Monster Cat On The Loose!

By now, you guys know I'm a dog-lover. It's not that I hate cats...I'm just allergic to them.

Okay, that's not entirely true. Well, it is about my being allergic to them. If you put a cat around me and I happen to touch near my eye, it's all over. I turn into a crying, sneezing, wheezing pink-eyed mess.

But back to dogs. Dogs are fiercely loyal, full of character, funny, loving, doting, sloppy, playful, and depend entirely on humans to take care of them. It's a nice feeling.

Cats are...cats. They're quiet, sneaky, scary, boring, and when they feel like it, they'll bite or claw you for no reason. Just for the fun of it, I suppose. They're like goldfish. Only meaner. And did I mention I'm highly allergic to them?

So, the other day, I was tasked with going to this strange "feed and seed" store in the middle of the city to get dog food. After I figured out how to enter the place (it's like an Escape Room), the first thing I noticed were three cats running across my path.

Uh-oh.

The old guy asks how can he help me. I felt like saying by getting those damn cats away from me. Instead, I say, "Just picking up some dog food." Quickly, I scuttled toward the dog food, hefted a big-ass bag up and hoped to get out of there before I turned into a wet, soppy, crying mess.

But the old guy behind the counter had a different idea. "Ah! You're getting the bison!"

"Yeah. Nothing but the most expensive for our dogs, I guess," I said, while eyeballing what seemed like a dozen cats twisting and scampering around me.

The old guy wasn't put off by that. Must've been a slow day for him. "Well, golly...it's good stuff, though."

"I guess," I said. "But I've never tried it."

The ancient clerk looks at me. Blinks. Finally guffaws and slaps his knee. Meanwhile, one particularly clingy kitty was rubbing up against my legs. I could feel my eyes starting to water.

"That's a good one, yep. Had me going for a while. Yessir...'never tried it.' Heh." Suddenly he drops down behind the counter.

I'm wondering if I should call 911.

Like an ancient jack-in-the-box, he springs up with a scrawny mean-looking cat in his arms. And thrusts it toward me. "Here's my bison! What do you make of this mean fellow?"

Instinctively, I jumped back. "Oh...he's, um...thanks!" I grabbed the dog food and raced out of the store (once I found the exit).

Next time I go there, I'm wearing a mask, protective eyewear and a Hazmat suit. I swan...

Speaking of things that are furry and not so adorable, check out my book, Corporate Wolf. It's the only werewolf, horror, murder mystery, dark comedy, corporate satire out there!

Nakedopolis!

Growing up, my parents filled my little vulnerable head with lots of nonsense: "Sex is a sin (as if; and this was the closest they ever came to talking about sex. No further explanation given.)," "Drinking beer is disgusting and bad (CRAZY talk!)," "masturbation is dirty and a sin (Nooooo! Not my hobby!)" and their crazy interpretations of the Bible. And the Bible is already kinda strange, especially to a young impressionable kid.

"Mommy, where are the dinosaurs?" I asked.

"God created them too," she answered.

"Huh. But they're not in the Bible! And what about cavemen?"

"Mommy's busy right now."

But nothing was more confusing than their interpretation of the story of Adam and Eve.

"But Mommy...why was it a sin for Eve to eat an apple?"

"Because she disobeyed God." 

"But why was it a sin?"

"Because if she hadn't eaten the apple, we'd all be walking around naked today, the way God intended us to do."

YOW! My little brain blew up over that. In my mind, Eve helped us to dodge a huuuuuuge bullet. I wanted to tell my mom that I'm glad for what Eve did, but that probably wouldn't have gone over well.

I started to think about a naked world and it terrified and grossed me out. I couldn't imagine kissing Grandma when she was naked. And what about the naked restaurant server who's hanging out (literally) with his junk at our eye level. Worst of all would be Winter. And walking over all of that rough terrain.

And how about school? I imagine the boys would constantly walk around with their books in front of them, trying to hide their state of arousal when the cheerleaders strolled by. Yikes!

No thank you and thank you Eve. I for one am glad for the original sin! (And come on! Our current "president" commits worse sins on a daily basis!)

So God told Adam and Eve not to eat the forbidden fruit and they did anyway. Then He/She shamed them into clothing.

And because of them eating an apple, we're all sinners. I think. (Or maybe that's all the sex, beer, and masturbation rearing their ugly heads. I still don't quite get it.)

Then I started wondering what's the takeaway from the story of Adam and Eve. That women are inherently evil, luring men into lust and eating fruit?

That's probably in Trump's footnotes in his very special $300 Trump Bible.

Last weekend, at a bar, I brought all of this up to a very knowledgeable Bible "scholar" friend (while drinking sinful beer, natch).

He went on at great length talking about it, but the most interesting thing he said was God lied, Adam lied, and of course the evil Eve lied. "The only one who didn't lie was the serpent," he finished.

I suppose I better bone up on my Bible understanding. (Now where did I put my Trump bible? I think I left it upstairs next to my Trump cologne, Trump wristwatch, Trump virtual trading cards, and...)

Speaking of liars and sinners, check out my darkly comical horror novel, Demon With a Comb-Over (my titular demon on the cover sure resembles a certain president, right?). The book's full of demons, jerky angels, Satan, a couple trips to Hell, and stand-up comedy. Fun for the whole family! You can get it here!

Spring Break: Senior Style!

PARTYYYYYYY! (Or not.)

As an educator, my wife has been on spring break this week. And while students everywhere have been departing for warmer climates, tropical pool-side bars, and more debauchery than Hugh Hefner ever imagined, where have we been?

Giving our bathroom a makeover. During my wife's spring break, I've been busier than in some time. Oh sure, I can gripe and kvetch about my back and my swiftly spreading arthritis, but it hasn't stopped my wife from assigning me numerous tasks of Herculean magnitude. (Now I would be remiss if I didn't confess that my wife does 90% of the work. She's a master of tools and expert at flipping. The only flipping I'm comfortable with is the bird. But to her this is "fun.")

This isn't the kind of excitement I remember, lo those many years ago during our action-packed and nutty spring breaks. Back in the day, my pals and I would travel to Texas or Florida and from what I can remember of those trips (which admittedly isn't much, mainly due to the non-stop flow of beer), it was a markedly different experience than now.

As I write this, I'm staring at the ginormous box that contains our new toilet, a one-piece monster that weighs 150 pounds. I barely got it off the stoop (and that was by rolling it) and up one step. I'm dreading the moment when we have to carry the beast and lift and position it perfectly.

Whereas my pals and I used to go spring-breaking, now I'm excelling at back-breaking. We used to guzzle beers and snarf chili dogs. Now, it's aspirin with a Pepto-Bismol chaser. At least we're still swimming. But instead of the ocean, I'm swimming in sweat. We used to jump into pools fully clothed. Today my wife accidentally triggered the water shut-off and soaked me, fully clothed of course. And as opposed to chasing girls, I'm chasing a few hours of untroubled sleep (curse you, prostate!).

One of these years, I'm hoping my wife and I "enjoy" an actual, leisurely spring break. But with the caveat that we're still in bed by 8:00 p.m.  You know...taking a walk on the wild side!

If you too are looking to stroll down the wild side, look no further than my book, Corporate Wolf. Sure, it's a darkly comical, satirical, bloody, mystery horror suspenser about werewolves in the corporate world, but part of the tale is "semi-autobiographical," ripped from my interim years. Check it out here!

War On the Catholics

When I was in sixth or seventh grade, my family made the move to a new neighborhood, mere blocks away and across a major traffic-way from our old residence. I never could figure out the reason for the move, but years later I figured out it was to replace our two story with a ranch to better accommodate my wheelchair-bound dad.

But the reason--at the time--for the move became even more puzzling when my parents kept grousing and grumbling about "all those Catholics in the neighborhood." Another thing I didn't quite understand. I mean, what did they expect with a Catholic grade school and high school right behind us?

But as young witless children do, we blindly followed in our parents' big, couldn't-ever-be-wrong footsteps.

Now the Catholic kids in the 'hood didn't accept my younger brother and I either. They'd taunt us and bully us and call us names. And as the school was just one block behind us, they used our fenced-in yard as a short-cut going to and fro school. This drove my parents batty. Me, I was just afraid they'd do something to our senior dog in the backyard. But Rocky never came to any harm from those nasty Catholic kids, even though my parents were still up and arms about their trespassing.

After we'd had some time to adjust to the new "normal," my brother and I decided to fight back. In Winter, we'd throw snowballs at the passing Catholics, hoping to knock some Protestant sense into their heads.  Battles were waged in the 'hood, but the battle was never won or determined. Yes, just like all "holy wars." (It didn't help that one time, someone "farmed" our front yard with their car, leaving several grass worn tire tracks; undoubtedly Catholics were the culprits.)

I was beginning to think my parents didn't like anyone in the neighborhood. The old man and woman next door were very nice, I thought, and told my dad so.

He replied, "Yes, he's nice. But he's Catholic!"

As I started to grow older, I began to question this silly blind hatred. Finally, I asked Dad, "Why do you not like Catholics?"

"Because they worship Mary," he exclaimed loudly, like I was an idiot for not knowing that. "Mercy!" (My parents' favorite exclamation back in the day.)

This didn't jive well with my limited understanding of religion. Having been brought up in various protestant churches (kicking and screaming on Sundays, I might add, hoping--nearly praying--that my parents would oversleep, because it was a colossal and boring drag), it was always my understanding that Jesus' teachings ruled over everything.

And didn't he teach love and acceptance for everyone?  I mean, Catholics believed in Jesus and God, too, right? It made no sense to my (snowball-addled) young, forming mind.

The war continued for years, finally dying out to maturity (or rather other pursuits that took precedence over fighting neighborhood kids, such as girls, cars, and beer). An unlikely peace pact was made between us and the Catholics and while I don't ever recall any true "friendships" being forged, acquaintances were made and waves even shared at times. Yet the older generation kept firm in their grumbling, blinders-on, nonsensical dislike for anyone who didn't buy into their one TRUE religious belief. It was beyond silly.

Years later, after I'd divorced my first wife (who was Catholic, natch; you can just imagine how that went over with my parents), I took it upon myself to educate myself on Catholicism. After all, when we were married in the Catholic Church, I had signed an agreement vowing that I'd raise my daughter as Catholic.

It was very uncomfortable in the Catechumenal class, but the kindly nun who ran it was very welcoming and accommodating to me. And it was extremely eye-opening.

Once the "controversy" surrounding Mary came up, I sat forward, intent on finally understanding the big HooHah.

Apparently, my parents weren't the only ones who griped about the Catholics' "worship" of Mary. Kindly Sister Old Lady patiently explained that many Protestants had this negative view. "We don't worship Mary," she explained. "We hold her in high reverence. She was the mother of Jesus, after all. We think that's kinda a big deal."

After considering asking Kindly Sister Old Lady to phone my parents and explain this to them, I jettisoned the idea. They'd never learn.

But if all combatting participants would just wise up and listen to their more open-minded younger generations (I'm looking at you, too, Republicans and Democrats), I hope I see in my lifetime a move forward as a more united planet. It shouldn't matter what our beliefs (or non-beliefs) are or even if you accept the Bible's interpretation of Jesus; it's the lesson imbued that we should all strive for: acceptance, tolerance and kindness. Kumbaya and all that stuff!

Whew. Off my soapbox...

But while we're on the topic of "wars," there's an entirely different kind of war going on in Kansas one fateful Halloween night; a bitter old woman has declared war on three trick-or-treaters from Hell! It all leads to....murderrrrrr. This is just one of the darkly comical tales of horror in my short story collection Twisted Tales From Tornado Alley. Check it out here!

The Roof of a Dog's Mouth

When I was a kid, our family would go "dog shopping (we never considered getting a rescue dog; I'm not sure if it was a "thing" back then or if my parents stubbornly refused to do so, because it was "low class," but we never did)." So we'd go into strangers' houses and look at their litter of puppies, always cocker spaniels.

First thing my dad did was wrestle a dog, wrangle its jaws wide open, and look at the color of the dog's roof of its mouth. Of course, the dogs never liked that one bit and the puppy vendors were always mortified.

My dad explained, "I heard that if the roof of a dog's mouth is black, it's a really smart dog. That guy there is our dog!"

Not sure how scientifically sound Dad's theory was, I came to doubt it based on the not very bright behavior of some of our dogs.

So I turned to my research assistant, Ms. Google, for corroboration. To which she gladly obliged...

Theresa, a cat vet of 19 years (and why exactly is she being quoted about a dog question?), says "the color on the roof of the mouth is just pigment. It has no meaning at all. It doesn't determine intelligence or breed, yet people in the past thought the more dark in the mouth, the better the breed, but this is just an old wives tale."

Okay, fair enough. But I started wondering just how in hell such a myth got started in the first place. Did a bunch of bored farmers' wives gather around the kitchen with their dogs to try to outdo one another?

"Say, Myrtle, look at the roof of my dog's mouth! It's black!"

"I swan, it sure is, Esther, but what in the world does it mean?"

"Why, Myrtle! EVERYONE knows that it's a sign that you gotcher self a smart dog!"

"Hmmph...I guess ol' Keester here ain't so smart after all. Lookee at the pink on the upside of his mouth."

(Later Myrtle and Esther were mauled--Siegfried and Roy style--by their dogs for wrenching their mouths open.)

While the origin of this ridiculous myth is "lost to the ages," a lot of people online have heard of it, especially hunters and old-time farmers. Of course, things could be worse: an Asian myth is that some dog breeds have blue tongues to ward off evil spirits.

Speaking of goofy myths and evil spirits, you'll find a slew of them in my horror story collection, Twisted Tales From Tornado Alley. And unlike the old wives tale about a dog's mouth, I swear to you that every tale in my tome is TRUE. Find out how true right here!

"I've Been Smiling For Four Hours"

Recently, my wife came back from working at a Covid vaccination clinic. 

As soon as she came in the door, she said quietly, "I've been smiling for four hours. I need to be alone."

Yow! Holy ghost of Marlene Dietrich!

But I definitely empathized with her, for I too, suffer from a terrible malady: smilitess.

What is smilitess, I feel you wondering. It's the disease of not being able to smile on cue. (Okay, I made it up, but it doesn't make it any less real.)

Ever since childhood, I've never been able to produce a smile on command. It's no wonder in my year book photos, I always looked pained and constipated. Part of it was my unwillingness to show my teeth. I'm not really sure why, but I remember being self-conscious about them.

Matters were only made worse when the photographer attempted humor.

"Okay, say 'cheese.'"

Nothing.

"Well, let's forget the cheese...say 'grillled cheese sammitch!'"

Again, not funny. But I could tell we were going to be there all day if I didn't attempt to crack a smile. 

Later, my parents said, "Mercy! You call that a smile? You look like you're about to cry! Open your mouth!"

This problem has plagued me all my life. The only time I feel an unforced smile is when someone makes me laugh, no easy task.

Several years ago, I worked a booth at a horror convention in Washington pimping my books. By the end of the first day, I felt a TMJ headache forming in my jaw from the constrictions of fake smiling for every potential customer. Hardly worth the effort. I looked like the Joker. Or worse, one of the victims in last year's horror film, Smile.

Picture time is always a drag for me. I hated it as a kid (mainly because I couldn't wait to get out of my lime green leisure suit on Sundays, but there was also the smiling thing.). And I still dread on holidays, whenever someone whips out their phones and starts directing us like we're on the set of Heaven's Gate or whatever.

So beware. The next time someone says to me, "smile for the camera," I think I'm in my full right as a tax-payer to protect myself and smash the phone.

Speaking of smashing things, you'll find a heartwarming tale of bigfoot eviscerating campers and destroying a camp in my short story collection, Twisted Tales From Tornado Alley. Don't worry...it's a love story! That's just one of the many macabre delights awaiting you in the book. So with Halloween approaching, get it 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.

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! 

The Two Types of Gym Coaches

You know, I still have nightmares about being back in Junior High gym class. (This along with forgetting about a college class until the last day and walking in bare feet into the world's filthiest bathroom are my other reoccurring dreams from Hell.)

It was back in Junior High that I discovered that gym "teachers" were sadists. We had two and they alternated dishing out torture. Of course being overweight made me an even larger target (I suppose the pun is intended. Sigh.). 

But these two guys were beasts. For any given reason, they enjoyed making us run around in endless circles in what they gleefully called "the world's smallest indoor track." When one of us didn't chime right up for roll call it was push-ups and laps. And while we sweated and panted and gasped for dear life, they stood on the side giggling and grinning like sadistic mad men.

It didn't stop there. They loved pitting us tiny and meek and weak seventh graders ("sevvies" as we were disdainfully referred to) against the ginormous ninth graders (who to me looked like animals; some of them had beards, for God's sake! in the dastardly exercise in sadism called "dodge ball." It didn't take me long to figure out how to get out of the game with very few injuries; when an errant ball flew over my head, I'd reach up and "accidentally" touch it. Then I'd yell, "I'm out, coach!" I pity my fellow soldiers-in-arms who never learned this valuable survival technique.

The worst thing these two monsters had us do was the outdoor twenty minute run. In blistering heat. For crying out loud, I couldn't go five minutes without stopping to catch my breath. And they'd get pissed at those of us who walked (while stepping around those students hurling or laying in the grass holding their sides in pain).

Which led to a visit to their office because I walked at least half of the course. Now, I knew what went on in their office. They actually had a paddle and whupped boys who they considered "bad" on the arse.  Don't know how they got away with this back in the seventies, but they did it all the time. 

Coach Supple (we'll call him that, because...well, that was his name) had taken his usual stance, leaning over the shower stall wall and ogling all of the boys (I know, right?), when he shouted, "West! In our office. NOW!"

I said, "Ummmm...can I get dressed?"

"No! I gave you a command! Get in there now!"

Humiliated, embarrassed, dripping wet and starkers naked, I slapped feet into their office of doom, cupping my junk while standing in front of the two grinning mad men. Then they commenced to break me down psychologically by calling me names and screaming at me. 

I very much wanted to avoid the paddle of pain, particularly as I didn't even have on shorts to protect my arse, so I broke into tears, hoping to tug at their heart strings. Foolish me, I should've know they didn't have any. But my ploy worked, they were disgusted by me, threw a towel my way, and told me "clean yourself up and get out of here!"

Fun!

And that's why I avoided my one year of mandatory gym in high school until my senior year. Big mistake as I was the only senior in the class. But I put it off for two years because I really didn't want to suffer through more sadistic gym teachers.

It was tough and due to all of the exercise, I managed to drop one hundred pounds for the first time. And surprise of all surprises, this gym teacher was a nice guy.

For instance, when I aced a written test about the rules of sports, he called me out by name to brag me up. Even better was the day we had to run and jump outdoor hurdles. Now, I don't jump. Not very graceful, I envisioned myself tripping over every one and plummeting to the concrete, tearing my knees open and bleeding a bloody river. All to the lovely sound of humiliating freshmen laughter.

But to my astonishment, Coach Geiss (again, his real name. Hey, I don't mind calling out the good and bad guys in this post!) considered me when it came to my turn. After a minute, he said, "West, you look a little pale. Why don't you go lay down on the bench in the locker room."

Incredibly grateful, I couldn't help but smile as I pretended to be feeling sick and walked past the coach. Who gave me a quick pat on the back. He may as well have winked at me, too.

So, eat it, Coaches Corder and Supple, you mean, sadistic, violent jack-asses who appeared to enjoy watching boys shower! Coach Geiss showed how to do it with grace and humanity.

Whew. Glad to get that off my chest.

While I've got sadism on the brain, meet Leon Garber, protagonist of my darkly comic thriller trilogy, Killers Incorporated. Leon's a successful accountant, handsome, appears to have it all. He's also a serial killer. But hang on! He's the good guy! Some of the other serial killers he comes across...not so much, giving my junior high gym coaches a run for their sadistic money. Heads are chopped, dropped and swapped in the first book, Secret Society, and that's just the beginning! Check 'em out here!

Hair Famous

Recently, while visiting my daughter in her small town, she bust this out on me: "Dad, I'm kinda' 'hair famous' here."

Not knowing how to respond and not sure exactly what "hair famous" was, and maybe because I would never stand a chance in hell of ever being "hair famous," I jealously replied, "So am I."

"Oh, really, Dad? Really?" 

Well, in her case it was true. And she had no idea she was either, until people kept pointing it out to her.

A co-worker called it out to her first. "Are you even aware you're hair famous?"

"What?" she said. "What're you talking about?"

Then she showed my daughter the Facebook story. My daughter's hairdresser posted pics of my daughter's "famous hair" and it went pseudo-viral (is that such a thing?) and hairdressers started reposting it, commenting on it, and sending it everywhere. Soon, she became a celebrity in hairdressing circles. Kinda like Cher. Or O.J.

Boom! Hair famous! 

Now, part of me is insanely jealous. Due to the sadistic gleeful nature of the unjust supreme beings, I've been cursed with baldness, thus negating my chances of ever being hair famous. Now, how is it fair that a bald guy has a "hair famous" daughter? Cruel, I tell you, just cruel!

Maybe I can become "bald famous" along such other noteworthy follicly-challenged celebrities as Telly "Who Loves Ya, Baby" Savalas, Yul "The King and I" Brynner, and Donald "It's A Witch Hunt!" Trump. (Sorry, sorry, sorry, I just had to slip in a Trump slam. In fact, I think I'll do one every post until the November selection.)

Ah well, at least being hair famous happened to my daughter, a genuinely good person. (BTW, her other claim to fame is Kansas City's famous rapper Tech N9ne has hit on her several times. And he's not exactly hair famous!)

While I'm gabbing about hair, meet Shawn Biltmore, an up-and-coming corporate drone who wishes he had the power hair and prestige of his superiors. Unfortunately, he gets more than he ever wished for when a werewolf bites him. And that's all in the first couple pages! Horror and dark comedy ensue in Corporate Wolf.

Welcome to the Dog Pack

When I woke up that fateful morning, I had no idea we'd have a dog pack by the end of the day.

Let's jump into the Way-Back Machine for a minute. Several years back, my wife floated the idea of a new dog. I dragged my feet because...well, because I truly hate putting dogs to sleep when it's their time (which is kinda a dumb thing to write, since I doubt there's a huge contingent out there who enjoy putting dogs down. But...considering the nature of our world right now, you never know. But I digress.)

Long story, short: we ended up adopting two dogs because they were "bonded." That, of course, was Bijou and Mr. Loomis (which I've written about before). One is a Lhasa Apso, the other an inexplicable blending of Saint Bernard, Australian Cattle Shepherd, and about a dozen other species (Bijou had very randy parents!). But the dog we'd always wanted was a Cavalier King Charles. Alas, they're very hard to come by unless you want to shell out two grand (hello, Bijou and Mr. Loomis! Plus, adopting is the way to go.).

Mr. Loomis wondering what fresh hell we've brought into his home.

Skip ahead several years...my wife found a mix of a Cavalier King Charles and a Shih Tzu (we think) up for adoption, a puppy of one year. We jumped on it and the woman called us back immediately. She said, "You were the first interested people I was able to get ahold of."

Ta-dahhhhhh! Two days later, we set off in a very windy rain storm for a small town in Missouri about 2-1/2 hours away with our two O.G. dogs in tow for the big meet 'n greet.

When we finally--finally!--found the woman's house (a treacherous road full of hills and winds and heart-stopping gasps {at least from me riding shotgun}, the four of us entered into the Wild Kingdom.

A small house, it was packed to the rafters with animals of all sorts. An entire wall was jam-packed with cages of birds unleashing a maddening cacophony of tweets, squawks, and caws. A snake slithered around the inside of an aquarium. Somewhere, a cat rumbled his distaste for our intrusion. The woman went on to tell us about the rats she'd adopted (rats, for God's sake, rats!). Mercifully, they were sequestered in the basement. Bijou growled at everything. Mr. Loomis wandered around smelling various items and animals. And in the midst of all this madness, our new puppy ran scattershot, barking, wagging his tail, and avoiding the strange new quartet of people and dogs.

Things happened fast. Before I knew it, we were headed home with three dogs in the back seat, the new guy in the middle. (Side note: Of course we got lost on the long and winding roads {the convenience guy wasn't much help: "No problem. Hang a left at the church, go a spell, turn right at Fred's barn, go all the way outta town, then about a jot past that..."}, thus rendering our trip into three hours plus.) And what a journey it was. Our two O.G. dogs didn't know what to make of their new fellow traveler. Growls were exchanged, a few snips, uncertainty and no sleep whatsoever for all three wary dogs. By the time, we made it home, we were travelling in a rather pungent odor of poop.

Bijou ready for normalcy to return.

I'm writing this on the third day of our new dog pack. Gone are the mornings of ever hoping to sleep in again. Little time do I have to get anything done, for I'm wrangling dogs 24-7. Also, while I'd always wanted a little lap dog (Mr. Loomis was supposed to fill that role, but made it clear early on, he is above lapdom, while Bijou--although much too big--dearly wants that role.), the new guy has to be in my lap 24-7. This makes taking the trash out rather difficult.

And the accidents, oy, the accidents! We're going through bottles and bottles of enzyme spray keeping on top of it.

As for the dynamic between the dog pack? It's been rather tricky. Mr. Loomis--a cranky old veteran of 15 years (a dog after my cranky old heart)--chooses to ignore the new guy. Until he intrudes on his territory, then things turn snappish. And Bijou will not tolerate the little fellow coming close while he's getting attention from my wife or me. 

Today seems a little better. Bijou is finally playing with the new addition, although the little guy was terrified at first to reciprocate with the much larger dog. But today seems encouraging. Still gotta work on Mr. Loomis, but I doubt the old man will come around. Maybe with time. But, like me, he has a low tolerance level for impertinent young whippersnappers.

The new pup's name was originally Bailey. But we're working on changing it to...Biscuit. Behold, Prince Biscuit, newest member of our unholy dog pack!

Speaking of wild animals and packs, there are no dogs, but a slew of werewolves running rampant in my darkly comic horror novel, Corporate Wolf. Hey! It's just another day at the office! Check it out here.

My Romancing History in Cars

You can tell a lot about people through their driving history. For instance, in my 45 years of driving, I've had six--count 'em-- six cars! I'm a firm believer in the "Drive 'em Until They Drop" theory.

My younger brother, on the other hand, has probably had 45 vehicles in his 47 year driving history. How did my younger bro have two years up on me in driving, I hear you asking? For whatever reason, my parents let him get his driving permit when he was 14, using the excuse that my dad was in a wheelchair. Although Dad was, I think that was just an excuse for a 14 year old to drive to school every day, even though we lived two blocks from school! Bragging rights I was never afforded (although I knew better than to drive at that young age). Anyway, he's had every type of vehicle from gas-guzzling, monster pick-em-up trucks to motorcycles to sports cars to stuff-the-family-into HUV's.

Then there's my daughter. After 12 years of driving, she's already surpassed my record of six vehicles (mostly because of her fondness for blowing up her cars).

But that's me digressing like the wind. When I started thinking about my run of cars (only six, keep in mind!), I realized how they all coincided with various degrees of romance through the years, a lotta bad, some good, the last one great.

My first car--and still my favorite--was a yellow, black-topped '67 Mustang. She (sexist!) was a beauty, a real classic. Until some dopey, possibly doped, long-haired, barefoot kid ran into four stalled cars on a busy street with his junker, my 'Stang accordioned in the middle. We jumped, flew, got bashed up, until the cracking metal and smoke ceased.

Heartbroken over the fact that it was probably totaled, I began the long walk home until my parents found me (and consequently grew enraged at me, even though the accident hadn't been my fault; that lay on Dopey McDoperson).

Surprisingly good news! A garage my dad found said they could fix it. Which coincided with my very first high school date (okay, it wasn't a "real" date; I was just a placeholder for my friend, entertaining his girlfriend until he got back in town). But I was so excited, I neglected to inspect the body work and drove my faithful Mustang out of the garage and straight to pick up my buddy's girlfriend. Hopes were doused when my friend's GF ridiculed the now white hood, with the rest of the car being yellow. It also felt scary to drive since the accident, feeling like it could fall apart in the street.

Time to go to college! And with it, a brand new (to me, at least; I've never bought a "new" car) ride, a Toyota Celica. The Celica was a good, reliable car, but when it broke down, it totally broke my wallet, even though I managed to steam up the windows quite a few times, if you know what I mean and I think you do. But I had it for years, long enough to woo my first wife in it, and woo we did, the Celica and I.

Then...sudden, surprising, shocking divorce! And I was stuck with a rusted Celica, not the most appealing car to the ladies. ("Hey baby, wanna come check out my Celica?")

So, my dad took it upon himself to find me a new car (I think he took pity on me for the divorce; or he just liked haggling with dealers, a "hobby" I've never understood anyone enjoying.). He even concocted an elaborate scheme to get my dangerously oil-leaking car out to the dealer (I had to keep pulling over and putting oil into it on the way) before it burned up so we could trade. We barely made it and to my nervous disbelief, the car dealer didn't even have anyone look at the leaking hunka' junk.

I came back with a blue Oldsmobile. Again, not the most sexy car, but hey, at least it wasn't held together by rust.

But it did break down a lot. Fun little side note: one time while the Olds was in the shop, my mom loaned me her second car, a BMW, to tool around in. Women were drawn to that like flies to an outhouse. They'd give me Love Eyes at the gas station. When I finally grew bold enough to chat them up, they got turned off when I told them I worked as a graphic artist, clearly expecting me to be bringing home the big bucks.

Over the years, the Olds took me on a lot of dates, some successful, others not. Most not. Which prompted my one sad, middle-aged-crisis purchase, a Chrysler LeBaron Convertible. Very cool! Well...not exactly cool in the Summer. But definitely cool, freezing cold in the Winter. 

Which was when I met my second wife, during the coldest part of an unseasonably frigid Winter. On dates, we bundled up in layers, looking like the Michelin Man and Woman. I finally sprang for a mini-heater that plugged into the cigarette lighter, for all the good it did.

Eventually, we married, and one of the first things my wife did was go car shopping for me (probably because she was tired of freezing). Thus came the Toyota Camry. A very solid car, good for many years during our very solid marriage.

But, it too, eventually went the way of the dinosaur. With a heavy heart (my only vehicle not affiliated with a tragic time in my love life), I remember saying a fond, nearly tearful, farewell to it in the parking lot of CarMax (where we expected to get $200, but crazily got a couple grand).

Which leads me to my current ride, a Highlander. I love the car (my wife insists on calling it a "truck," but I would never be caught driving a truck, for crying out loud! How uncouth!). Oh sure, it had some growing pains. When we purchased the sweet ride, we made the mistake of taking it to our mechanic AFTER we brought it home. The mechanic looked it over with a fine-toothed comb, ready to give it a thumbs up, until he remembered hearing something about that model's engine block cracking in half. Kinda a big deal. Sure enough, he saw enough evidence that made him suggest we get it fixed. I still love it; it's a great car (ummmm, except for the engine).

There you have it. My six automobiles, all connected to a different romantic time in my life. Kinda like my stints in prison (wait...did I just say that out loud?).

Speaking of romance, pity poor Shawn Biltmore, who is caught between two beautiful women. Why pity him what others would envy? Because it'll be very hard for Shawn to romance any woman when he's a part-time werewolf. Not to mention the fact that there's another werewolf eating his coworkers. Or could it be Shawn doing the dinners and blacking it out? Only Shawn's autobiography,

Corporate Wolf, holds the shocking answer!

 

A.I. Nightmare Generator

"Huh. What won't they think of next?" This quote comes from my beloved, late mother and I think it's rather apt regarding what I'll be discussing. (My mom stated this a lot, actually, and although I never did find out who the ubiquitous "They" were {undoubtedly some secret deep state cabal}, as a naive child, I came to understand that "They" secretly ran the world, creating new inventions just to stymie people. But I digress.)

My pal, Gary (he of the infamous, self-indulgent "Brotherton" fame), recently hit me up regarding the new artificial intelligence image generators you can use on the interwebs. He said all you do is type in some crazy scenario and seconds later, you have an image at your disposal!

"Huh," I said. "What won't they think of next?" But I started pondering the ramifications of this new invention. Truly, it could revolutionize the world (while also maybe putting artists and photographers out of business). Just think of all the possibilities! If you're a self-publishing author, you could create your own book cover. And I can start making personalized photos for my blog posts without getting sued! How about students who can create custom-made illustrations for reports and papers and what-not! Consider all of the windows it would toss wide open in the fields of medicine and science and...and...and...

So obviously Gary and I decided to use this incredible new creation to try and freak each other out. Oh, sure, it started innocently enough with what Gary proposed as "Brotherton...the Game." He would send me some generator created pics and I would have to guess which Brotherton scenario it was. (The pic at top is supposed to be Dom Deluise and James Coco as twin bad-ass mafia enforcers.) Case in point...

Well, clearly this is "Gene Rayburn and Jack Palance as thawed neanderthal brothers who do odd jobs for rocks." Duh. (Yes, I know. There are still some flaws in the program in that the cavemen celebs look kinda funny and don't really look like who they're supposed to be, but COOL!)

Then things started going off the deep end and straying away from Brotherton as you can see...

This is supposed to be Shelly Winters dancing in a bikini with pygmies at church. Okay, there is no bikini (to which we're probably all grateful), and the "pygmies" look like Barney Rubble and Fred Flintstone without pants. Hang on...things get much worse...

 Obviously this is Dolph Sweet, Brian Dennehy, Kenneth McMillan, and Charles Durning are door to door quadruplet masseuses. Although it sorta looks like Jackie Gleason as "Gleasonstein's Monster" third from left. And to make more body horror, the guy on the far right has three legs, two bodies, one head. The way I like it.

I double dog defy you to guess what this pic is supposed to be. You got it? Good job! That's right, it's a 70's rock album cover featuring Buddy Hackett and Ernest Borgnine in a sauna filled with snakes! Very Cronenbergian. This AI image generator appears to thrive on body horror. Brrrrr. Nightmarish indeed.

Because I liked the imagery of Buddy and Ernest in a sauna filled with snakes so much, I decided to run the description again. Lookie what I created:

Not really clear on where Lucille Ball and Shelly Winter's love child came from, but here you go! You're welcome!

Next...

This one's easy. It's a 60's superhero comic book panel with Charles Nelson Reilly clipping his toenails. I believe I had a nightmare about this and subconsciously recalled it. Or I'm just super weird.

Get out the rice because here comes the bride...

By cracky, you guys are good! You guessed it right! It's Jim Nabors in a wedding dress marrying Rock Hudson! (C'mon, you guys know your dad or grandpa told you about this secret ceremony.)

Finally, we have...

A Picasso painting of Gary Busey on a Moped! Wow! So much fun! So many nightmares! So much time wasting!

This is just a smattering of what I've been up to this week. As you can see...we're using this stunning new technology to help mankind build to a stronger future. Or more than likely, we've just got a lot of time to kill.

Speaking of killing, there's a whole lot of it going on in my darkly comic serial killer trilogy, Killers Incorporated. Grab the first book, Secret Society, here to find out why killer with a moral code, Leon Garber, is now being hunted by his former employer, the nefarious Like-Minded Individuals, Inc. (Huh... What won't they think of next?)