Tripping My Wife's Trigger

There are many things I do or say that bugs my wife. Off the top of my head, she loathes when I say "Yessireebobcattail!" I'm not sure why; I don't even think she understands. But hate it, she does.

But the absolute worst offender? Read on...

Years ago, my family was out at a restaurant celebrating someone's birthday. When they brought out our salads, my brother and I oohed and ahhed over how great the blue cheese dressing was. 

 "Man," I said, "I could drink a gallon of this."

"Same," replied my brother. "What about good gravy? Could you drink a gallon of that? I sure could."

"Oh yeah," I agreed. Then in a sudden inspirational burst, I added, "That's because we have the exact same genetic chemical makeup."

Okay, besides the ridiculous redundancy of the sentence ("exact same" kinda bugs me, too), I understand the impossibility of having the same genetic chemical makeup as someone else, even family. But when I saw how it bugged the scientific mindset of my wife, I wouldn't let up. First, she responded with eyerolls. Later she said how stupid it was.

Of course, my brother and I rolled with it, sometimes perfecting it to the point where we recited it in unison.

My daughter took up the cause, as well. She and I really perfected the routine, in perfect sync every time. She even added on to it with "Oh my GODDDD!" Which worked out extraordinarily well.

"You know why we both love dogs?" I'd ask.

Together, my daughter and I: "Because we have the exact same genetic chemical makeup, oh my GODDDDDD!"

My wife went back to eyerolling, knowing full well we weren't going to stop the insanity. Soon enough, we even enlisted my daughter's boyfriend's son in the game.

Go on, try it on your loved ones. It's fun! (NOTICE: I'm not responsible for any resulting fighting or marital problems.)

Speaking of games, there's plenty of cat 'n mouse games going on between a couple of serial killers and the evil corporation who's using them like pawns. Heads are chopped, dropped, and swapped in my darkly comical suspense thriller trilogy, Killers Incorporated, available here.

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.

I Was A Secret Smoker!

Come with me if you will and let's take a trip in my handy-dandy way-back machine...

In 1979, all the cool kids were smoking. (Or so I thought at the time.) I didn't want to be left behind so I joined the smoking contingent some time in Junior High. (And, yes, before you ask if everyone jumped off a cliff, would I? Why yes, yes I would, thank you for asking!) Anyway, I kept this disgusting habit up all throughout high school and college.

When I graduated from college, I quit cold turkey. Of course I put on 100 pounds, but that's another story...

Soon, I lost weight, got married, put on another 100 pounds. Then got divorced. Now...it's not for everyone, but due to my world-famous patented "Divorce Diet Plan," I lost another 100 pounds. However, I picked up smoking again after ten years off the crap.

Let's speed up the way-back machine. Eventually, I met my current wife, got married, and continued to secretly smoke. Oh, I tried many times to quit, but one month was about as long as I ever made it. (My wife is totally against smoking; of course, I am too now.)

So I kept up the gross habit off and on for several years, always hiding (sometimes not successfully) the evidence. It helped that my head was shaved; easy to wash. 

And I had secret smoking clothes hidden in various places, consisting of gloves, a stocking hat, a coat, etc.

One day I took a drive. Went to the local park, got out my long overcoat, gloves, stocking hat, all sorts of winter gear. The only problem was it was about 70 degrees. A dog-walker was standing nearby staring at me. Suddenly she rushed away, dog in arms. No doubt to go call the police about the park pervert she just witnessed, dressed in very suspicious clothing for Spring.

After this, I decided: "Hey, maybe I should make a lifestyle change. Before I get arrested."

My wife caught me again. Initially she was furious. But came around, understanding it was an addiction and helped me quit. Finally, my friend, Chantix, did the trick. I've been smoke-free for many years now. And ask any ex-smoker, the smell that wafts off of people at Walmart is more offensive than it is to never-smokers.

Speaking of keeping secrets, Leon Garber's got a doozy. Now it's not nearly as bad as smoking (natch), but it's right up there. He's an accountant by day and a serial killer by night (but don't worry! He only targets the worst people around!). But this is just the start of Leon's problems. The sinister corporation that Leon has aligned with has now targeted him and he doesn't understand why their beautiful working relationship has changed and his contract has been terminated. Find out the reason why in my darkly comical serial killer thriller trilogy, Killers Incorporated!

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!

Noirmares

I have recurring nightmares. Unsettling ones where I've committed a murder and the law is slowly closing in on me.

We'll call them "NOIRmares." Sure, my wife and I enjoy Noir Alley with Eddie Muller on TCM, but I don't think that's where my noirmares come from.

The weirdest part is that I don't murder people who deserve it (ex-bosses, ex-girlfriends, cable guys, politicians). No, I never know the identity of my victims, nor do I ever recall why I did it. The noirmare seems to go on forever, but the point is always about whether or not I'll get away with it.

Where does this come from, I constantly ask myself. I've never committed a murder before, never even came close to formulating a plan. Do I have the latent serial killer gene?

I took to my trusty research assistant, Ms. Google, for the shocking answer:

"Dreams about murdering someone can symbolize a variety of emotions and desires, including suppressed anger, frustration, or feelings of powerlessness, or unresolved conflicts with someone in waking life."

Huh. Well, I felt slight relief in that I'm not the only one who goes on a killing spree in dream-world, but it still leaves a lot of questions unanswered. Cases in point...

"Suppressed anger." I suppose that could be true. But I would think that would be more apt in the case where you personally know your victim.

"Frustration." Again, maybe. There's no doubt I've been frustrated at people many times. But in my noirmares, I'm not murdering the cable guy, am I?

"Feelings of powerlessness." This is certainly true now, especially regarding the MAGA madness. (Although I've never dreamed about murdering Trump, I did have a dream about boxing him.)

"Unresolved conflicts with someone in waking life." Nope. I have no idea who these nameless, faceless cyphers are who I murder, nor do I ever dream about the act of murder. It seems like the murder has already occurred before the noirmare begins.

Ah, Ms. Google let me down. No answers forthcoming from her this time.

Hey, maybe if more serial killers had noirmares, there wouldn't be a need for serial killers!

And speaking of serial killers, give a looksie to my darkly comical serial killer trilogy, Killers Incorporated. There's more cat and mouse gaming and serial killers than you can shake a stick at! And that doesn't even include the bad guys! It's complicated. But you can find them 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!

A Case of Mistaken Sidneys

Before we were married, my wife lived in a house with two other women (one of whom was responsible for introducing me to my wife). So, after I went out with the boys on the weekend, I would call her when I got back home.

"Hello." One of Sidney's roommates answered, sleep slogging her voice.

"Oh, sorry to wake you," I said. "But if Sidney's still awake, can I talk to her?"

"Just a minute..." She set the phone down (this was back in the olden days of landline phones). In the background, I heard voices grumbling.

"Hello." Her voice sounded extremely froggy, nearly a man's voice.

I paused for a second. "Sidney?" Just double-checking to make sure.

"Yes."

"Huh. Are you sick?"

"Yes," she replied again.

"You must be. Your voice sounds awful," I said.

"Yes." Sidney was rarely at a loss for words, so I figured she must REALLY be sick. Must've hurt her to talk.

"Well...how're you doing, honey?" 

"Okay."

Now I was really puzzled. This didn't sound like her at all. "Sidney?" I asked again.

"Yes."

"Um...sorry I woke you up if I did."

"Okay."

Crickets. Soooo many crickets. Finally, I broke the silence with another question, this time kinda loud and disbelieving, the second syllable rising in pitch. "SidNEY?"

"Yes?"

Finally, I decided I'd dialed the wrong number. "I'm afraid I have the wrong Sidney. Sorry to have bothered you."

"Okay."

Alright, after we'd hung up, the entire conversation blew my mind. My wife's name is an unusual one. What were the chances that I'd accidentally called some random guy named Sidney? It's not like there are a ton of them out there.

Even odder, frog-voiced Sidney never once asked who I was. Just answered in one word sentences, English possibly being his second language. Furthermore, his (presumed) wife who answered the phone seemed nonplussed at the fact I said "can I talk to HER?"

Finally, somewhere there's a lovelorn, froggy-voiced guy named Sidney who wasn't phased at all that I had called him "honey."

Speaking of mistaken identities, pity poor Leon Garber. Leon's got it all, a decent day-time job, and a good position with a top-secret, shadow organization that aids in his night-time hobby: murdering bad people. But when Like-Minded Individuals, Inc. decides to put a target on Leon's back, he thinks there must surely be a mistake. What's a friendly neighborhood serial killer to do? Read the darkly comical, suspenseful shenanigans in my Killers Incorporated trilogy to find the answers!

The $25,000 Pork Chop

Hey-ho, here we go, with another cautionary tale, yo!

Several years ago, my brother sat down to dinner (undoubtedly in front of the TV, a family habit shared by myself) with a pork chop. Soon, he started feeling crummy, having trouble breathing. And his chest hurt. Badly.

He thought he was having a heart attack. So he was rushed to the E.R. I'm not sure of the details that transpired there (I'm not sure I want to), but after they fixed him up, the doc on duty came back and said, "You had a chunk of pork chop lodged in your esophagus. Chew your food."

And he probably didn't get a lollipop either.

Later, he remarked, "I had a $25,000 pork chop."

I understand completely how this happened. While growing up, another trait that was shared in our family was our mother used to cook the crap out of meat, thus draining the juices and making any kind of meat crossing our supper plates akin to a dry piece of leather.

I believe both my brothers still like their meat cooked "well-done," i.e., as desiccated and dehydrated as Lawrence of Arabia in the desert. Growing up, my family used to enthuse about "steak night." I'd just roll my eyes and wonder what the hullabaloo was about. First, it took about an hour to chew the much-lauded steak, and to me, it was tasteless. My mom even overcooked liver, and the less said about that the better. When my dad came home one night espousing the joys of spam, Mom even found a way to blast that to a crisp.

Later, I escaped the curse of dry meat by experimenting with medium, then medium-rare. Much better.

My wife says that's a trait of older generations: to overcook the hell out of meat. Me? I'd rather risk botulism, then waste all of those long hours chewing on a dry shoe again.

I think my brother learned from the infamous pork chop incident. But I hope he enjoyed it!

Speaking of pork, the cops can't seem to catch benevolent serial killer Leon Garber. But the nefarious shadow company who originally hired him to do their dirty work sure can. Believe it or not, they're the real villains. Find out what in the world I'm talking about in my darkly comedic and suspenseful thriller trilogy, Killers Incorporated, available 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!

Front Yard Olympics

Every two years, my wife and I become experts on the Olympics. "Holy cow! Did you see the way she perfectly landed that triple Sowkow?" It just comes naturally.

So, by extension, it would seem only natural that I decided to have a one-man Olympic event in my front yard for all the neighbors to witness.

I had just come off a long weekend of baby-sitting my daughter's bratty dogs (an Olympian event of endurance in itself). Tired, wearing dirty clothes, and arms loaded with a suitcase and a refrigerated bag containing numerous beers, I wearily climbed the front five stairs to gain entrance to my much-missed house.

Except my arthritic knees had a different plan. As if in slow motion, I reached the top of the stoop, wavered backwards, and gravity took me backward down the stairs and onto the sidewalk.

My first thought was hmmm, this must be how Simone Biles feels while flying through the air. My next thought was Oh my God, I'm gonna die on the sidewalk. Finally, I pondered the nature of my unusual and extraordinary decision to forego clean underwear that morning because I wanted to get home as quickly as possible. Then I heard my mom saying, always wear clean underwear in case you get in an accident.

All of these thoughts transpired as I flew backward and through the air in a matter of seconds. I wish I could say I planted my landing beautifully like Simone Biles, but alas, the judges would've penalized me big-time for my crash landing. I banged onto the sidewalk and bounced into the yard.

Mercifully, my elbow took the brunt of the crash, saving my head from a concussion or worse. Dazed, with cartoon birdies dive-bombing around my head, I looked around. Scattered throughout the yard were numerous beer cans and dirty clothes, shrapnel from my ammunition-loaded bags. 

Mortified, I sat up, thinking Wow, it's good to be alive. I'm really thankful that no neighbors witnessed--

"Hey, Stu, are you alright?"

Crap. One of the young neighbors across the street had come running out, having witnessed my Olympic trial through his window. 

Incredibly humiliated, I continued to sit in the yard in dirty underwear, waiting for the neighbor to go away. But he didn't.

"Ah, what's up, Joel?" I said in a nonchalant manner. 

"I was just looking out the window and saw your fall. Are you alright?"

"Yeah. My arthritis just got to me and gravity did the rest." I considered asking him how he would've rated my landing.

"But you're okay?" He looked about the yard in bemusement at all my beer cans and dirty clothes scattered throughout.

"Just a bruised ego, that's all," I answered, still sitting there like I had planned it that way. 

But that wasn't the only thing that was bruised. My back, legs, knees, shoulders, and elbow hurt like mad for two or three days after that. But at least I finally got to experience life as an Olympic champion. (With dirty underwear.)

Speaking of greatness, meet Zach Caulfield, a champion "male entertainment dancer (aka, a stripper)." Go on, just ask him. The problem is Zach constantly stumbles across dead bodies and more often than not, gets blamed for the murder. It falls upon his weary, much put-upon, usually pregnant sleuth sister to find the guilty party to save her idiot brother's hide from jail. Read the wacky antics and mystery and adventure in the Zach and Zora comic mystery series!

The Crazy, Cuckoo Case of the Calamitous, Covert Cotton Ball Cup

(Or..."I Love Alliteration!")

So, there I was in the bathroom (if you're having your morning breakfast with coffee, I'd suggest you wait until you finish before you read this very important post...).

Back to the bathroom... 

The day started like any other, the sun roasting the mean city's sidewalks like eggs on a hot griddle. I was kicking back free style in my man cave (or what passes as my man cave, the john), attending to business, any ordinary day, when she walked in. The dame could've stopped traffic on an ice-covered freeway during rush hour. She had more curves than the crookedest street in Francisco.

The dame was my wife.

"What're you doin' here?" I asked the dame. "Can't you see I'm doing man's work? This ain't no place for a dame. Now, beat it, scram." I sprayed a can of Lysol, hoping she'd get my drift.

"Why are you being so weird?" she said.

I finished my business, getting rid of last night's whiskey. I wanted to shave, but couldn't, not with some dame hanging onto me. "You need an armed escort, lady? You heard me, beat feet!"

Things happened fast. We jockeyed for space, arms flailing around one another for towels and soap and toilet paper and make-up, a vertical game of Twister. Suddenly, my elbow smacked the cotton ball cup sitting on the back of my white throne. I watched as the cup shattered like a puzzle and the white balls snowed down upon the tiled floor.

"Now look what you did," she shouted, her lips drawn back in a ferocious, feral, yet enticing sneer. "Be careful!"

"It takes two to tango, baby, see? You can't lay that calamity on my broad shoulders alone."

"Quit being weird! And pick up your cotton balls!"

"Lissen up, toots, and lissen good, before I take you over my knee and give it to ya! They ain't my cotton balls, see, you're the one who brought them in here."

"Uh, no I didn't. You did! And speak normally!"

"You're not hangin' that rap on me, sister. I ain't standin' for it one iota, not for one second. I'm a man and men don't have no use for cotton balls just like men have no use for nipples!"

She glowered at me like Johnny Law grillin' me under the hot lamps. Only thing missing was a phone book and rubber hose. Finally, illumination blinked behind the dame's headlights. Her full lips formed a perfect "O," the kind I could get lost in for days.

"Ohhhhh," she said, "Mom must've put the cup there the last time she was here."

"Well," I said, tilting my hat back so the dame could get a good view of the victory in my peepers, "this looks like another--"

"Stop it."

"...another case wrapped up by me. Now I could use a good, stiff--"

"Cut it out!"

"...drink to wash the dirtiness outta my gritty street life and detec--"

"I'm going to work." And just like that, she was gone. She blew into my man cave like a whirling dervish and vanished like some kind of hallucinatory siren from the depths, her hold on me still strong, until I began to doubt if she'd been real or just a lingering fever dream from my two-day hangover.

Until she got home from work and wanted to know why I hadn't picked up the cotton balls.

--From the case files of Stu West, P.I.

Wow! Pow! Swak! If you want more hard-boiled thrills, chills, and blood spills (none of that sissy cotton ball stuff), check out my Killers Incorporated trilogy, a darkly comical thriller series about serial killers and conspiracies, not for the faint-hearted!