The Royalty of Weird

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

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

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

"Have you seen my underwear?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Phantom Poop

I know it's a little early for a spooky Halloween tale, y'all, but I just had to get this off my mind. (And it IS Friday, the 13th, after all. BOO!)

Our newest dog, the puppy Biscuit, has regressed and started pooping in the house. Oh, sure, when we first adopted him, he was on his best behavior and didn't make messes in the house. But after he knew he had us hooked, and that there was no going back, he's letting it rip. Just to show us who's boss.

While we're trying to curb this gross behavior, my olfactory senses are on high alert. At times, I'll suddenly say to my wife, "Uh-oh, I smell poop."

So we'll make the rounds, checking his favorite places to go (always hidden pretty well, so don't tell me he doesn't know it's a no-no!), and the last time our mission to find poop had proven fruitless (or "poopless," if you will), my wife said, "You're smelling phantom poop."

"Phantom poop?" I asked. "Is that really a thing? Sounds like a cheesy Japanese school-girl horror film."

"Yes, look it up."

So, with the aid of my trusted research assistant, Ms. Google, I did just that. The results may well shock you!

Apparently, people love to talk about phantom poop (or ghost poop) online. A lot! Undoubtedly, from their mothers' basements.

According to social media experts (get a life, guys!) and gastroenterologists (get a less glamourous job, guys!!), phantom poops refer to the following bowel-related phenomena:

*Thinking you need to poop, but it's only gas;

*A poop that sinks to the bottom of the toilet and disappears (ooooooh, spooky!);

*A poop that leaves no trace on toilet paper after wiping (Quick! Call an exorcist!).

Okay, first of all, I never knew pooping had so much unexplained phenomenon behind it (I never saw the subject matter pop up on all of those "Unexplained Mystery" syndicated shows). Second, how does a person end up researching and studying poop? Do they have a Master's in Poopology? ("Professor, for my thesis, I'd like to present several theories--and test them--on how peanuts end up in poop, even when you haven't eaten them.") Third, while these "phantom poop" symptoms aren't really pertinent to our doggy issue, it's made me think a LOT about the frightening and supernatural world of poop. And finally, while I don't even pretend to understand the complex, intricate, paranormal world of pooping, there's one thing that's absolutely factual to me: Raquel Welch never, never, never, EVER pooped.

Regardless, there's an AWFUL lot of chatter on the intronets about phantom poops. I should know, I read a lot of it, preparing for future sparkling and witty conversation at our next dinner party. 

Speaking of embarrassing things, pity poor Wendell, protagonist of my comical thriller, Chili Run. Bad guys force him to run across a crowded Kansas City downtown to fetch a bowl of chili. In his tighty-whities (or it that "tidy-whities?" I dunno, it's quite the raging controversy) underwear. Or they're going to kill his brother. It's complicated. Read the outrageous, and hopefully funny, non-stop suspense in Chili Run.

When Angels Die...

My wife and I were enjoying a sparring match of words and wits. So what else is new?

"Every time you get in a mood to do outside work, you never leave me a clear path in the garage to get the trash/recycling bins out," I said. (Side note: I don't think we've had a car in the garage since we were married. It's a place to store junk when there's no more room in the house or basement. Or Hell.)

"Well..." she rebounded, "...every time you help me with a project, I have to clean up after you."

"That's simply not true," I objected.

"Ha! Oh yes it is!"

"No, it's not," I calmly stated. "Because I don't help much with your projects any more. My back and knees, you know." (My go-to "get-out-of-jail-free" card.)

"And every time you cook," she continued, "I spend an inordinate amount of time cleaning up the mess after you," she fearlessly lobbed back at me.

"Yeah? Well, every time you go shopping, our living room looks like an Amazon warehouse," I countered.

"Fine," she said, "but every time you open stuff, you leave your trash laying on the counter or a table."

Hmmm. I have to admit, she had me there. But I ain't nothin' if not an underdog and who doesn't love a come-back? I thought long and hard and came up with this non-sequitur gem of Trumpian proportions: "Well...every time you kvetch at me, an angel dies!"

Case closed, another win!

Speaking of total nonsense, check out my comic thriller, Chili Run. Beyond the rather *ahem* disturbing title, it's based on a dream I had where I was forced by bad guys to run across downtown Kansas City to retrieve a bowl of chili. Naturally, in nothing but my tighty-whities, a recurring nightmare that  a lot of guys are familiar with. You can find Chili Run here, the perfect thriller for the reader on the go.

Adventures in the Amazon Day Four: On the trail of the elusive Rubio Cerveza!

Poisonous as it is purty.

On our Amazon trip, we saw monkeys (thieving lil' b@$+@*ds!), manatees, toucans (just like on the Fruit Loops box!), parrots, jungle squirrels, poisonous frogs (and, dang, if they ain't pretty!), piranha, caiman, alligators, thumb-sized flesh-eating ants, ducks, 600 species of catfish (okay, not really, but that's pretty much the number of breeds they have in the Amazon), sloths, a fleeting glimpse of a pygmy monkey, gorgeous butterflies and birds, vultures, a pig (pet or breakfast? YOU decide!), horses, cows, spiders, and an ugly American at the airport.

Yet, there was one thing that eluded me, a creature so rare, so hard to find that I spent a great portion of our trip hunting down this most mysterious of beasts: I'm speaking, of course, of the hard to pin down Cusquena Rubio Cerveza!

The rarest of rare Peruvian finds!

So join me, steadfast travelers, as I'm in hot pursuit of the mythical creature known as...Rubio Cerveza.

Known by many, but drunk by only the very privileged few, I first caught wind of the intangible Rubio in our hotel restaurant. There I caught a brief peep at my wily prey. So dehydrated, I could drink Peruvian tap water, the Cusquena Rubio Cerveza caught my eye and captured my heart.

I ordered. And waited.

After 45 minutes, the waiter--everyone's on "Peruvian Time" which  basically means time just simply doesn't matter in Peru--brought me out a bottle of cerveza. Cold? Si! Cusquena? Si! Rubio? No.

I held the bottle, stared dumbly at the Negra label. Oh well, something must've been lost in translation, didn't matter. I downed it in several gulps. Bueno! But not Rubio. 

The next night--at the Espresso Cafe in Iquitos--the wily Rubio crossed my path again. Excited, the menu trembled in my hands as I spotted the item under cervezas. My hand, slick with sweat, caressed the plastic overlay on the menu. My tongue ran over my sun-licked lips in anticipation. With a shaky voice, I ordered.

Later, the waiter came back , said, "I'm sorry, we're out of Rubio."

Foiled again!

But success awaited me in the heart of the jungle, I just knew it! After we finally arrived at the Heliconia Lodge, just off the Amazon River, I headed for the bar at the center of the compound. Lo and behold, a bottle of Rubio rested on the mantle along with three other types of Cusquena beer!

Yes! I'd bagged the creature, suitable for mounting on my wall back in safe, civilized Kansas! Knowing that the hunt had come to a successful end, I rejoined our group, assuming I'd be able to enjoy the fruit (and hops) of victory later.

Tragically, later that night, those hopes were dashed, shattered like a bottle of Rubio against a ship's hull. The mysterious Rubio bottle had vanished from the shelf. Noooooooooo!

Undeterred, I ordered one anyway. This is what I received:

A friggin' Trigo, aka a wheat beer. Cursing, I slammed it anyway.

Once back in the States, I'm still hunting for the ever obscure Cusquena Rubio Cerveza. No luck so far.

But it will be mine one of these days. Oh yes, it will.

Hey, that reminds me of another challenging hunt! In my comedic thriller, Chili Run, the protagonist, Wendell Worthy is on the hunt for the perfect bowl of chili, his brother's life on the line if he doesn't come back in time with the food. In his underwear. It's complicated. See just how complicated by clicking on through! 

Take out or die!

Naked? WHAT was God thinking?

"Do these clothes make me look fat?"

A question I asked my wife recently.

Of course the real answer would be, "No, your clothes don't make you look fat. You are fat." Thank God my wife knows how to choose her words carefully.

I don't know how it happened. Or when it happened. But, last year, I came across a photo that showed me stuffed into a sweater like a tightly packed sausage. Yow!

YAH! That CAN'T be me! Right? RIGHT?

The scales lied, claiming I rang in just under 300 pounds. No way! How come I never saw this in the mirror? Surely, we bought our mirror from the local carnival fun-house!

So, my wife stuck me on a hellish diet. Thus far I've lost sixty pounds with another twenty-five to go. Ye gads.

There's good news and there's bad news. 

I've been exercising like crazy. So crazy one of my knees wants to pack it in and my back hates the act of standing and walking now. 

Clothes no longer fit. "Look, honey," I said to my wife while parading around in an old sweater, "this sweater somehow got longer."

"Yeah, that's not what happened."  (Okay, sometimes my wife does ignore her inner censor.)

The other down side to losing weight is I have to go clothes shopping. I'd rather have root canal surgery than try on clothes. In the past, I'd just pick something up off the rack I thought might fit and go with it.

"And that's why none of your clothes fit right," says my wise wife. "Ever."

The problem is I'm still a work in progress. So we can't get a ton of clothes that currently fit. Which sucks because in three more months it's back to trying clothes on. Ugh. Still, it'll be nice to have jeans that don't, you know, fall down around my ankles when I walk.

So I've lost sixty pounds. That's good. The clothes we bought look pretty snazzy. That's great. When I get nekkid, though, I still look fat.

"Honey! I look fat when I'm nekkid!" I screamed to my wife. "I look better with clothes on!"

"We all do, dear. That's why clothes were invented."

"No, they were invented because Adam and Eve botched it. They really screwed the pooch on that one. Stupid Adam and Eve," I groused.

Which got me to thinking about the state of being clothed. If Adam and Eve had never taken a bite out of the infamous apple, would we be a civilization running around nekkid? I'm having a hard time thinking what public transit would be like. The health issues alone boggle, absolutely boggle!

What about restaurant servers? I'd probably rather not have soup brought out by some guy with his junk hanging out. 

In Winter, would coats be acceptable? Or would we be so accustomed to nudity, coat-wearers would be seen as aberrant streakers and we'd just accept freezing as natural. 

God's original plan for mankind's natural state of nudity definitely had some potholes in it.

On the other hand, if nudity was the norm, would there ever have been such a thing as body shaming? Would people even understand which bodies were pleasant to behold and which crossed the line? Would we be a nicer society, one where anorexic super models weren't the "norm" people aspire to?

Maybe. But every day I thank God for clothes. Um, even if that wasn't the original plan.

Speaking of nudity, pity poor Wendell, protagonist of my comic thriller, Chili Run. He spends the book in his tighty-whities due to an encounter with some bad hombres. It's too complicated to get into now so just read the book.

Clickety-click-click for nearly nekkid thrills and laughs.

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.

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!

"If the cabdriver kills me, goodbye and I love you!"

My wife's final words that fateful day, delivered via an ominous email.

Here...let me run the message by you again...

"If the cabdriver kills me, goodbye and I love you!"

Exclamation point was all hers, too.

What was I to make of this? Had Travis Bickle from Taxi Driver picked her up on a one-way ride to oblivion? 

Immediately I fired back a phone call. Zip. Zilch. Dead zone.

So my wife was dead, slaughtered by a Kamikaze cabdriver on her way home from a medicinal marijuana ("Do they give out samples?" I'd asked her) summit in Denver, Colorado. 

I don't know if my wife is (was?) kidding, if she's alive, if I need to go unpeel her outta a cab in Denver or what.

I mean, what else could I assume?

I really, really hate electronic messaging.
 
It's nearly as bad as my daughter's text to me earlier this year: My mom just had a heart attack, can you watch my dog?

Wait...what? In a panic, I tried calling her back. I texted (and I loathe texting as I'm still on the ol' flip phone, tap, tap, tapping each button painstakingly three times just to get one letter and that's if I don't screw it up). No reply. Once again, I'm abandoned to the dead zone of drama with no recourse but to FREAK OUT.

Phone calls are good, people. Remember them? There's no mistaking a person's tone whether it's screamed in blood-curdling shrieks or spoken with mild amusement. Either way I'd get the message.

Which is just one of the many reasons I still haven't gone Smart Phonesque. I like hearing peoples' voices. I like the lost art of phone calling. And I don't want to end up like those restaurant people who don't communicate with the person they're eating with but instead teppity-tap away on their phones while slurping soup.

Ain't no smart phones in Peculiar County. Lots of other weird stuff, though. Click here to discover.

One Black Hair...

I'm extremely follicularly challenged. I have been since college.

Fair-haired, near a red-headed step-child, my hair loss was more the obvious for it.

My dad, a fellow member of the follicularly challenged team, used to try and coax me into applying the ol' trusty comb-over, something that fooled no one. But I just couldn't do it. No more than I could wear my pants up to my nipples, another strange peccadillo of my Dad's. But I digress.

Anyway, I said the hell with my hair loss, embraced it fully. I shaved the donut of hair off. Slick as a baby's bottom and proud of it.

I was just fine with it. Even got compliments. At Walmart of all places, some fellow baldist asked what I waxed my head with to get such a sheen. I said, "Um...sweat?"

But then Fate, the quirky, mean ex-girlfriend that she is, decided to play with the status quo. 

Recently I woke up with a single black hair poking out of my ear.

Whaaaa?...

Not only have I never had black hair, but now I had a strong, sharp wire growing out of my ear lobe! Huzzah! A miracle! Better than pizza slices that resemble Jesus.

Except...not really.

What if I turned into a human porcupine, prickly black hairs sticking out everywhere? May as well sign up for the traveling freak show now. Or I might transform into a Chia headed creature, something out of a '50's horror film! 

With my fair complexion, I'd probably look like a freaky Bond villain.

(Me: "You see, my dear Mr. Bond, it's my intention to unleash my porcu-hair bomb onto an unsuspecting world!"

Bond: "Not if I have anything to say about it, Prickly-Ear!"

Me: "Oh, shut up, Connery! Everyone knows you wear a toupee!")

Bah. Hair's overrated.

For even stranger aberrations, click here for my newest book, Peculiar County.

 

Ladies and Gentlemennnn...the Amazing Mr. Balloono!

I'm dieting right now. And it's sheer agonizing hell.

Not too long ago, while dressing, I called out to my wife, "Honey, my clothes are shrinking! Did you change the detergent or something?"

All of my life I've had a history of ballooning, then deflating again. I've gone from one extreme to the other more times than I can remember. Once, when I was younger, I lost close to 100 pounds.

That's a lotta weight to carry around and lose. But I did it. In a short span of time, too.

But apparently, I was a lot younger then. Hmph. The pounds don't seem to be shedding as quickly now. 

For seven long weeks or so, I've pretty much starved myself. I've forced myself to eat kale salads (does anyone truly like kale? Tastes like cardboard, but not nearly as good.), and other things a rabbit wouldn't touch. Every day I get on the treadmill and walk anywhere from twenty minutes to an hour, kicking into high speeds 'till my bad knee starts squelching and catching in the back. By the time I fall off the treadmill, I'm drenched in sweat, smelling worse than a men's locker room. I can't even make it to the sofa, panting and wheezing like bagpipes.

Worst of all, I've had to give up beer! (Well, at least in the fashion I used to enjoy it.) The horror! Can you imagine? What's next? Giving up oxygen?

All of this hard work and sacrifice for a lousy eleven pounds.

Frustrated, I asked my wife why I'm not dumping weight like I used to.

"Because it's harder to lose weight when you get older."

Huh. Of course. My shelf life for fast weight loss had expired. 

The other day my wife asks, "So, when you lose all of your weight, what kind of clothes do you want to get?"

"Well, since I'm an old man now," I snapped, "I may as well start dressing like one. Lessee...I need trousers long enough to reach my armpits, yet crawling up the ankles. Suspenders, maybe. Nice, sensible shirts. Black socks pulled up to the knees, with sandals on top. Ready? Let's go to Sears."

I'd Rather Have a Dumb TV...

Recently, we bought a new TV.

Not until we carted the sucker home, unboxed it, steadied it on top of an extraordinarily hard-to-put-together TV stand ("Aiiieeeeee, I broke my finger!") did we realize the model was  a "Smart TV."

How smart is it? Well, it's tons smarter than me. I can't even figure out how to turn the volume up. Sure, the instruction manual helpfully takes me through the steps of MacGuyvering a bomb made out of oatmeal and paper clips, but try finding any advice on how to turn the damn sound up!

The enclosed manual was no use. Tastefully done in nothing but simple, verbiage-free illustrations (probably to cut down on having to print four languages), I couldn't make heads or tails out of the drawings. Cavemen hieroglyphics. The picture of the two men on the floor next to each other, legs up bicycling, still has me mystified.

Occasionally, a robotic voice blurts, "For volume control, please see online manual." Course I can't figure out how to access the mysterious online manual. And if it's just pictures again, why bother? 

It makes no sense whatsoever. At random times, the annoying robot voice hollers out things like, "I'm sorry, Dave. I'm afraid I can't do that."

Think you have the answer? Fine. Go confer with my smarty-pants TV. Go on! I'll wait right here...

See what I mean? Stupid TV's smarter than me. 

The characters in my new book, Peculiar County, are smarter than me, too. They never waste time watching TV. 

One click away from shudders, laughs, thrills and tears.

The Horror of the Beeping Basement

For months I've cowered in my house, afraid. Shaking and shivering like latter-day Elvis. Beneath me, in the basement, unspeakable horrors await. Horrors too awful to mention. (But I'm going to anyway.)

My basement beeps.

Several months ago, when it first started, I rolled my eyes, told my wife, "Stupid sump pump's acting up again." Wasn't the first time. Get this...when the sump pump runs a while, doing what sump pumps are supposed to do, it beeps a warning sound. Really dumb manufacturing flaw. So I head downstairs, cursing, then unplug the two cords (why two?) and take out the battery. Sure, the basement might flood, but at least it won't beep.

The sound stops! Huzzah! Problem solved, I head back upstairs. I sit, relieved. I know what I'm--

Beeeeeep!

"Great Caesar's ghost!"

I jump out of my recliner. Rush downstairs like that father in A Christmas Carol. As I tumble down the steps, the noise stops. Mid-beep. Taunting me.

I say (because I'm in the haunted basement and it helps to hear my voice, any voice), "Huh, that's weird. Just a fluke, though. Pretty sure I resolved the issue. It won't beep again."

Upstairs I settle once again into my recliner. Relaxing. Basking in the peaceful meditative--

Beeeep!...Beeeeep!

"Jumpin' Jehoshaphat!"

It's not the sump pump. Clueless, I get tough. I decide to ride out the storm, figuring the infernal sound will tire after a while. It does.

Until three in the morning.

"Sweet Christmas!"

The shrill, incessant beep wakes me. Every 45 seconds, Swedish clockwork. Pillows over my head don't help. Copious amounts of alcohol just intensify it, transform it into a nail-driving drill.

Sleep deprived, the next morning I head back into the dungeon. Determined. Angry. Half crazy.

Seven steps down, the beeping stops. As usual. Making it impossible to track the source.

"Why me? Why have you forsaken meeeeeee?" I cry to the cobwebs. I forget I'm too tall for the hobbit-made basement, stand straight in my drama.

Tunk.

"Ow! Dammit!"

I unplug everything that's plugged in. Wipe my bleeding head, sigh, pat myself on the back for a job well done. Upstairs, I snuggle back into my posterior-conformed recliner to write and...

Beeeeep!

"Holy mother of pearl!"


I'm back on the hunt. I check high, I drop low. It's a dirty, gross job, but the heinous beeping source will be found! I pull out the tubs of my daughter's childhood toys, denude all the Furbies and other automated varmints of their batteries. Anything that's suspect, anything of a battery-driven nature, I gather in a box to take upstairs where I can keep an eye on it.

For I will solve this exasperating mystery, I will!

Beeeeep! Beepity-beep-beeep!

"Cheese and crackers on Matlock's grave!"

Down again I go, down, down, down. Farther than before, down into the depths of hell itself. I tear everything apart, look in every box, poke every water-damaged cranny, knock things over, pick them up, and do it again. The narrator in Poe's The Tell-Tale Heart has nothing on me. Except I haven't killed anyone. Not yet. But the skeevy sales kid banging away on the doorbell comes close to being my first murder victim.

Beeeeep!

"Jimmy Hoffa's pantaloons!"

Internet trolls aren't any help.

"Hmm. Do you have any enemies?" someone asks.

"No," I write. "Well, there's my high school bully and that dumb neighbor who won't talk to me for whatever reason and my grade-school friend who I kinda dumped because he wasn't giving me the hallway cred I sought but I--"

"Someone's planted a bomb in your basement."

Beeeeeeeeep!

"Shoehorn of the devil!"

I race downstairs. The sound stops again. A demon with a vicious sense of humor. 

I cover every square inch of Hades. On my knees, I crawl. On chairs, I teeter. I'm covered in grime and cobwebs and great heaping dollops of defeat.

Until...until... Celestial trumpets poot!

There! Something I've never seen before! A weird device hidden by the light-bulb screwed into it! I undo it. Smoke detector. Figures. I take it upstairs. Set it next to my wife's mail like a trophy, a savage beast I finally bagged after a lengthy hunt.

Satisfied, exhausted, I retire.

Yet, I still hear beeps. Phantom beeps. Beeps in the night that wake me up, a faint ghost of a beep, a reminder of hauntings past. But it's not my imagination gone wild, it's...

Beeeeeeeeep, dammit, beeeeeeep!

"Bea Arthur's bunions!"

Drowsy, woozy-eyed, I concede defeat to my wife. "I give up. It's still beeping." A sudden teensy-tiny ray of hope strikes me, though. "Wait...what'd you do with the smoke detector?"

"Threw it away. In the kitchen trash."

Like a bag lady, I go scrounging. Past chicken bones and other unmentionable detritus. There it is. Beeping!

I take it to the garage, toss it in the bin.

Beeeeeeeep!

Like a cockroach, the device can survive even nuclear Armageddon. I roll the bin out to the street. Let the neighborhood deal with it. Finally--finally!--silence.

But I know it's still out there... Waiting...lurking...laughing...beeping...

For more obsessive behavior over ghostly hoo-hah, click here to read!