolling.

The whole idea of caroling, I think, is kinda odd, not to mention an infringement upon people's rights. I didn't sign up for a personal, one-on-one concert on my doorstep.

"Merry Christmas," I'd like to say, "ho-ho-ho, and get the hell offa my porch, ya psychos, before I get a restraining order!"

Look, I'm a writer. But I know better than to ring your doorbell, sit down with my laptop, and write on your stoop. It's like a surgeon rolling a patient up on a gurney to your door, strapping on a mask, and removing a gall bladder. Which makes me kinda wonder what hookers do this time of year.

I've been told carolers invade because they're struck by the holiday spirit. I get that, I do (even if it sounds a little violent). But, carolers, please, please, PLEASE just send me a video, disc, link, something where I don't have to grimace and bear it in your face.

But you know what? In the spirit of the holiday, in the hopes of the new year being better than 2017, with the goal of getting along with my fellow inhabitants of earth, I'm gonna let the carolers carol at me. 

In fact, let's all forget how ugly 2017 got. Let's embrace compassion, tolerance, and acceptance no matter how the "leader of the free world" is leading by example.

Happy New Year and peace.

So long to the funniest show on TV...The Inhumans

I grew up as a comic-book geek kid (oh, NOW they're cool). So when I first heard there was an upcoming TV series based on the "Inhumans," a strange Marvel comics superhero group, I frothed. Fairly foamed at the mouth, I tell you. It takes a lot to make me froth. Frothing is hard-earned in the Stuart household.

Eight painful episodes in (I'm a television masochist!) and I'm stabbing a stake in the show's bone-headed heart. (Pretty sure ABC agrees; after the eighth episode--and 13 were contracted--that sultry, smoky-voiced, ABC promo guy called it the "season finale.")

Where did the show go wrong? Let me count the ways...

The best actor on the show was a 2,000 pound, teleporting, CGI bulldog. I loved that guy. The rest of the cast? Not so much. The hero, the mute king Black Bolt, comes off as a drunken, constipated mime, prone to bouts of horrific mugging that would kick Jerry Lewis out of France.

Look, the show had a really cool built-in concept of a bunch of neato mutants living on the moon. Boom! Instant awesome! But the TV Gods chose to do the dumbest thing possible: the Inhuman gang is separated and tossed onto earth. Instead of political intrigue, we get Karnak wedged into a love triangle on a secret weed farm. Medusa? The strong first lady married to Black Bolt with the wiggly tendrils of hair? In the first episode, her hair's chopped off. Triton, the green-skinned amphibious guy, my long-time fave of the Inhumans? They "kill" him off in the first three minutes of the first episode. I knew he wasn't dead, not really, just comic-book dead. So I suffered through seven awful episodes to see him come back. He did. And, lo, he was as boring as my dad's socks.

There were many problems with the show. For some odd reason, earth car traffic befuddles the Inhumans. Yet, they take to skinny jeans like a second skin.

Maybe the problem was the bad guy, Maximus. Stolen from Game of Thrones, the actor pretty much reprises his "Ramsay Snow" role with a trendier haircut. Call it method acting. 

Here's the deal, though: Once the Inhumans go through a complex, mandatory process of metamorphosing ("terragenesis"), they're expected to gain special powers. If they don't, they become "human" and are sent straight to the working mines. (President Trump fully endorses this show). Maximus is supposed to be villainous because he wants to free the "normal humans" from the hellish working conditions of the mines on the moon. Black Bolt and his royal family want to keep things status quo. And they're the heroes? I'm already endorsing a Maximus-Dwayne Johnson presidential run in 2020.

There's another villain, Mordis, who is described as "death itself." Guess what? Death is like an irritating child on a long car trip. "Are we there yet?" "I'm tired." "My feet hurt." "How much longer do we have to walk through this jungle?" Yep, a truly terrifying villain.

I could go on about the wise, talking wall and other fun stuff, but let's not.

ABC had huge hopes for the show. So much so that they put the first couple episodes out in theaters to launch it. No one went. No one cared. Except for hell-raising critics which is probably why it ended up on Friday nights, the dead zone for loser TV shows.

It's been said we're living in a golden age of television. Maybe we are if you watch FX, AMC, Hulu, Netflix, Amazon, and all the other outliers.  It's just no one's bothered to tell the networks. The network heads still insist on serving up the same horrible crap they've been shoving at us for years. If they keep it up, they're bound to become as extinct as the Inhumans.

I don't like to celebrate failure. As a contributor of entertainment content, I mourn creative failure. So here's to the late, great "Inhumans!" I hoist a terragenesis cocktail toward you, ladies and inhumans!

Not quite as funny as The Inhumans, but I tried:

One click away from pants-wetting ha-ha's.

Donald's Diary

For your perusal this week, I present something very special: a page torn from President Trump's diary. (The cover displays unicorns caught in bear-traps).

I know what you're thinking...how in the world does our President have time to maintain a diary when he's busy tweeting 24-7? Good question. But the facts don't lie.

Here we go...

"Dear Diary:

It's me, Donald. You know, it's really, really, really hard making America great again, but I'm up to the challenge. I'm pretty much super-human, after all. And there are a lot of white, privileged, angry, rich men counting on me.

Stupid checks and balances, bah. Congress keeps trying to stop my rise to greatness. Aided, of course, by liberals, CNN, and the evil vampires from Twilight. Not the good ones, like Robert Pattinson. They're firmly on my side.

Melania says I need to do something fun to cheer up. Maybe I'll declare it open hunting season on baby seals. Or maybe I'll make a reporter cry, that's always good for a couple of laughs.

No, wait, I got it! I'll start World War III, my very own war! That'll be really, really neat. Where's my phone?

Got it! Okay... I need to come up with some new names to call Kim Jong Un... I've already used short, fat, childish, terrorist, and rocket man. I really, really like that last one. How 'bout "Tweedledumbest?" No, wait, got it! "A human egg." Even better, a "Chinese weeble!"

Done. Tweeted and got my finger on the Big, Red Button as I write.

Whew! It's three in the morning and I've had a highly presidential day! Good night, world."

Before President Trump pushes that button, how about a little laughter in your life?

One click away from loads of laughs and action!

Dumbkin

You know what I found out recently? 

My mom won't pay for a can of pumpkin because it costs more than the price of tea in China. 

I know, I don't get it, either. The statement's kinda nonsensical, and I'm pretty sure racist because that's the way Mom rolls.

This doesn't matter.

What matters is I take my mom grocery shopping every week. God love her, Mom has macular degeneration, so she can't see and can't drive. Since it's Thanksgiving, we should all be thankful she's off the streets. Last time she drove, she nearly clipped a crossing guard.

"Well, he shouldn't have been standing in the streets," she said, applying a true Perry Mason defense.

I digress!

So, the holiday season's upon us, and Mom and I go shopping. Fun!

Mom demands pumpkin. That's all she says.

"Mom, I don't even know what that means. You want a pumpkin?"

"Yes!" She vacantly stares at me like I'm the crazy one. "Pumpkin in a can!" Very irritable, she can't believe how pumpkin dumb ("dumbkin?") I am.

"Okay," I say. "Where do I find pumpkin in a can?" Between Mom's outrage at my pumpkin stupidity and my exasperation, people are drawn to the building dust-up in aisle three.

"In the pumpkin aisle," she answers, just short of adding a "duh."

I set off on the great pumpkin quest. I find a can of pumpkin pie filling, bring it back to her.

"No! I need pumpkin!"

Off I go again--too prideful and dumb male to ask for assistance--and finally stumble upon a can of pumpkin. (Until now, I never knew pumpkin came in a can. Some things just shouldn't. Besides you can't carve a can.) 

"Here, Mom. Here's your blood pumpkin." I thrust the can toward her like a badge of honor.

"Huh," she says, her "tell" when things are about to get worse. "How much is it?"

"$2.55," I answer.

She sways her head, disgusted. "Forget it. I'm not gonna pay that for pumpkin. It's more than the price of tea in China."

We've been playing out the pumpkin game for three weeks now, leading up to the holidays.

"Mom! A can of pumpkin's not gonna get any cheaper," I rant.

"Huh. Well, maybe it's cheaper at Price Chopper."

I bite my tongue. Wonder how much gas I'm gonna burn driving twenty-three miles away to the Price Chopper to save Mom three cents on a can of pumpkin. But rest assured, it'll be cheaper than the price of tea in China.

But, lo, on Thanksgiving day, a miracle happened! (Actually, there were two Thanksgiving miracles; instead of pardoning two turkeys, I was absolutely certain President Trump was going to slaughter them on live TV.) Mom's pumpkin pie magically materialized and it was good.

This book's cheaper than the price of tea in China, for sure:

Click here and help sponsor Mom's pumpkin in a can quest!

Physical Therapy Has Gone to the Dogs!

For those of you who've been reading my blog, you know of our travails with our beloved, recently three-legged dog, Zak. 

Four weeks ago, the worst scenario happened. Zak had blown out the ligaments on his remaining back leg, completely unable to walk. Until our appointment with Zak's surgeon to verify what we knew to be the truth, I spent a long, torturous five days saying goodbye to our pet. We didn't--couldn't--put him (or us) through another "iffy" operation. But...sigh...things change and Zak's now going through the long, hard, nerve-wracking road to recovery and rehabilitation again after yet another operation.

Which is why we took him to a doggy physical therapist. I know, right? Physical therapy for dogs, who'd 'a thunk it? But, hey, why not? We've already taken Zak to a doggy dentist and a doggy ophthalmologist. I imagine it's just a matter of time before he finds himself on the doggy psychiatrist couch (if he doesn't chew it up first).

Anyway...in the therapist's waiting room, an assistant drags Zak away. We wait. Finally, the head therapist comes out, grills us, and leads us to our dog. 

We walk around the offices and through this frightening room full of cages. Busy people in all manner of blue and green and white lab coats are toying with the most sinister looking scientific equipment to be found anywhere this side of a Frankenstein film.

I thought, What kinda fresh Hell is this?

As if to answer my question, the therapist invites us into a utilitarian elevator, a grey box, something out of Hellraiser. Old-fashioned and cranky, the elevator drops us down into the bowels of a torturous Hell. I imagine I hear Zak's cries as he's subjected to needles and torches.

The elevator doors crunch open. Again, we weave through a maze of hallways, and finally enter a swinging door depositing us unto the final ring of doggy Hell.

And there lay Zak. Spread out on a mattress as four young women hugged, patted, and cooed at him like concubines attending to their three-legged harem king. The only thing missing were peeled grapes being hand-fed him.

Zak thumped his tail in approval. Stopped when he finally noticed us.

What the...?

This is physical therapy? Sign me up!

After the "Love-In" portion of therapy was completed, the women lowered Zak into an underwater treadmill.  We watched as they enclosed Zak inside a plastic tomb and water started to slowly fill up. Immediately, I thought of Harry Houdini or one of Batman's villain's traps. Then the treadmill started. Aquadog!

Zak's harem of therapists kept reassuring us that our dog would be so tired from his workout, he'd sleep for 24 hours. Hardly. Even with only two good legs, he had more energy than ever that night, ready to chase those damn rabbits outta our yard.

Our dog year continues...

Hey! For the best kind of therapy--laughter!--check out the newest book in my Zach and Zora comic mystery series, Nightmare of Nannies. (See what I did there?)

Clickie to purchase!

The Dumbening...

Sounds like a new, dreadful, direct to SyFy channel horror movie, yeah?

Wrong! It's me waxing not so eloquently on BWL Publishing's release of the goofiest Zach and Zora comic mystery yet (#3 if you're counting), Nightmare of Nannies!

CLICK HERE FOR DANCING THRILLS AND SKATEBOARD SPILLS!

 

The thing is, the book didn't start out to be goofy. No, I had grandiose plans to take the series into a more mature level (uh-huh), have Zach, my nincompoop "male dancing entertainer" protagonist grow in surprising ways (yeah, right).

Sigh. But these books pretty much write themselves.

When I started the book, I wondered what might happen if Zach fell in love (*Gasp!*). How it'd change him, wise him up, ground him in reality outside of a Baywatch fantasy. As a result, he'd be forced to grow up.

After all, it's what his sister, Zora--the no-nonsense sleuth-- would want.

But before you think I'm gettin' all weepy up in here and turning the Zach and Zora series into a Hallmark movie or something, consider the chapter-length foot chase involving Zach, a serial killer van, a kid on a skateboard, a mob, a mariachi band, an irritated bus driver, and of course, Zach's favorite tear-away pants.

Needless to say, Zach's never been one to heed the inevitable call of fate. Murder ensues, bedlam rains down, and silliness floods.

As they say, the road to maturity is pocked with pimples. Or something. 

And speaking of verbose folks, here's what comical mystery writer Heather Brainerd has to say about Nightmare of Nannies:
 
"I’m a big fan of the Zach & Zora series, and this is my favorite so far! Between Zora’s hilarious brood, Zach’s mariachi-fueled chase scene, and the marvelous sibling squabbling between Z & Z, this is a super entertaining read. With a fantastic cast of supporting characters (The hippie parents! The singing detective! Crazy nannies galore!), this book is fast, fun, and full of thrills."

So if you love the book, great! If not, I'm sorry, sorry, sorry, a kazillion times sorry...

(Order the madness by clicking here!)