Castration Fascination!

 

Ouch!

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

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

I looked at her boyfriend who looked at me. 

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

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

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

And OUCH again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Toilet Lid Mind Blower

In our household, the breakdown of duties have been divided up. Having drawn the short straw, I got toilet cleaning detail.

Now admittedly, lately I haven't been as regular at it as I used to do (way back in the days when I had ambition and gumption {whatever that last word is}), but it's just hard to get excited about sticking your head in the toilet and scrubbing.

Years ago, my wife had given me very detailed instructions on how to clean a toilet: "You have to really stick your head inside to see the grime and gross stuff. Then you scrub and scrub and scrub...." She even bought me a special brush to take care of such matters.

It wasn't until later that she hit me with a mind-blower. "You're supposed to take the toilet seat off every time you clean!"

WHAAAAAAAT? I never knew that. Did you guys know that?

She proceeded to show me how it's done. "You twist the two knobs and yank!"

Surely I can't be the only house-husband out there who ever knew that this was a possibility, right?....RIGHT?

Google wasn't much help in aiding in my information gathering and need to feel I'm not alone in my lack of toilet knowledge. "While not all men know to remove the seat for cleaning, it's a recommended practice for ensuring a thorough and hygienic cleaning of the toilet. " Thanks Ms. Google!

I mean, where exactly are you supposed to learn this information? My parents certainly didn't teach me that info. And I sure don't remember ever seeing them remove the toilet seat.

And even though I skipped school quite a bit in my delinquent days, I'm willing to bet that toilet cleaning was never a hot topic.

I swan...I'm STILL capable of learning new stuff.

Speaking of things going down the toilet, be sure and check out my Zach and Zora comical mystery books where it's hard to believe at how low I can stoop for a laugh!

Get 'em here: Shameless Plug!

The Secret To Cutting Good Cheese

 

On occasional weekend nights, my wife and I enjoy dinners of wine and cheese (and not to worry, Mom Patricia! Carrot sticks, too, I promise! We mustn't forget the carrot sticks!).

Recently, we agreed it sounded good for Sunday.

"But," my wife warned, "I'm cutting the cheese. I've never liked the way you cut the cheese."

"What? All of these years and you've never told me that you don't like the way I cut the cheese!"

"Yes, I have."

"What's wrong with my cutting of the cheese, for crying out loud?"

"You cut the pieces way too big and you do too much."

I thought about it, grumbled and groused and finally said, "I'm sorry you don't care for the way I cut the cheese."

We let that one hang in the air like a smelly...well, you know.

Later that night--after I carefully inspected her cheese cutting "prowess"--I remarked, "There's no difference in the way you cut the cheese than the way I cut the cheese!"

"Yes there is."

"No, there's not. These pieces are just as big as mine. I don't know what you're talking about!"

"When you cut the cheese, you always make huge chunks," she said.

"No I don't!"

"Yes, you do."

Before our war on cheese escalated, I said, "I really don't want to argue now. Maybe about in an hour."

She laughed and said, "It's a date!"

But I whispered, "I cut the cheese much better than you do."

Speaking of stinking up the place, check out my Zach and Zora comedy mystery series. Zach, a good-hearted (but very, very dumb) male stripper has the unfortunate luck of stumbling across quite a few murdered bodies. And it's always up to his long-suffering, usually pregnant sleuth sister to bail him out of trouble! Check out the zany hijinks and fun murder mysteries here!

BEHOLD...the Spotted Dick!

Spotted Dick!

Go on. Think about it. Now say it out loud. It's okay. Presumably you're at home while reading my blog, so it's fine to say it out loud. Unless you're killing time, loafing at work. Then it's completely acceptable to whisper it.

Spotted Dick.

See? It's funny! The older I get, the more juvenile my sense of humor becomes. (Clearly what the ubiquitous "they" say about wisdom coming with age haven't met me.)

I've been acquainted with "Spotted Dick" before. When I first read about it in my younger days, I gave it a passing chuckle, then stored it away in my brain's Department of Useless Information, where things lay dormant for a couple of days until completely abandoned.

But before last Christmas, I stumbled across a mention of Spotted Dick again (somewhere...doesn't matter where). The important takeaway is it struck me as extremely funny.

Now, those not acquainted with the notorious "Spotted Dick (and be very thankful you're not)," may believe it to be a peculiar STD, something one might acquire on a less-than-cautious Tinder hookup.

Au contraire! Thanks to the magic of Ms. Google, I learned all about Spotted Dick. For I knew, if I were to get away with bandying the term about at Christmas-time, I'd better be prepared to back it up with knowledge and feigned innocence. Forearmed is forewarned (or "foreskinned is foredicked" or something like that).

It turns out that Spotted Dick is a traditional British steamed pudding, served over the holidays, usually made with suet and dried fruit. Yum. Or...not. Maybe if you're a bird. It just may be the British version of fruitcake. (But I imagine our friends overseas hate fruitcake as well.) 

Anyway, I committed the stuffy definition to memory, preparing to enlighten my family at Christmas, knowing full well that it sounds rather...vulgar. But, hey! I had history to back me up! What's the fuss, Gus?

I did manage to rope in one of my nephews to join in the hilarity by dropping "Spotted Dick" at every opportunity, and it warmed my juvenile heart seeing him explain to GMa: "What? It's a traditional British steamed pudding." Even my bro-in-law joined in the merriment until he finally put the kibosh on it.

But it got me thinking...why in the world would someone name a pudding "Spotted Dick?" 

My imagination drew me back to a loo (that's British for bathroom, yanks!), where the conversation unfolded like this...

"Ouch! Ugh! Arrrrrr..."

"What's the matter, Harry?"

"I dunno, mate. It stings when I urinate."

"Hmmm. Let me take a look."

"Okay. Here..."

"Blimey! Harry, that looks like my Mum's holiday pudding! I think you've got a case of..."

Spotted Dick! Hahahahahahahahaha...

Of course, further research shows that "spotted" comes from the dried fruit (raisins, etc.) in the pudding. And back in the day, "dick" sometimes referred to plain pudding, perhaps related to the word "dough."

Naturally I'm not the only wisenheimer to run at the mouth about the joy of the Spotted Dick moniker. Throughout time, someone proclaimed it a "manly type of pudding," clearly running with the double entendre. Even the press jumped in on the fun: in 1892, the Pall Mall Gazette ran a story proclaiming "the Kilburn sisters satisfied hundreds of dockers with soup and Spotted Dick." I'll bet they did (snicker). Surely, by this time, EVERYONE was in on the joke.

Even within the hallowed halls of the Houses of Parliament, the restaurant staff took it upon themselves to rename the pudding "Spotted Richard." I rest my case!

So during the next holiday season, join in the fun! Wow your Grandma with your knowledge of a traditional holiday British steamed pudding! Impress your aunt and uncle with how worldly you are about British treasured foods! Astound your visiting clergy person with great tales of an overseas culinary confection! But mostly, relish the opportunity to use the term "Spotted Dick" as many times as you can possibly get away with!

Yes, since I won't allow myself to write about our disastrous and shameful current White House administration, I'm reduced to blogging about Spotted Dick jokes. You're welcome!

If you enjoyed that dip into juvenilia, surely you'll get a bang out of my Zach and Zora comical murder mystery series. The title alone of the first book, Bad Day in a Banana Hammock, should alert you to the high-brow sophistication and enlightenment that can be yours here. Again...you're welcome!

Pink Eye Romance

I think we can all agree that "Pink Eye" is one of the worst ailments that can befall someone. Especially when you're younger. You may as well be wearing a huge-ass scarlet letter over your eye or the mark of Cain. Watch people avoid you at all costs, crossing the street to get away. I mean, it's not like an STD. No, those people are lucky and can hide their ailments within pants.

Not only is pink eye extremely irritable and annoying, it's just flat-out ugly and gross. (Just ask my daughter; once she had to wear an eyepatch to an outdoor concert.) And God help the hapless kid who becomes afflicted by the pink curse while in high school.

No one wants to be near you when you've got pink eye. Just one of life's harsher facts.

Now let's jump into the Way-Back Machine and travel back to my wild and wooly bachelor days full of non-stop fun and partying and nary a single adult care to get in my way. There. We're here! Did you have a pleasant trip?

But what's this? Oh nooooooo! Poor Stuart has pink eye!

And with just two days until he and his friends' big party at the Berdella house (okay...it wasn't really the "Berdella house" but my good friend--host of the party--lived one block away from notorious Kansas City serial killer Bob Berdella. The more you know!).

What was poor Stuart to do? He'd already invited a girl that he'd had romantic dalliances with during college. But with his eye all swollen and watery and itchy and redder than an angry sunset, he couldn't possibly attempt to kiss said girl.

So Stuart groused and grumbled until the big day of the party. When his guest showed up that night, he noticed she had a long lock of blonde hair uncharacteristically swooped over one eye.

"Hey," Stuart said, "You might want to keep your distance from me 'cause I got pink eye."

Suddenly, she swooped back her hair exposing a swollen, watery, itchy, and redder than an orangutan's bottom, eye. 

Celestial trumpets sounded! Clouds parted! Somewhere dogs and cats hugged it out! 

Stuart had no choice but to grab the girl and kiss her.

Thus began the Summer of pink eye romance.

It's as they say, "God loves a fool with pink eye." (Or maybe I've got that quote wrong...)

Now that I'm in a silly, kinda pink eye mood, I may as well plug my shameless Zach and Zora comical mystery series. Take one stupid male stripper, mix with his usually pregnant, bright sleuth sister, and stir into a murder mystery with nutty characters, thrills, spills, suspense, and embarrassing humor and you have the Zach and Zora series! Don't be left out in the cold! Check out what all the cool kids are reading here!

Dick Swing, Auto Mechanic

Okay, before everyone with prurient tastes believes this to be a post tailor-made for them, you'll be better off reading Penthouse forum letters (is that still a thing?). No, this is a tale of holiday joy! Kinda. Sorta. Nah, I lied...

Before the holidays, I had purchased a Christmas-themed blu ray featuring the atrocious 60's Christmas kiddie film, Santa Claus Conquers the Martians (I DON'T want to talk about it!). But the true reason I made this unholy purchase was the holiday-oriented ephemera including trailers, drive-in ads, short films, cartoons, and celebrity "buy war bonds" plugs.

The really, really weird part was the local cinema sponsor listings. You know, things like "Balllyhoo Theatre encourages you to buy your fine suits from Ed Gein, Tailor," and "After the show, eat at Sloppy Joe's Diner where it don't matter how dirty the plates is, it's the food what counts."

Well. I made the last two up, but you get the drift. But the one (this one factual) that really made our jaws drop was..."Stop by your local automobile mechanic, Dick Swing."

Gee. Mr. Swing either had a very, very traumatic childhood or enjoyed a very active sexual life. Maybe both.

Can you imagine going through life with a name like "Dick Swing?" Even though this was back in the 50's, I imagine his customers were giggling when he handed out his business cards. In fact, cavemen would've probably found vast amusement in this guy's name and grunted themselves silly.

Did poor Dick not have any friends? "Uh, listen...Dick...have you ever considered using your full-length...um, let me rephrase that...your real name, Richard, instead of Dick? For professional purposes?"

"Why...no. Why would I?" replied the oblivious Dick Swing.

At the DMV, they'd call his name out: "Swing? Dick SWING?"

Laughter would roll through the crowd like a sporting event wave. The guy at the desk would shake his head and say, "C'mon...are you puttin' one over on me, pal? What's your real name?"

And how did he introduce himself to women? "Hey, baby, I'm Dick Swing, master of tools. Come down to my garage and I'll look under your hood and--"

SMAK!

Or maybe he took the sophisticated James Bond  approach: "Swing. Dick Swing. I like it stirred not shaken."

SWAK!

Poor Dick must've been slapped so many times and never knew why.

These are the things that keep me up at night. (And sorry, sorry, sorry for this week's post. Yes, it's come down to "Dick jokes." Dick Swing, that is. SMACK!)

Speaking of juvenile humor, things don't get much more fifth grade level than my Zach and Zora comical mystery series about a dunderheaded male stripper and his poor suffering sleuth sister. Read all the books, laugh at the ridiculous characters and situations, thrill at the suspense and mystery, then pay penance for reading them with your local priest or pastor later. Check 'em out here!

Illness Intelligence Quotient

As I write this, I'm on my seventeenth day of sickness. No, no, it's not because of the nauseating outcome of the election (that's an entirely different illness), but it's the same ol', same ol' sickness I've suffered since childhood.

I could easily self-diagnose myself and write my own prescription (I hope my wife's not reading this!). The symptoms are always the same: it starts with a sore throat (or a better description would be a "thick throat," the kind where it feels like your esophagus has narrowed with a wall of mucous closing in, sorta like how Custer probably felt on his "last stand"); then it migrates into my chest where it causes a hellish cough that lasts and lasts, producing a sorta devil-possessed, Linda Blair voice; alongside this--if I'm lucky--all sorts of pretty phlegm of the lemon-lime rainbow sort will be hacked up; and finally, the last symptom: rampant stupidity.

Okay, that last indicator was recently diagnosed by my wife, a medical professional. She laughed at me and said, "You know, when you get sick, you turn into an idiot."

Blink. Blinkity-blink. Whaaaaaa? 

If my brain had been functioning properly, I might've taken offense. But later evidence proved her right (Why does she ALWAYS have to be right???).

For instance, in vain, I reached out to my primary care provider to see if she would prescribe an antibiotic for me without being seen. As I'd said, this routine always goes the same for me: four days of thick throat, followed by respiratory infection and an earthquake-shaking cough. Her nurse basically told me, "You've gotta be kidding me."

I told my wife what I had done and she said, "Duh! Don't be an idiot." Let the evidence speak for itself, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. But it gets worse.

Then I told her, "the nurse suggested I could do a viral assessment."

At this point, my wife proclaimed my Illness Intelligence Quotient (IIQ) was extremely low.

I couldn't really disagree with her findings. I mean, anything viral was the last thing I needed, how I got into this mess in the first place.

"You mean a 'virtual' assessment," she said, laughing and shaking her head.

Later, when she came down with the same illness (who's laughing now, smarty-pants? Ahem!). I asked her, "are you still going for your haircut?"

She said, "yes, but I'll wear a mask."

Then I said, "are you still going for your haircut?"

"You JUST asked me that!"

"I did? What was your answer?"

Clearly, my wife's IIQ is higher than mine.

Anyway, flash forward to two weeks and some change later, when I finally managed to set up a "virtual" assessment and whaddaya know? The nurse practitioner prescribed me an antibiotic. DUH! It's what I said over two weeks ago!

Maybe my IIQ isn't as low as initially assessed. Nahhhh.

Speaking of idiots, check out my Zach and Zora comical mystery series, starting with Bad Day in a Banana Hammock. Therein, you'll find more madcap mystery, murder, mayhem, and the biggest idiot to ever headline a book series (alongside his capable, usually pregnant, very exasperated sleuth sister), then you'll ever want to read again. (Trust me on that. No, I really mean it...this series will make you NEVER want to read another book. I'm not proud of it, just stating the sorry facts.)

Attack of the Brain Cloud...

...or the Revenge of Joe and the Volcano. 

The other day my wife and I were discussing (i.e., arguing; hey, it's our hobby!) about the different ways we handle sleeplessness.

I told her, "when you don't sleep well, you thrive on it."

She disagreed. "Hardly! I don't 'thrive'. I make do and manage."

"Still seems like thriving to me," I muttered. "But when I can't sleep, it's like...a brain cloud lowers down on me."

"First of all, there's no such thing as a 'brain cloud,'" she said. 

"Yes, there is," I insisted. "I might've made it up, but it's very, very real."

"It came from a movie," she said authoritatively.

Humph. Anyone who knows me knows that I have a head jam-packed with worthless and pointless knowledge of movies (which when you come right down to it, probably wouldn't make me a very important and necessary component in the survivor camps during our impending zombie apocalypse.).

But...but...my wife stumped me on this one. "I know of no such movie," I statedtriumphantly. "What movie, pray tell, do you speak of?"

Immediately, she whips out, "Joe and the Volcano."

Silence. Blink. Crickets. More silence. Blinkety-blinky-blink.

"JOE AND THE VOLCANO?" I roar. "Who remembers friggin' Joe and the Volcano? I mean, I kinda think I've seen it, but don't remember anything about it except that it was painfully unfunny and terrible."

"Yes, it was. But that's where 'brain cloud' came from."

Wow. She stymied the Movie Master. This is made more incredible by the fact that at times my wife can't remember the movie we watched last weekend, let alone some obscure 34-year-old bomb  that NO ONE remembers like Joe and the Volcano.

But sure enough, according to Ms. Google, my wife was right (dammit! Gettin' kinda old!). Apparently, Tom Hanks character was diagnosed with an incurable deadly disease known as "brain cloud" which will kill him in several months.

However, Wiktionary (a very, very, VERY credible source, of course) refers to "Brain Cloud" as a very real ailment that causes "the temporary inability to think properly." Other scientists and psychologists refer to it as a nickname for the clouding of consciousness. There's a LOT more boring stuff about this insidious disease that I won't bother you with, but the most stunning aspect of it all is finally--FINALLY!--Joe and the Volcano will be remembered as something other than a terrible bomb and actually contributed to the field of science.

Speaking of really dumb and stupid things, look no further than my Zach and Zora comedy mystery series. If imbecilic humor and outrageous situations and decidedly impolitically correct comedy and  cool murder mysteries are your bag, have a read! Start with Bad Day in a Banana Hammock and spiral on downwards from there! Plus! A brand spankin' new book in the series coming to you some time this century!

Rachel Maddow: Hot or Not?

In this current time of crazy political upheaval and even crazier politicians, I think it's time to seriously address a burning topical issue: Is Rachel Maddow a hottie or a nottie?

Personally, I think she's kinda hot. Recently, I had one friend who agreed with me, although he downgraded "hot" to "cute."

Even more recently, I made the mistake of blurting it out in a bar to my brother, his daughters, and a friend.

Emboldened by beer, I said, "Is it just me? Or is Rachel Maddow hot?"

Silence. Than disbelief. My brother shook his head in abject disappointment in me than started laughing. "It's just you."

One of my nieces was laughing, too, and said, "She's soooooo gay."

I answered, "I know that! But it doesn't stop how I think she looks."

I pulled up the most attractive picture I could find on my phone. I showed it to my other niece who just shook her head.

My brother faked a "WOW!"

The friend with us was slightly supportive. "Well...she's an attractive woman. But...'hot?' No!"

Hanging my head in shame, I started backpedaling. "Maybe...maybe I'm just attracted to her liberal firebrand journalistic warrior-hood."

That ploy didn't seem to work. As the derisive laughter and ludicrous--and admittedly sexist--discussion rose in volume, people started looking at us. And eavesdropping. More shakes of the head at my "Hotometer" being broken.

My brother says, "Do you also think Billie Jean King is hot?"

And of course, my nieces start googling her.

Deciding to try and save face, I tried to be a good sport. "Oh, YEAH! Hotcha!"

Then my brother starts dropping other names. "You think Jane Lynch is hot? Carol Burnett? How about Carol Burnett?"

I don't know where or why he pulled out Carol Burnett, but I played along until the joke (on me) had died down.

I finally mumbled, "I've always liked that short, cute, spiky-haired, punkish look." Which is true as I've always liked my wife's hair the shorter she keeps it.

Seriously, though, I do find Rachel Maddow to be attractive (maybe I, too, will downgrade from the rude and sexist "hot"), regardless of her own sexuality. But more importantly, it's what she stands for that I like: a serious-minded, left-wing leaning journalist who's needed these days when compared to the lying so-called "newscasters" who make up "stories" to suit their political leanings and fleece their viewers. You KNOW who I'm talking about and they're definitely NOT HOT.

Speaking of "hotness" and giving fair time to the other sex, Zach Cavanaugh, a male stripper (but don't call him that!), thinks he is the male definition of hot. Hot or not, he's about as dumb as a box of rocks. And he keeps finding himself wrongly implicated in some bizarre murders. It always falls on his long-suffering, usually pregnant, competent sleuth sister to bail him out of trouble by finding the real murderers. Check out the Zach and Zora comical murder mystery series here: Bad Day in a Banana Hammock!

I Had Too Much To Dream Last Night

So I had just fallen asleep. Dreamland whisked me away to an impossible, yet all too real at the time, nightmare scenario.

My boss (from a mysterious, unremembered job) signed me up to box Donald Trump. Having no say in the matter, I dreaded the event until the day of, when I suddenly realized I didn't even know where the venue was or what time I was to show up (pretty typical "dream logic" for me). Finally, some ex-co-worker from my last job (NEVER liked the guy) told me it was at a "Home and Garden Show" in downtown Kansas City.

So I showed up in a suit with hard, pointy dress shoes. The panicked small Asian guy who was in charge of the event asked, "Where are your boxing clothes?"

I pointed to my suit and said, "Ahhhh...this is all I have. Nobody told me anything."

The event was being promoted everywhere and I felt like the entire future of the country was weighing on my shoulders to beat the former president in the boxing ring. I worried that I was so out-of-shape now, that Trump might pummel me. Worse, I dreaded his inevitable name-calling, doxing, and bullying.

I'll never know how I fared in the battle as I woke up in a fevered sweat. With boxing gloves next to my bed. (Okay, I made up that last part because I thought it was post-ironic funny. Take that, hipsters!).

Now. What's my dream mean? I could posit some armchair, pop Freudian symbolism about how Trump represents a danger to the country and I feel threatened by him, but I'm not going to go there. (Although I just kinda went there anyway, didn't I?). Or perhaps it had to do with Trump's latest grift in a long line of griftiness, where if you buy ten of his NFT cards (only $100 bucks each!), you'll get a piece of his "knockout suit" to go with it! Wow! Bargain! (I wonder if Monica Lewinsky is selling pieces of her notorious dress. Ew. Sorry, sorry, sorry...). Or maybe it's the fact that this crazy felon is STILL dominating news headlines four years after he left the White House in shame.

I'll leave it up to you guys to decipher the deeper meaning of it all, although I'll leave you with one message: GO KAMALA!

For more nonsense, check out my Zach and Zora comical mystery series. Start with Bad Day in a Banana Hammock and unravel the wacky excitement from there!

The Girding of the Loins

I girded my loins (and what does that even mean? Hang on a minute while I ask my research assistant, Ms. Google... Ah! It means "to prepare to do something dangerous or difficult." Going back further, apparently it is of biblical origin: in the ancient Orient, long, loose garments had to be hitched up to avoid tripping. Furthermore, in the Bible, a "loin" is a part of the body that needs to be covered with clothing. So...I suppose it means covering up your privates? I'm still unclear.  Apologies for digressing all over the place...)

So...where was I? Okay, there I was girding my loins, waiting for my wife to come home. It was going to be grueling as I had a terrible, deep, dark confession regarding something I had done that day. So I girded. Girded my loins like the wind.

The girding came to an abrupt stop as I heard her car pull into the driveway. My loins shriveled up, all of the pre-girding in the world just flown out the window. 

The door opened and any thoughts of more power girding went the way of disco.

"Hi honey," I blurted out in a rush as she stepped inside. "How was your day? I have a deep, dark confession to make!"

She went through her routine of putting things down, saying hello to the dogs, and then she approached me.

Dread written all over her face, she asked, "What'd you do?"

"Um...you know that stupid game I play on my phone? You know, where I accidentally keep killing the King? 'Royal Match?' That one?"

"What'd you do?"

"I...ah...that is...um,,, now don't hate me and it really wasn't my fault. It was almost an accident. Yeah! Kinda an accident! So, you see...I've been stuck on the same level for about five days with no way out and...um...you see...I-paid-$2.99-for-some-extra-coins-to-get-outta-that-level!"

She gasped, a long wheeze drawn out for comical effect. I thought, hey, if she's going for comedy, I'm in the clear! For you see, we've had an unspoken pact between us that we would never pay for games. In fact, we never understood those who do throw their money away on games. But...hardcore addiction is a terrible thing.

"That's something we don't do," she said. "Shame on you! Bad Stuart, bad!"

So, like a dog with his tail between his legs, I whimpered some more lame excuses, and quickly retreated to the dog house where I had been banished.

But I'd learned my lesson... Although, come to think of it...I'm kinda stuck again in the game, so...where's that credit card?

Speaking of boneheaded moves, have you heard about Zach, the bone-headed stripper (sorry...make that "male entertainment dancer") who continues to stumble across dead bodies? Yeah, and it's always up to his beleaguered, short-tempered, usually pregnant sleuth sister Zora to bail him out of trouble by finding the real murderer! The fun starts in Bad Day in a Banana Hammock available here and continues on in two more books. (And hopefully, soon a fourth book if I ever get off my duff and finish it!).

Stupid Little Snappy Things

In our house, changing the bed sheets is a Herculean task. The bed frame is an incredibly awkward, large boxy thing that's nearly impossible to get your fingers into and the mattress weighs a ton. Yet my wife insists on making it even tougher.

"Honey, do we have to put on those stupid little snappy things?" I whined.

"Yes, yes we do."

"Ohhhh, I really hate putting on the stupid little snappy things."

The stupid little snappy things are like miniature suspenders, supposedly easy to snap onto the under-corners of the sheets to hold them in place. Emphasis on the "supposedly easy."

"But...but...we really don't need the stupid little snappy things!" I carried on with my whining roll. "I can't get my fingers between the frame to put the stupid little snappy things on! And...and...the stupid little snappy things don't work anyway." It was a last-ditch desperate ploy that probably wouldn't hold up under scrutiny.

"The stupid little snappy things do work. They're going on."

"But...but...but...I hate those stupid little snappy things!"

My wife volleyed with an out-of-orbit eyeroll. "Fine. I'll put on the stupid little snappy things." As an afterthought, she added, "And for God's sake, quit calling them stupid little snappy things!"

"But that's what they are and--"

"It's not even accurate."

"Well...what would you call them?"

"NOT stupid little snappy things."

This went on for another hour...

Speaking of ludicrous conversations, the preceding one is nothing compared to those between Zach, a bone-headed male stripper, and Zora, his beleaguered, often pregnant sleuth sister. Join in the out-of-control wacky antics and suspenseful mystery in the Zach and Zora books available here.

Big-Ass Bustle

We were watching a TV show set in the late 1800's and after awhile, I'd had enough. Every "high society" woman had one of those goofy looking dresses that made their asses look huge.

"Honey," I said, "what's with the big-ass dresses? What're those called?"

With an eyeroll that threatened to eclipse me, my wife replied, "bustles."

"Okay. But what's the point of them? I mean...surely they have to realize they're not really flattering. And how do they sit in them? Why? Tell me why they existed!"

For once, my wife didn't have the answer (she mumbled something about bustles being a status symbol amongst high society women and it was the trend of the day and...and I quit listening and headed to Google.).

The answers I found varied. Ms. Google said that bustles were wire frames that were used to support the drapery of the ginormous dresses women wore, to prevent the material from dragging. Here's an idea, old-timey ladies: how about don't wear drapes and then you can forego the bustle. I mean, honestly.

Another answer was that women liked bustles because it kept the material from gathering between their legs, sort of a "gilded age" wedgie, if you will. This makes more sense to me. But, still...wouldn't it have been easier to just adjust your self instead of trying to sit in a giant, wire hula hoop?

Here's where things get interesting...the origins of the bustle can be linked to Sarah Bartman, a South African woman who suffered from a condition called Steatopygia. What is that, I hear you asking? Why, Steatopygia is an abundance of tissue on the thighs and buttocks!

Certain European exploiters paraded poor Bartman around as a "circus attraction." The bustle was created to achieve this look, for Gawd's sake. Now. You hear that, old-time women? About the circus "freak" part? Why would anyone want to emulate that?

A bustle was also supposed to make a woman's waist appear smaller. Huh. Clearly they didn't have diets back in the day.

I had kinda thought that maybe one of the reasons for the bustle was so that men couldn't ogle women's bottoms. But that's just the seven-year-old boy in me and Ms. Google couldn't confirm my hypothesis.

With the advent of the new creation--"the bicycle"--women began to come to their senses and abandoned the ol' bustle.

Everything that goes around eventually comes back again. Or something. So, ladies, are you ready for the bustle to make a comeback? Not to be sexist, though. Maybe they'll create padding for the front of men's pants. And call it a "penistle."

Do the Bustle!

And on that very high note of sophisticated and mature humor, I may as well keep it going and pimp my Zach and Zora humorous mystery series. They make the above blog post look like the work of a Rhodes Scholar. The first book in the series is called Bad Day in a Banana Hammock (so THAT should give you some idea of the level of comedy involved!).

Ol' Dry Eyes

Just when I think I've hit the wall on my body betraying me in myriad forms (the horrific price of aging), my eyes start freaking out on me. I'm not just talking about the new floaters (which always look like bats swooping just outside the line of my peripheral vision), no-siree-bob-cat-tail! Now I've been diagnosed with "dry eyes."

Which seems to me to be a misnomer. My eyes won't stop tearing up, so how in the world can my newest ailment be called dry eyes? I'd think "swampy eyes" would be a more apt description.

For instance, last week when I went to the grocery store, floods were gushing from my eyes. By the time I got to the check-out, the clerk was giving me a funny look (with her perfectly normal dry eyes). Surely, she must've thought I'd had one of the saddest encounters in the produce section that any man had ever suffered. Or I was just bawling because the prices were so high.

I've tried eyedrops, over the counter and prescription (even the pharm tech commented "those are some damned expensive eyedrops!"), and none of them have helped much. Oh sure, it's a temporary salve, but just minutes later, I'm "hitting the bottle" again, singlehandedly keeping the eyedrop industry in business. (And at $135 dollars for a tiny vial, you'd think the drops would last longer than five minutes.)

Out of desperation, I told the pharmacist of my dilemma. "I had that same thing," she said. "They ended up cauterizing my tear ducts. Worst pain I've ever felt."

On that hopeful note, I visited my optometrist. "Doc," I said, "you've gotta help me! I walk around looking like I've just seen Bambi's mother die!" With great reluctance, I added, "My pharmacist said they burned her tear ducts." (For some reason, I couldn't grasp the word "cauterized" at this moment of near panic.)

The doc looked at me, perplexed. "Well...how about I put temporary plugs into your tear ducts and we'll see if that works. It's a lot less final than cauterization."

First, I thought why in the hell didn't you tell me you could do this before I spent $135 bucks on a tiny bottle of worthless eyedrops? Next, I thought this sounds tantamount to torture.

"How invasive is the procedure, doc?" I asked, attempting to swallow the golf ball lodged in my throat.

She shook her head. "Ah, it's nothing, nothing at all."

Several minutes later, I've got my chin and head strapped into a torture rack while she takes out extremely long--and terrifying--tweezers, attempting to grasp miniscule plugs. Now, I don't know about you, but to me, eye surgery is the scariest sort of procedure I can think of. And when I see tweezers growing, growing, growing in size and moving closer to my eye, I start to panic.

"Um, doc, maybe I think I'll change my miAIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEnd!"

"There," she says, "one down, one to go."

With the eye she'd just put the plug in weeping profusely (not giving me much hope), I considered making a fast getaway. If I can swing her magnifying torture machine gizmo around to smack her, I'd be able to feign right, jag left, and bolt for the door. Yeah, that's my plan and I'm going to...

"Hold still, this won't hurt at all."

"No, no, no, no, Doc, I, ahhhh, forgot I have a very important appAIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEtment!"

The doc sat back, sighed, clearly just as happy to be finished with the grueling procedure as I was. In a snarky voice (maybe meant to imitate me), she said, "There, Stuart...the torture is over." The accompanying finger quotes she used told me that she'd obviously never had the process done to her.

As I left, my eyes squirting oceans, the check-out gals had the gall to ask me for payment. This time the tears were real once I saw the cost.

Speaking of big man-babies, you oughta get a load of Zach Caulfield, male entertainment dancer (not a "male stripper," thank you very much). This guy's heart is in the right place, but his general motivations in life are strictly on a third-grader's level. So, when he constantly finds himself stumbling over dead bodies, it always falls on his competent, usually pregnant, highly exasperated sleuth of a sister to bail him out of trouble by finding the real murderers. Read the wacky mystery adventures of Zach and Zora available here!

"Just Like We Drew It Up!"

Well, the super bowl has come and gone and my hometown guys, the Kansas City Chiefs (nearly miraculously) won at the last minute.

That was pretty cool, but my favorite part of the super bowl was this tweet following the game...

Ha ha ha ha ha haaaaaaa! Take that, conspiracy crazies!

For a little background, check out my Taylor Swift conspiracy theory post from a while back. Go on. I'll still be here when you get back.

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!)

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.

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.)

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.

C'mon, people! I'll take 81 years of doddering experience any day over 91 criminal charges. It's not rocket science.

Don't make me come over there.

Speaking of idiots, check out my Zach and Zora comic mystery series of books 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, Massacre of Mustaches!

The Trap (and Welcome To It)!

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.

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!"

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.

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.) 

But how is "waking up" a trap?

Let's break it down...

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. 

 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).

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."

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.

"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?"

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.

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.

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.)

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.

I'm telling you, avoid the trap, heed my daughter's sage advice! Just get used to your parents' basement, you can adapt.

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, Bad Day in a Banana Hammock 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! Get 'em here!