Merry Smokemas!

Our family was gathered during the holidays in Oklahoma. Laughs were shared, memories recalled, and anecdotes told with vigor. Business as usual...until my oldest nephew opened his Christmas gift from family in Portland.

A pack of cigarettes!

Wow! Happy Holidays! The true meaning of Christmas!

My nephew was looking at his gift, turning it around, searching inside for some secret hidden gift. Nothing but tar and nicotine.

"Whatever," he muttered.

My younger nephew said, "It's not even a full pack of cigarettes" like they'd been ripped off or something.

There was stunned silence until the sheer hilarity of it all floored us.

My bro-in-law took some pictures and sent them to his brother (the gift giver) in Portland. 

My niece wrote back, "I wrapped all of those gifts and I SWEAR I don't know how those cigarettes ended up in that gift!"

There was much speculation. Was it a joke? One conspiracy theory had my Portland nephew planting it for unknown insidious reasons.

I guess we'll never know.

Anyway, nothing shouts Christmas more than family gatherings, eggnog, and cigarettes!

Happy holidays and smoke 'em if you got 'em!

The Tragedy of Humpty Dumpty

Since childhood, I've had a certain love/hate relationship with Humpty Dumpty, maybe even what you might call an affinity for the poor guy. Or at least an understanding of his tragic plight. For you see, Mr. Dumpty is kind of a sad creature, just a yolk shy of being pathetic. I mean, honestly...why in hell is a guy made out of a fragile egg sitting on a wall in the first place? Just plain stupid. But as one who identifies with Humpty's outsider status and applauds his do-it-his-way mentality, I can't help but overlook his idiotic life choices. (It's a pity that to this day, my childhood book of nursery rhymes scarred me for life; I still vividly remember Humpty's corpse laying broken on the ground with yolk and his life force oozing out of him. Hardly what I'd consider a happy childhood bedtime tale. What's wrong with these fairy tale writers?)

But it seems that my lifelong acquaintance with Mr. Dumpty still continues to this day. 

It all began with a crappy horror film from the 80's (as so many incidents in our house do). Now, my wife doesn't share my excitement for crummy genre films, but something about "Bloodsuckers From Outer Space" drew her in, the dumb comedy aspect of it, I'm sure. In the movie a character was wandering about a kitchen and we both noticed a particularly ugly cookie jar.

"That cookie jar," said my wife. "What...what it is?"

Squinting at the screen, I replied, "I'm pretty sure that's Humpty Dumpty. I think." I felt fairly confident in my answer, seeing as how I'm one of the world's foremost experts on Humpty Dumpty.

"Sure is creepy," she said.

"I know, right? But it's cool! I like it! Don't you like it?"

My wife waffled around a while, before finally committing. "Yeah, I guess."

So inspiration struck me, harder than Dumpty's smashing into the ground. With Christmas just weeks away, I thought it'd make a funny and surprising gift for my wife. Off to the intronets I trawled, finally hitting pay-dirt. Sure enough, Ebay sellers were putting up their "vintage Humpty Dumpty collectible cookie jars" for sale, albeit at exorbitant prices.

But I found one on Mercari, an Ebay knockoff, at a cheaper, more affordable price. 

Here's what arrived...

Crap. So off I went to Mercari to get a refund. (Hang on a minute...it's time for a rant.) Now...have you guys ever ordered from Mercari? Word of advice: DON'T. Their website is incredibly confusing (purposefully so, I think) to navigate and it's next to impossible to contact an actual customer service rep. I tried to go through their proper channels, but the site wouldn't let me. All requests for refunds are channeled through a robot. The robot told me "I'm sorry, you have no purchases with us." What??? Tell that to PayPal, you stoopid robot! So I tried to contact the seller (and I should've known something was up because he goes by the name "Charlie Brown"). The seller responded and said, "Just go through the process online." But I couldn't because they didn't think I made a purchase! So, I carefully pored over the website looking for an email address or phone number. Wait...there it is! "Contact us!" So I hit the shiny contact button annnnnnnnd...it took me back to the robot who insisted I didn't buy a broken Humpty Dumpty. With exactly zero phone numbers or email addresses on the website, I turned to Dr. Google. The good doctor Google turned up a phone number. I called it and after punching in my phone number and all sorts of other stuff, the robot returned with "I'm sorry. Customer service is not available in your area." Whaaaaaaaa?

So I went back to good ol' Charlie Brown and pleaded my case. Suddenly my messages to Charlie on Mercari were being deleted by the administration 'bots. By this time, I'm livid, working myself up into a lather. Finally, I found an email address online and sent them an angry message. Two days later, someone overseas writes back and tells me all the hoops I have to jump through by taking fifty pictures of packaging (which was nothing more than empty Amazon boxes) and sending them. And get this...they said in order to get a refund, I had to do it within twelve hours. So...I knocked out the photos and sent them immediately. Only to wait another two days for a reply. (They must really, REALLY be far overseas since there's always a 48 hour time lag). Anyway, after much more give and take and frustration, I finally--FINALLY--got a refund. (Rant over...now back to our regularly scheduled post...)

As I looked at the shattered pieces of Humpty and my shattered dream of giving it to my wife sank in, the irony of it all struck me: I'm going to do what all the king's men and all the king's horses couldn't do! I'd put Humpty Dumpty back together again! It'll be fun, I stupidly thought.

Now, this was my first time working with epoxy. Nobody told me of the intricate and tricky nature of it. I just thought simple, squeeze it out, stick the pieces together, boom! Instant Humpty Dumpty. But no. You had to work with it fast or the actual package and nozzle gets glued together, disabling any chance of ever getting any more of it out of the tube. I went through three tubes, singlehandedly keeping the epoxy manufacturers in business. And good luck getting it off your hands.

As I screamed and cursed and thought how stupid I was for thinking this would be "fun," Humpty caved in on me several times. I started over four times. That's perseverance! Let's see the lazy king's horses do that! (And for God's sake, why is the king letting his horses operate on an egg-man? I don't believe their hooves are known for their surgical dexterity.)

Finally, I finished. Or at least as good as it was gonna get. I had to finally give up on all of the small pieces on the back of his head as they just wouldn't take. But here's the finished result...

Sure, he kinda looks like a freakish Batman villain, or maybe one of the king's horses put him together, but I was happy that my "fun" Christmas project was at an end.

And that's about when I found out my wife thought it was super-creepy and scary and never wanted this particular Humpty in the first place. Merry Christmas!

Speaking of bad eggs, there's more than a few lurking about in my serial killer trilogy, Killers Incorporated. No, I'm not talking about the serial killers; they're the good guys! It's complicated. Find out how complicated right here!

Holiday Traditions: the Good, the Bad, and the Ridiculous

With the onslaught of the holidays (and yes, I do mean "onslaught"), I'm always prone to thinking of lost loved ones. And no one looms larger in my fond memories than my mother, the undisputed Queen of Christmas.

Every Christmas, it was always the same with her.

"Mom, what would you like for Christmas?" I'd ask every year, rendering me the poster boy for Einstein's definition of insanity.

"I don't want anything. Just for us to be one big happy family." This was her maddening stock answer, yet we continued to play the game yearly. It was maddening for several reasons: A) It didn't help anyone; and B) I'm not so sure we were ever "one big, happy family."

Don't get me wrong. There were good and happy times, but there was also a lot of discord over the years. And, no, I'm not blameless either (Hello, bad boy teenager years! Where've you been? Never mind.). Maybe when we were kids, I might've considered us a "big, happy family," but then again I remember being bullied and beaten by my older brother. I had big, happy bruises to show for it.

But I digress... I believe Mom looked forward to the holidays more than anyone in our family and she was a staunch believer in tradition. For crying out loud, she kept up the Santa Claus routine up until we were in college. Did we object? Not really. Why, I hear you asking? Probably because it made her happy.

She was such a traditionalist that one year when I suggested we have Christmas at my house because I didn't want her doing all the work, she looked at me like I'd just admitted to murdering Santa Claus.

Her jaw dropped. Her gaze stabbed me with visual icicles. "Why, Stuart...you KNOW I have Christmas every year. You KNOW that!"

Sacrilege! Never again did I dare to bring that up.

Another Christmas tradition was going to church on Christmas Eve. Oh, man, did I ever hate that, especially as a kid. It's miserable enough for children to suffer through a stuffy sermon while awaiting the Magical Day of Christmas to arrive, but the church my parents chose to torture us with was incredibly mind-numbingly, butt-deadeningly long and dull. At times, those services could last up to two hours . In fact, it wasn't just at Christmas, but every service I ever attended was excruciatingly unendurable. Pretty soon, the church expanded into several locations and the preacher couldn't keep up so he videotaped himself from another church.  

(Much to my nieces' amusement, I nicknamed it "Super Extended Video Church," and swore that the preacher was recording his message because he couldn't be bothered to get out of bed. While my nieces were amused, my mom wasn't so much.)

And then there were the family breakfasts where we traditionally ate at a hotel's buffet. This is where my mom would attack us, holding out her plate, asking everyone around the table in turn, "Would you like some of my food? How 'bout it? No? What about you? Take my bacon! TAKE IT!"

Now, I suppose it had something to do with my mom's midwestern upbringing, always displaying her Missouri graciousness and hosting even while dining out. But I really didn't get it. It's not like all the food we'd care to eat was less than six feet away in the buffet line. I suppose she wanted to save us that unnecessary six foot walk. Or something.

There were many, many more traditions that we adhered to, mostly of my mom's (and dad's) making. And we continued them up until my mom passed away, even though we'd outgrown a lot of them or even if some of them no longer made sense. Keeping the traditions alive made her happy, and seeing her happy put a kick into my step as well.

So, every Christmas, I do get nostalgic and think back on the nutty, crazy, goofy, silly, yet ultimately endearing traditions that we shared as a family. For at least one day out of the year, I suppose we were "one big, happy family," warts and all. Old traditions have somewhat fallen by the wayside as I suspect they do in every family, while new ones are forged and the circle continues. Mostly, though, I miss my parents. I tip my eggnog to them and now you guys have gone and got me all mushy. And I hate being mushy.

Happy holidays everyone and enjoy your traditions, new and old.

Maple Avenue Freeze-Out!

Two nights before Christmas in Kansas and I'm sitting here writing this post bundled up like Ralphie's brother in the film, A Christmas Story. 

It's nine degrees below zero outside. Snow is on the ground and isn't going anywhere. The windchill is negative 27 or some other ungodly number. The coldest night we've experienced in years. And our furnace decided to conk out this afternoon.

Merrrrrrry Christmas! 

At least to our HVAC guy who will be collecting a huge, Christmas bonus check ("Why, thank you guys! It's a Christmas miracle! For only $399.99 extra, I can vacuum your coils. No extra charge over the initial $399.99. My treat!") 

Whenever or if he should decide to come out, that is. They're pretty busy right now.

I should've heeded my earlier Christmas haunting. Several hours ago, I had gone into the basement (can't remember why) and swore I heard the furnace singing various Christmas carols via an angelic choir. I thought..."Whoa...time to start drinking," and wrote it off to my typical nuttiness.

Word to the wise: ALWAYS heed your Christmas hauntings.

After some consideration, I told my wife, "Baby, it's cold inside."

She poo-poohed me, didn't believe me, knowing that I run a lot colder than her as usual, just par for the course.

So I stole a peek at the thermostat. Good Lawd, it read 64 degrees! And it had been set at 70. Something was up. Definitely NOT the temperature.

"Honey, we got a problem," I bellowed like a dying dinosaur during the Ice Age.

In the basement, we approached the furnace, pressed buttons, pushed gadgets, twisted knobs, fiddled with ding-dongs, and prayed a little bit we wouldn't blow ourselves up. Finally my wife said, "Huh. I think we have a problem."

Time for a brewski. Snikt!...Tsssss...

The call was in. The soonest the HVAC tyrants could get somebody out here was tomorrow morning. No particular time, natch. "But...but...," I whined, "we have like a bi-annual subscription with them to check our junk out. We're preferred customers!"

The answer to that was...too bad. With space heaters blasting, the thermostat now read 58 degrees in the house.

Alcohol is my friend.

"That'll just make you colder," said my common-sense wife.

No fan of common sense, I devised a plan (okay, my wife mostly devised it, but I was there!). Not only did we worry about our own freezability, but we had two dogs that I didn't care to see turned into pupsicles. Hell, they didn't even want to go out this morning (or all day). Can't blame them.

We pinpointed the warmest room in the house (and by that, I mean now reading a comfy 54 degrees), "Tom." (We named our two spare bedrooms "Tom" and "Jerry," much easier to remember than calling them by the pesky directions they face.) The plan was set and now onto the execution.

Alas, the damn futon never wants to work right, usually ending up in the two halves coming apart. Worse than any piece of furniture you might (un)assemble from Ikea. Finally, after many curse words and much back-ache and the ultimate worst possible fate (*gasp*), referring to the manual, we put it back together again.

(TO BE READ LIKE AN AIRPLANE PILOT): "Ahhhhh, now we're sitting at a cool 52 degrees....Uhhhhhh, you might want to consider bundling up, it's ahhhhhh gonna drop to the single digits in your room....ummmmmm...your stewardess is coming by with the cocktail cart, so please be sure and...errrrrrrr...tip."

Pass the wine.

Our electric blanket was stripped from our bed upstairs and moved down to "Tom." Another electric blanket was put on the floor, dog beds atop it.

At 50 degrees, I swear I can see my breath. Merrrrrrrry Christmas!

My wife says, "Get over it. Pretend it's like winter camping."

This...

This was the craziest thing I'd heard in a while. Anyone who knows me totally understands I don't camp. Especially in the Winter. I'm not insane. My idea of camping is a cabin (not too far from a bar and convenience store and pizza delivery) with WiFi and a hot tub.

Where the hell's that bottle of wine? Merci Chrimmy.

In the pursuit of true journalism, never leaving my dedicated readers in the lurch, I'm now sitting in a frigid living room (temperature now in the 40's), delivering the truth with frozen, unfeeling fingers and a head full of alcohol.

Mister Chriminee everbuddy!

Christmas Overkill...and Kill Again!

Every year the Christmas onslaught begins earlier. In September, while still wearing shorts, I was at a store while the speaker barfed out a widdle baby-girl singing "Santa Baby." Astounded, I pushed through the throngs of early eager Christmas shoppers oohing and ahhing over cutesy elf figurines and reindeer mugs and leering Santa sleepwear. 

Don't even get me going about the one guy in my neighborhood who just can't wait to push that button and blow up his yard Santa and Kansas City Chiefs linebacker (the TRUE meaning of Christmas, I guess).

And there's a kazillion Christmas TV movies, all of them starring actors from the "Dukes of Hazzard" and with the same plot:  City girl Rebecca (Jennifer Love Hewitt) breaks up with cold corporate raider Henry (Tom Welling) and returns to her small hometown of Rockwell, Missouri, where she meets and eventually falls in love with rascally, rough around the edges, but with a heart of gold rancher, Chet (Billy Ray Cyrus), just in time to battle the evil mayor Seytan (William Shatner) and his plan to banish Christmas.

Yep, Christmas was everywhere and wayyyyy too early for my tastes. Honestly, I suppose I can't hold people at fault for wanting a semblance of normality and comfort in their lives after the two years we've had. That's their right. But the marketing machine is taking advantage of it and exploiting people missing family gatherings.

So, I say, enough!

I've found an antidote to the elongated Christmas blues. Turn off those crummy Hallmark movies and turn on the great (aka, crappy) Christmas horror films of the '70's and '80's!

Who could forget the classic Silent Night, Deadly Night? After visiting his creepy AF grandpa, little Billy witnesses his parents get slaughtered by an escaped convict dressed as Santa. Naturally, little Billy is traumatized by Christmas, so when he gets older, the best job for him is in a toy store, right? There, strange urges are awakened and he dons a Santa outfit to violently take out the neighborhood. Merry Christmas, everybody!

Interestingly enough, this movie caused quite a furor amongst irate parents and conservatives back in the day (chief among them a very disgusted Mickey Rooney), which, of course, launched it into a mega-hit. Even more interesting, the film spawned four sequels (most in name only), the last starring...wait for it...Mickey Rooney, who obviously had a lot of alimony to pay.

The original Black Christmas (not that nonsense remake from 2006 or an even newer crummy reboot) is actually a good, eerie, suspenseful film, which gave an early role to the koo-koo Margot Kidder. Actually, I believe it's one of the very first "slasher" films even though it's never credited as such. Ho ho ho-rror!

There's the truly bonkers Christmas Evil (one of John Waters' fave films if that tells you anything!) wherein our antihero takes it upon himself to save Christmas by slaughtering non-believers. The ending is very special and propels it into nearly hallucinogenic art-house territory. Happy horror-days!

The newer Santa's Slay is a hoot (a hoot, I say, a hoot!). While I can't say it's a great movie, it's a lot of fun with jaw-dropping cameo murders (who here has ever wanted to set "The Nanny" on fire? Show of hands? She's got a lot to answer for with that voice.) and a riotous stop-motion parody of the Rankin and Bass holiday specials. Season's cleavings!

My all time favorite Christmas horror movie has to go to the hard-to-see, incredibly odd Elves (1989). Dan "Grizzly Adams" Haggerty "stars" as a department store Santa who gets entangled with a cabal of evil nazi elves out to...do something. I dunno, it's all a little nonsensical, but eggnog spewing hilarious. There's also an evil stepmother who tries to flush the family cat down the toilet. Scary, scary Christmas, everyone!

Lately, there've been several new worthy Christmas horror additions. I'm looking at you, Krampus (beware the kazillion inferior rip-offs), The 12 Slays of Christmas, and A Christmas Horror Story (William...Shatner!). Be on guard for any cheapo, shot-on-video Christmas horror movies (and I use that term very lightly) with clever names. These are usually distinguished by no budget, horrid acting, hired strippers who are willing to take it all off, and people wearing shorts during Christmas time. And lots and lots and lots and lots of close-ups of tattoos and body piercings.

I would be remiss, however, if I didn't mention my--and my daughter's--newest favorite Christmas movie, Anna and the Apocalypse, the only musical, rom-com, horror, Christmas, zombie apocalypse film ever made. It's truly great, the musical for people who hate musicals. 

So the next time some bored clerk wishes you an indifferent "Merry Christmas," just think WWSD. "What would Santa do?" If we're looking at the criteria of the films we've just discussed, I think the answer is obvious.

Hair-raising horror-days everyone!

Check out the wide plethora of Christmas horror short story compilations put out by the swell folks at Grinning Skull Press under the annual Deathlehem series titles. Not only are these tomes chock-full of great prose, but all proceeds go the worthy Elizabeth Glaser Pediatric AIDS Foundation. I'm particularly fond of The Shadow over Deathlehem (which contains a stellar story by a certain writer who's too damn humble to mention himself by name).

Attack of the Killer Gingerbread Men

Or to keep things more precise...gingerbread women and men. (Must be politically correct, after all).

A week or so ago, my daughter drops me one of her typically and aggravatingly information-withholding texts: You'll never believe what I got talked into doing as a civic-minded citizen.

WHAT, WHAT, WHAT??? I clumsily texted back (Tap, tap, tap, crap! Start over...tap, tap, tap, crap!...Tap...).

I'm going to run down Main Street in a giant inflatable gingerbread man suit, she responded.

Huh. My daughter sure gets caught up in some squirrley shenanigans (her words). But there was no way in hell I was going to miss it.

Apparently, her small town had planned a Christmas celebration in downtown and as an up-and-coming town shaker and mover, my daughter was chosen to be a participant in a gingerbread man race down Main Street.

So the big day came and my daughter sorely regretted agreeing to do it. Particularly with the new information she had recently heard: she'd be racing against a couple of physically fit marathon runners. She (like me), on the other hand, had put her running days behind her sometime around...oh, I dunno, childhood. She didn't even own tennis shoes.

Race day arrived. My daughter's apprehension grew. As did my chuckling. A half an hour before the big event, I drove her downtown where the sidewalks and street were fairly abandoned. Except for a suspiciously derelict Santa hanging out in an alley in front of a Charlie Brown tree for photo op purposes with unsuspecting kids. ("Aieeeeee! Mommy, Santa smells funny!")

I said to my daughter, "Wow, there's practically nobody here. What a shame."

"Good," she said.

 After I dropped her off, I parked and hung out until the Big Race.

The sight of the cookies taking a practice walk down Main Street was the stuff of nightmares. Six large, lumbering cookie people bouncing their way toward me. Surely this was an image ripped from the headlines of Hell.

The cookies lined up at the starting line. Tension mounted. Sugar dusted legs stretched. Crumbs fell. And my daughter's costume kept deflating.

"On your mark...get set...GO!"

The "cookie monsters" bounded down Main Street as 23 onlookers cheered and guffawed. And...my daughter came in dead last. By a large margin.

(Old Man Note: while I got great practice footage, during the actual race, I had a senior moment and filmed the pavement somehow.)

I left, got inside my car. A few minutes later, my daughter yanks open the passenger door and says, "Get me outta here. Now."

Completely mortified, I responded the only way a caring father could: by giggling non-stop.

Let this be a lesson to all of you civic-minded people. It's just not worth it.

While on the topic of horrifying creatures running rampant through the city, there are quite a few beasts, varmints, monsters, and unspeakable things on the loose in my short story collection, Twisted Tales from Tornado Alley. You've been warned! Remember the gingerbread people! Brrrrrrrr...

 

Good Ol'-Fashioned Holiday...ah, never mind...

With the holidays upon us, tradition means a lot to our friends and families. Unless you're stuck in 2020, of course, where most traditions such as family gatherings are thrown under the bus (for good reason).

But even with daunting obstacles in our path, the world is still finding variations on the old holiday traditions by masking, distancing, and going Zoom crazy (not to mention drinking, internet spending gone wild, and the outta control growth of facial hair). 

I say, let the merriment continue! Sing carols to each other via Zoom (frankly I'd prefer that over the excruciatingly uncomfortable visit upon my doorstep)! Reach out to friends and family and that guy who bullied you in eighth grade and let them know you're thinking of them...well, maybe not the bully; if you told him what you're thinking, it could very well start a new round of bullying.

One of our newest traditions is a very Christmas decorated bathroom. Shower curtain, towels, soap dispenser, other stuff. My daughter named it "Santa's Bathroom," clearly the place where Santa delivers his, um, gifts.

The important thing is, no matter what your holiday traditions are, do carry on. Find safe alternatives, but keep the spirit of the holidays healthy. Keep hope alive.

I gotta say, though, some traditions are probably better off buried.

These days, office holiday parties end up in mandatory diversity and/or sexual harassment training seminars, so cut it out. "Elf On a Shelf" is pure big business hokum mass-manufactured to give children Christmas nightmares. The song, Baby, It's Cold Outside? No. We don't need creepy, date-rape holiday music. Tinsel's probably about as healthy as bathing in fiberglass. Yard inflatables? Let's stick a pin in the damned monstrosities and turn them into wiggly windy guys found in car lots. I could go on, but I won't...

Wait. I think I will. Has anyone ever tried "figgy pudding," let alone know what it is? Furthermore, why is the singer so damned demanding? (Okay, hold on, now I'm curious. Well, figgy pudding sounds a lot like a kind of fruitcake. We can do without that, too.)

Some holiday traditions you can't kill with a hand grenade. They come back more times than Jason or Freddy or Michael. A lot of my past family gatherings usually resulted in some racist remarks. Granted, the guilty parties have tempered it in recent times, utilizing a kinder, softer sort of racism...wait, scratch that. There is no such qualification. But no matter how much I'd tried to stomp the racism out, it somehow kept sneaking back in around the holidays. Time of the year, I guess. Or more likely, the only time during the year I'd see some family members.

That tradition's not going to happen this year, though. On the 25th, it's just my wife and I. And it feels like our first Christmas together in a weird way. No stress, no travel, no awkward political conversations, no racism, no family discomfort! 

Now, bring me some of that damn figgy pudding. Don't make me say it again!

Happy holidays, everyone! Stay safe.

And speaking of the "horror-days," I would encourage everyone  to check out Grinning Skull Press' annual Deathlehem series, seven books containing all the Christmas horror tales you'd ever want stuffed in your stocking. Not only are these tomes chock-full of great prose, but all proceeds go the worthy Elizabeth Glaser Pediatric AIDS Foundation. I'm particularly fond of The Shadow over Deathlehem (which contains a stellar story by a certain writer who's too damn humble to mention himself by name).

 

Computer Store Clerk Melt-Down!

I suppose it's my fault, really.

In what kinda world would anyone be dumb enough to go to the computer store to buy an external disc drive on Christmas Eve? A fool's world, I tell ya. 

Not only did I brave the menacing crowds, the insane drivers, and waits that made the lines at Disneyland seem like a cakewalk, but I had to go back to the store twice. (No one ever told me that a "floppy" external disc drive is different from a DVD drive; even with a hundred salesmen milling about and it'd be a cold day in Hell before I'd ask someone for help). Anyway, I brought the wrong disc drive home, plugged it in, cursed, drove back to the store, this time taking twice as long because of the congested streets.

But here's where things turned really dangerous...

After waiting my turn in line, the meek, older than me, bespectacled bald man waved me to the counter.

"Well?" he said, clearly as sick of the Christmas crunch as I was and assuming the onus should be on me to start the give-and-take without the need of opening pleasantries.

Ashamed of my computer illiteracy, I explained the situation.

His brow furrowed as he appeared to be looking for something he'd lost. "Where are all of my pens?" he barked.

"Um...I'm not sure," I mumbled.

"Fine, whatever." He jut his arm out, pointed toward the back of the store. "Go get what you need and come back."

I did. The line had doubled. As I slowly inched closer, I noticed Mr. Personality's color had darkened, an explosive  bouquet of mad-as-hell red.

Finally end game was in sight! The surly clerk snatched the proffered disc from my hands, slapped it down, sighed, and said, "Look, is this just a purchase?"

I scratched my head. He scratched his. "No, I'm returning one drive for the other. Ah...remember?"

Befuddled (one of his two emotions, the other being Explosive Anger), he closed his eyes, shook his head, and said, "Yeah, yeah, yeah..." When he opened his eyes, immediately he began searching for something again. This time I knew it was his lost mind.

"Dammit," he blurted. "There were four pens before I went to lunch! Not even a lousy half hour! And there were four pens! Four! I come back and there's not one!" He starts swatting the register and knocks over an empty coffee cup, presumably the abandoned home of runaway pens. "Never a single Goddamn pen to be found when you need one!"

Okay, by this point my collar inexplicably tightened. Eyes lasered in on me, Lookie-Loos wanting to know why I'm torturing the "nice" old man behind the counter. 

A woman rushes over, possibly the assistant manager. "What's the problem?" she asks me.

"Um, well...there's no problem, just--"

"Somebody keeps stealing my pens! I had four of 'em! Four pens! I'm gone for 25 minutes for lunch, I come back, and they're all gone!" He throws a knick-knack at the register. "Is it too much to ask for just one pen?"

I pat down my coat pockets, hoping to find a pen to ward off the visual daggers being lobbed my way.

Clearly addled, the assistant manager begins playing peek-a-boo behind the counter, popping up and vanishing down again, on a futile pen search.

Finally, the manager goes behind the "returns" wall, and mercifully brings back a pen.

Mr. Congeniality snags it from her and clutches it hard. No one's gonna pry that pen from out of his death grip or God help them if they try.

He finishes the long drawn out transaction and releases me with a friendly, holiday bark. "Next!"

I rush from the store, heart hammering, thankful I escaped with my life. Watching a man melt down over pens was scary. Shooting spree scary.

After I settled down and settled into traffic again, it finally dawned on me: the guy never used his pen for anything, not a single drop of ink spilled. I guess it's the principle that counts.

Happy holidays!

Speaking of crazy people, if I were you I'd probably avoid those folks stranded by a Winter storm at the Dandy Drop Inn. But, by all means, do read about it: Dread and Breakfast can be purchased here!

 

Christmas Caroler Massacre

Okay, now that I have your attention via my unashamedly titled post, I'm in a quandary...

Not too long ago, my daughter moved into her first house. I'd asked her if she'd had any trick or treaters during Halloween.

"No, I don't think they come down my street," she answered.

As a parent, that didn't set too well with me, just add that to my worry-list, but that's not for now. I said, "Wait until you get your first Christmas carolers."

Ah, I remember mine, lo, forty-one years ago, and how awful it was.

I shouldn't have answered the door. I really shouldn't have. But I did. Before me stood  a fully dressed, Dickensian group of carolers. I recognized the head singer, all teethy smiles and glazed eyes, the God-Squadder who lived caddy-corner from me, the guy who wouldn't quit pushing The Word to me.

Absolutely, inevitably quicksand-stuck, I wanted to slowly close the door, tell them they'd made a big mistake. However...even though I'm a bit of a curmudgeon and a hermit, I still have a heart.

They proceeded to sing. It was the longest Christmas song in history. My forced rictus grin stretched, ached, began to tremor, my upper lip twitching and forcing my tell. I felt like the Joker while constipated, not a lot to smile about, but you kinda have to muscle through it. 

Finally, the song finished. I wondered what I should do. Should I tip them? Give 'em a ten-spot, tell them to call an Uber and get the hell outta here? Invite them in (never a serious option)? Offer them cookies? I had no cookies. But I had cigarettes and chips and beer and NyQuil, the important ingredients to a young and dumb bachelor's lifestyle.

While I was pondering the proper response, they launched into yet ANOTHER song.

 I felt like a turtle on his back, legs slowly flailing, a car hurtling down the highway toward me. 

At long last, they completed their epic three-hour (at least it felt like it) performance. All smiles on their end. My face twitched, unused smiling muscles taxed, craziness taking over.

I hollered, "YAYYYY! Thank you, thank you very much. Happy holidays."

After shutting the door, I nearly passed out.

I like Christmas. I'm not a Scrooge. I just kinda have invasion of privacy issues. Especially when people want to sing at me. One of the roughest work-outs I've ever been through. It's truly weird.

Happy holidays, everyone, no matter what you celebrate. But, please, don't sing on my doorstep!

While I'm talking about cold, wintery work-outs, why not--during the holidays--check into the Dandy Drop Inn. I understand there's a huge winter-storm brewing and if you're caught out in the midwest, the Dandy Drop is a fine, fine place to warm your toes. Maybe lose your head, too, but not every place is perfect. Make a reservation with Dread and Breakfast, the perfect winter holiday thriller.

 

The Christmas Goldfish Massacre!

Ho, ho, HORRORS!

Gather round, kiddies, as I tell you a true Christmas tale; one of pathos, heartbreak, terror, and stupid fish...

Years ago, when my daughter was a wee lil' lass, I thought it'd be cool to get her a couple of goldfish for Christmas. For you see, she'd been asking for a dog. I thought I'd start her out on a trainer pet. I mean, how hard can it be to take care of goldfish, right? RIGHT?

So, I enlisted my brother's help. Together, we conspired and planned and set off to Walmart to pick up the golden goods. The dunderhead West brothers filled that cart up with a bowl, fish food, junk to stick in the bowl, a pump, anything else I could think of. I mean, it was for my daughter, I wasn't gonna skimp. The last item on the list, of course, were two of the perkiest goldfish I could find. Plastic bag in hand, we went to my brother's house and set the goldfish up in their brand new bowl.

Now, my knowledge of goldfish was pretty limited. I kinda thought it was all about sprinkling some flakes on top of the bowl on occasion. Maybe tap the bowl a couple times daily to scare the fish. That's it.

But, Ken, the Walmart fish guy, set me straight. "No, no, goldfish are a lotta work. It's a privilege, not a pleasure to own goldfish. You have to change the water and clean the bowl regularly." Ken went on to tell me exactly what I needed to do. Man, talk about a full-time job.

After the first day, I thought it was time to change the bowl. Healthy water, healthy fish. I scooped the lil' buggers out, threw them in an alternate bowl. Cleaned and washed and did everything I was supposed to do.

That night, my brother calls. "Um, they're dead."

Crap. Oh well, better they die before my daughter gets them. Off we went to Walmart. Ken wasn't there, but Roger was. We explained our dilemma. Roger--king of sympathetic, puppy eyes-- nodded a lot and finally held up an authoritative finger. "I see where you went wrong. You need to blow oxygen into the fish bowl for them to breathe."

Huh. Okay, fine, whatever. I picked up a box of straws. Every chance I got, I ran to my brother's, took out a straw, and felt like an idiot blowing bubbles into the water. (The backsplash didn't taste very good either; no wonder the first two died.)

The next morning, I went over again to blow more bubbles. Alas, things--and the fish--had gone belly up again.

With Christmas fast approaching, I trundled off to Walmart again. Petey, the newest fish expert (and just how many did they have, anyway?) sold me on the ultimate in high-tech (for Walmart) pumps. "Yes, sir, this baby here, Stu ( I can call you Stu, right?)"

"Um, I don't really--"

"As I was saying, Stu, with this Turbo-Blaster Fish Air Express 3,000, you'll never have fish dying on you again."

Clearly Petey's last job had been a car salesman as he knew a rube when he saw one. I left with an armful of expensive crap and a couple more fish.

This time the Express 3,000 did the trick! The fish survived two, count 'em, two days, just hours before Christmas. Huzzah! Hark the hairy angels sing and whatever!

It was worth it. On Christmas morning, my daughter was overjoyed when I unveiled the bells and whistles and fully stocked fish bowl. A Christmas miracle.

That night, we stayed up late, cleaning out the bowl and changing the water. Just a good, instructional, warm, close father and daughter bonding experience.

The next morning I wake up to my daughter shaking me. "Dad? I think the fish are dead."

Noooooooooooooooo!

Sure enough, the sad fruits of my labor (and cash and good intentions) floated like so much driftwood.

I'd had enough.

"They're in Heaven now, Sarah. You want a puppy?"

Happy holidays! Let's be kind to everyone this new year, deal?

Speaking of holiday horrors, how 'bout stuffing your stockings with one of the fine Christmas horror short story collections from Grinning Skull Press? All proceeds go to an excellent charity: The Elizabeth Glaser Pediatric AIDS Foundation. I'm particularly fond of The Shadow Over Deathlehem (Fine, I'm biased because I have a frightful holiday tale in the book!).

Late-Breaking Bible News!

I know I shouldn't do it. Call me a masochist (maybe a sadist), but I'm often tempted to challenge my mom on some of her more "interesting" beliefs.

The other day, I told her global warming might destroy the earth if we continue on the toxic path we're treading.

"Mom," I said, "according to the news, scientists predict the end of earth soon."

Silence. Quivering lip. Glazed-over stare.

Finally, she says, "Well, I have Bible news, too."

"Bible news, Mom? Really? Is it late-breaking news?" All irony was lost on her. I mean, the word "new" is in "news" for a reason. Call it current, up-to-date information.

Things like this don't matter to her, though.

"Yes, Stuart," she said, "Bible news."

"Okay."

"It's all in there in the Bible, all of it's predicted. The world's coming to an end. The bible says we're in the Book of Revelations."

"Hmm." I plunged and poked deeper. "Well...maybe that's right. And the Anti-Christ is in office, unleading the country. I betcha he's got a "666" marked on his head beneath that horrible, orange comb-over."

Silence. Dead glare. Anger simmering. At long last..."Huh." That's all she said, but that single word contained more contempt for my views than all of the ranting and raving of a Facebook political "debate."

Which really makes for fun holiday gatherings, a real hoot-and-a-half! This Thanksgiving, I couldn't help myself and goaded my mother again. (It was a repeat, too, but I hoped she'd give me the same response. She doesn't disappoint!).

"Mom," I said while gnawing on a turkey leg, "you know, many historians say Jesus was black."

Silence fell over the table. Most everyone stared down into their plates. My wife kicked me beneath the table. 

My mom's fuse lit. Color bled to her cheeks. That lower lip quivered in anger again and this time, I'd pushed too far.

"Bah," she at long last spat, "what do historians know."

Happy holidays, everyone!

Speaking of which, how 'bout stuffing your stockings with one of the fine Christmas horror short story collections from Grinning Skull Press? All proceeds go to an excellent charity: The Elizabeth Glaser Pediatric AIDS Foundation. I'm particularly fond of The Shadow Over Deathlehem (Fine, I'm biased because I have a frightful holiday tale in the book!).