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!

Art My A$$!

 I like modern art. Contemporary, pop, surrealistic, post-hipster-ironic, there's a place for all of it. In fact, when visiting the Nelson Art Museum on the Plaza, I prefer the modern wing to the stodgy ol' masters of yesteryear.

But this...THIS...

Where do I begin? An Italian "artist," Maurizio Cattelan, duct taped a banana to a wall and called it ART. He's duped many a critic--and pretentious would-be critics--into deeming it a masterpiece. A masterpiece of crap and scamming maybe. Get this...Cattelan made three different versions of this messterpiece and recently, the second one sold for $6.2 MILLION dollars! Yep. You read that right.

Cattelan calls this grift-work "Comedian." I can see why. He's laughing all the way to the bank.

What really gets my goat is that the guy who bought it ate the friggin' banana at a press conference! $6.2 million bucks down the drain. Hell, some third world countries could be fed for that kinda cash-drop. Grrrr...don't get me going.

The purchaser in question was a cryptocurrency tycoon (reportedly of questionable criminal concerns) who explained, while chowing down on his expensive art, that "the real value is the concept itself" and compared it to a crypto asset. Which opens up a whole new level of mind-buggery and grifting.

Where do we draw the line on what constitutes "art?" Can I hang a pair of my dirty underwear from a flag pole and charge a half a million (I'm not greedy!) for this brilliant contemporary commentary on the filth that secretly underlies the white picket fences and manicured lawns of suburbia?

To paraphrase Sigmund Freud (one of the greatest stand-up comedians of his era), "sometimes a banana is just a banana."

Maybe I'm just mad I didn't think of this scam first.

Happy New Year!

Speaking of grifters, check out the cover on my supernatural horror comedy, Demon With a Comb-Over! That's all I'll say about that!

Anti-Easter Celebration!

With Halloween recently passed (and the nightmarish election having been held), I thought this would be the perfect time of year for a heart-warming Easter greeting.

Nah...not really...

But I have an old college friend, who is a card-carrying atheist, who every Easter conducts a ritual that warms the black cockles of his atheist heart. And it makes me giggle.

Each Easter holiday, my pal chooses to go to the Walmart in the most bible-thumping, Trump-fist-bumping Kansas county (and the selection is HUGE), and visits the Easter candy aisle. There he proceeds to turn all of the chocolate crosses upside down, thus giving Satan due diligence.

He has a routine--a well-practiced one--where he busies his free hand idly picking up something, while the devilish hand flips the cross. He prefers to finish the entire chocolate cross display (at least the candy crosses in front), thus making his definitive statement. And every time, he fervently hopes he won't be caught in the act. (I have to wonder what the punishment would be if he was caught? Who knows? In this redneck, bible-hurling, evangelical county, they might reintroduce the Mike Pence Gallows™.)

I truly wish I could be a fly on the wall when the holier-than-thou patrons (and employees) discover my buddy's annual holiday tribute to sacrilege. I wonder if the poor beleaguered manager is assailed by an angry mob who vows never to shop at his Walmart again. Or if they picket the store (because everyone knows that Walmart is EVIL anyway). I lay awake at night, chuckling, just imagining the various scenarios when the blasphemous chocolate display is discovered. Might they go as far as to bring out an Easter cam next year?

I don't know, but I hope my devilish friend keeps up the good work (by the way, he's also one of the nicest guys I know).

This got me wondering about the "true" meaning of the upside-down cross. My first encounter with it, of course, was the film The Exorcist in the 70's. There, Linda Blair kept having it turned upside-down over her bed by presumably satanic forces, not to mention *ahem* other unmentionable things.

Online, I found two wildly disparate explanations for the symbol. In Christianity, particularly Catholicism, the upside-down cross is meant to represent the humility of Peter, who wanted to be crucified upside-down because he wasn't worthy of dying like Jesus had. That's the pope's story and he's sticking to it.

However, popular culture, particularly in recent times, has adopted it as a symbol of anti-Christianity or Satanism. YOU be the judge!

So, if my pal ever gets popped into jail for his blasphemous anarchy, this is a surefire court defense. "Hey, if it's good enough for the Pope, it's good enough for me." (Then again, traditional back county Kansas Christians sorta always sneer at Catholics, so cue the Mike Pence Gallows™ again!).

While I'm waxing over all things satanic, check out my darkly comical horror novel, Demon With a Comb-Over. In it, a hapless stand-up comedian runs afoul of a demon by making fun of a demon's comb-over. Things go really downhill fast after that, so downhill, the tale ends in a confrontation in Hell. Check out all the macabre fun here!

Sardinia!

Several weekends ago, my wife and I thought it'd be a great idea to go to "Boulevardia," a two day outdoor music and beer festival (two of my favorite things wrapped together in one big package meant especially for me!) in downtown, Kansas City. With 70 musical acts on tap, I thought what could possibly be the downside?

Well... A) I'm not as young or fit as I used to be; and B) the weather! Oh, my God, the weather!

Leading up to the event, I kept my eye on the weather, tracking the long-term forecast with intense scrutiny. What I'd been on the lookout for was rain, tornadoes, the usual fun stuff of the Midwest, only maxed out by global warming. Things looked good! 85 degrees as the high for both days, no rain in sight. And then...the forecast heat kept inching up, bit by bit, day by day. Until it hit 101 degrees on Saturday. With the humidity really, really high as well.

Crap.

Alright. I pulled up my big boy britches and prepared. I imagined a musical montage (cue the theme to "Rocky"), while I tried on all of my old shorts, stashed at the bottom of a drawer beneath our bed. (Of course, I think we'd want to cut the part out of the montage where none of my shorts fit and I had to make a mad dash to Target for new ones. Hey, don't blame my weight gain! It's the damned humidity  making all of my clothes shrink.) 

So, armed with shorts, a hat, water bottles, sun screen and other life essentials (we looked like Hawaiian be-shirted campers), we headed for day one of Boulevardia. Day one wasn't bad. It started at 5:00 p.m., so most of the blistering sun had fallen and there was a nice breeze. But by the end of the night, when headliner Nathaniel Rateliff and the Night Sweats (one of the main reasons for our attendance) took the main stage, we found ourselves in the middle of a huge, jam-packed mob situation. Hundreds and hundreds and thousands and hundreds of fans were squished together like sardines in a can.

While Rateliff was awesome, several things impeded my enjoyment: 1) I was sweating like a stuck pig and feeling claustrophobic; 2) the ever present threat of Covid (this was our big "coming out" party; we had forgone masks completely for the first time in a while); and 3) I kept thinking "wouldn't this be an ideal place for a mass shooting?" 

Which is sad, really, that that's what was going through my mind. I kept imagining ways to smuggle a gun into the event, which wouldn't have been tough at all, instead of just letting go and enjoying the concert. A very depressing current state of affairs in which we live.

But it wasn't all bad. Where else could you see "Saxsquatch," some guy who puts on a Bigfoot costume and plays the saxophone, covering a lotta maudlin hits of the '70's and '80's? (How in the world he managed not to pass out in that heat, in that costume, was beyond me. Unless...could it be? Naw. But, wait...maybe, just maybe...he was a REAL BIGFOOT!)

We survived the first day, no great shakes. But day two was an entirely different affair. It started out hot at 11:00 A.M. and just got blazingly worse. In my youth, my friends and I went to these festivals non-stop and the heat and humidity never bothered us. Here, it was a case of survival where we constantly sought out shade. We grew clever and pulled chairs into little rock islands with tree coverage. I wet down a wash cloth and put it on top of my head beneath my hat, no matter how dumb I looked. We ended up at various musical stages, at this point dictated by the amount of shade coverage offered.

When my wife moved onto the Maker's alley, I was near collapse. Like an old fat man, I found a tree and plopped down beneath it,  chigger bites preferable over heat stroke.

All around me young people laughed, gathered, drank, stood out in the sunshine. You know, being annoying. Young people suck! Get offa my lawn!

Once my wife returned, I told her I'd had enough. In small increments, we made our way out of there, stopping beneath trees, finding abandoned seats, naturally pausing for beer, until we finally landed in God-made, natural air conditioning.

The moral of the story? Just wait until you get old, damn whippersnapper!

Hey, now, don't open the doors to the ol' folks home for me quite yet, but floundering stand-up comedian Charlie Broadmoor is beginning to feel the weight of his mortality weighing on him. Things don't get any better when he inadvertently heckles a demon during one of his nightclub gigs. Now, he really feels that ol' life time clock ticking. Read the Amazing True Story in my book, Demon with a Comb-Over, available right here, right now! 

The Crown Prince of Jerkdom

It's me, the crown prince of jerkdom!

Finally, I'm royalty!

Not too long ago, my wife was sleeping in incredibly late.

I went to roust her and she said--very groggily--"I keep waking up to a jerk."

Doh!

I said, "Well, I know I'm not Mr. Wonderful 24-7, but I generally am 23-7. Hmmph. You keep waking up to a jerk, indeed."

As she stared at me, waiting for wakefulness to spark, she finally said, "No, that's not what I said!"

(It's not the first time I've been called a jerk before.) "Well, what did you say?"

"I said, 'I keep waking up with a jerk.'"

Sooooo many crickets. Finally, I asked, "How is that any better?"

"You know...restlessness. I kept jerking my leg." Seeing as how I still didn't get it, she demonstrated a leg jerk.

"Ooooooooooohhhhhhh," I said.

Later the same day, she requested my aid in lifting a printer out of a box. With the job completed, she said, "I'm done with you now."

Stunned, I asked, "Is it because I'm a jerk?"

I tell you I get no respect.

Bada-boom!

While we're on the topic of really dumb comedy, nobody's dumber at comedy than lackluster stand-up comedian, Charlie Broadmoor (well, except for maybe me since I created him). Things go from crappy to sucktacular in a very quick and splatacular manner for poor Charlie when he accidentally heckles a demon during one of his routines. It's Demon with a Comb-Over available here!

 

Chevy Chase Owes Me

The way I see it Chevy Chase owes me. In fact, he probably owes a lotta people. I mean he's never hurt me, not personally.

No, scratch that! He has hurt me personally and cost me financially.

Let's go ahead and jump into the Way-Back Machine for some perspective and background, shall we?

Our first stop is October 11, 1975, a Saturday night. Being unpopular as a kid meant I spent a LOT of time visiting with my one true faithful friend, the TV. I just left the TV on the NBC affiliate and let it ride (remember, this is back in the days of three--count 'em--three(!) TV stations, possibly four if the weather cooperated). Suddenly, a show came on that was unlike anything I'd ever witnessed before. There was a whole new and fresh vibe, a young person's comedy full of sarcasm and underlying anger. They showed commercials that had me stumped whether they were real or not. No canned laughter (which I'm still stunned that several shows still use today; Hello, CBS!). And best of all, they sometimes broke through the fourth wall to address that they were in a skit, something Green Acres would never attempt.

Hello, comedy that spoke to me; Goodbye, Hee-Haw and all the old fogey comedy it represented! I worshiped at the altar of Saturday Night Live.

And anchoring it all was a strangely smart alecky, deadpan, lanky comedian named Chevy Chase.

I was all in.

Well, Chase didn't last long on Saturday Night Live. At the beginning of the second season, he bolted for Ginormous-Mega-Movie-Super-Stardom, aka, "Big Head Syndrome." The writing was on the wall. If only my young naive self had been aware enough to read it and pay heed.

I championed Chase. No matter where he went, I followed. I'd brag to family and school acquaintances that he was the funniest guy working in entertainment and to catch his newest vehicle. Without seeing it first, that's how much I believed in him.

In 1977, he spat up a TV special. It guest-starred Tim Conway and Dr. Joyce Brothers. I thought, "Wait a minute...what happened to the new-fangled cutting edge satire? These are...my grandma's guest stars!" Chevy made "funny faces" while wearing mime make-up and sticking his tongue out. Ha ha. It took him all of a year to sell out to The Man. Mortified, the next day I made the rounds apologizing to everyone to whom I recommended this epic disaster.

But I thought it was a one off! A bad day for Chevy! Undeterred, I continued to follow his career.

First we had Foul Play, a "rom com" with Goldie Hawn. While this is considered to be one of his "better" movies, I felt ripped off and left with a feeling of "meh-ness." Chase wasn't even acting, just coasting at best.

A year or so later, I found out he was starring in Oh, Heavenly Dog. Alongside "Benji (Now, again, for you whippersnappers, Benji was a dog that starred in several family films. Don't ask me why.)" But I thought, surely he'll make it into a subversive satire. Again, I dragged a buddy off to the theater. It was a short-lived friendship.

Now I hear some of you shouting, "Hey, what about National Lampoon's Vacation, Caddyshack, and Fletch?" Well...Vacation has some good stuff in it, but is uneven; Caddyshack was woefully stupid and childish (my date liked it if that tells you anything about her), and Fletch was...insufferable. Kinda like how I was beginning to feel about Chevy Chase.

I mean, really, can one base a movie career on smirking, shameless mugging and smarminess?

Yet, call me a half-glass full kinda guy, I followed Chevy through Under the Rainbow (Fun fact! The diminutive co-stars in this rotten comedy about the making of Wizard of Oz had a non-stop Bacchanalian orgy going on behind the scenes! The more you know!), Modern Problems (Not a single laugh to be grasped), Deal of the Century (No, God, why me?), European Vacation (Wake me when it's over!), Spies Like Us (THIS is a movie?), and the list goes on and on.

I drew the line at Follow That Bird, the heartwarming tale of a giant, intellectually-challenged, baby-man-bird getting lost far from home.

Enough was enough. I'd thrown down a small fortune banking on Chase's "talents" at the box office, lost many friends over the cinematic atrocities I'd dragged them to, and had many, many one-date-onlies due to his crimes against moviedom.

He owes me. Big time.

But it doesn't stop with me. Apparently, Chase is quite the jackass, alienating coworkers left and right. That's why they killed him off on the TV show, Community. He'd publicly bashed the show, saying he didn't think it was funny. This coming from the man who thinks mugging and buck teeth are a laugh riot.

In a recent interview, Chase said "I don't give a crap about how I've acted on shows. I am who I am."

There you have it in a nutshell. As I grew up suffering through Chase's "output," it slowly dawned on me that he didn't "give a crap" about what he churned out, thinking so little of his audience that he'd put out anything for a buck. 

I guess there's kinda a happy ending. Because of his jackass reputation, Chase went into straight-to-video pablum (the "Eric Roberts of Comedy") to hardly finding any work.

He still owes me. Anyone else? How about a class action suit?

While we're on the topic of "comedy" and substandard practitioners of the genre, have you heard the one about middling (at best) stand-up comic, Charlie Broadmoor, and how he displayed the poor judgement to heckle a demon in his audience? No? Well, here's your chance! Demon With a Comb-Over available here!

 

The Legend of the Orange Krampus

We've all read the folklore tales of Europe's anti-Santa Claus, Krampus, right? Okay, okay, we've all seen the movie. Krampus is the legendary, terrifying demon-looking guy who used to collect naughty children and throw them into his sack around the holidays.

Well, for your reading pleasure (or nightmares), I've uncovered a true Krampus residing in the United States! And not only does he operate year round, he tortures predominantly good children, kissing them into dreadful nightmares! Ladies and gentlemen, I give you...Trumpus.

Just look at him. Brrrrrr. I'm so glad my daughter's fully grown and won't be subject to the terrifying grab and mangle, shock 'n awe tactics it reserves for small children. I mean, Trumpus would never think of grabbing, mauling or assaulting grown women, right?

Here, let's gander at some of the photographic evidence I've found:

Trumpus scared this poor child so much, her hair stood on end.

Here he can be seen slobbering all over another frightened victim. I don't blame her. Witness Trumpus' bizarre kissing method. It's like two cartoon fish or those stupid Precious Moments children figurines where they're bent at the waste, lips extended. Which is all the more strange as I've read that Trumpus is a germaphobe. And there's something called a pandemic going on right now. Maybe you've heard. Regardless, I pity the child as who knows where Trumpus' lips have been (something about a porn star...)

But Trumpus is NOT a sexist! Here he's shown ready to throw a little boy into his sack. For you see, Trumpus is a one hundred percent heterosexual demon, damn skippy! No kisses for that late, little guy, no sir!

Trumpus had a particularly bad time with twins, not his idea of a walk in the park. While he tried to eat one, the other fought back. He's more used to mauling one-on-one.

Another victim being led to the frying pan. Is there no end to Trumpus' foul reign of terror? Is there a way we can put a stop to this vile creature of orange? Yes, says I! I've read he's particularly vulnerable this upcoming November.

Speaking of demons with comb-overs, on a completely unrelated topic, have you read my book, um, entitled...Demon with a Comb-Over? No. Plenty of reading time until November. 

 
 

Brawl in Aisle Six!

I don't know why people like to fight with me. Maybe because I'm tall, big, and sport a shaved head. Maybe it's my "winning personality." Perhaps I have an uncanny superpower to seek out people on their Worst Day Ever (my "grumpy senses" are tingling!). Whatever the reason, grocery store cashiers hate me.

Wait...there's a caveat here, probably an important one. Usually, when these folks take umbrage with me, I'm with my mom. Full of blatant hand dismissals, eye-rolls, "whatever's," and oft-times rude behavior, my mom believes everyone's out to rip her off and the entire world owes her. Who knows, maybe they are and do, and I'm the one in the wrong. Grocery check-out clerks certainly believe so.

Case in point (before the world went into lock-down mode), during a recent weekly grocery store trip, I dragged my mom up to the check-out line. The cashier (older than me, younger than my mom) kept trying to have a conversation with my mom and ignored me. Which is more than fine with me, except my mom can't hear very well and can barely see. I find myself in the unenviable role of translator, barking loudly so she understands. Which I imagine makes me look like a jackass.

Anyway, my mom decides she wants to hear more about the store's "points program." And it's my turn to roll my eyes.

We're gonna be here a while, I just know it.

"I just don't understand this whole points program," my mom says to me in her teeny-tiny peep of a voice.

I sigh and repeat it to the cashier.

"Well, I have a brochure that'll explain it to you," snips the pelican behind the counter.

"Mom," I shout, "she has a brochure!"

So, this transaction goes on for a while as I'm playing Switzerland, trying to remain neutral in a battle over a free piece of cheap Tupperware I don't care about. Then it hits me: I'm now the United States, hip deep in this war! How'd that happen? 

Meanwhile, my mom's flying Switzerland's flag, standing off on the sidelines with an innocent (devilish?) smile. All to win a free piece of Tupperware which she'll never get because she won't accumulate enough points within a month's time, but, hey, my mom never lets anything "free" slip by her.

Finally, we're done, all packed and good to go.  The cashier dangles the Golden Brochure, fanning herself with it, baiting my mom. When I reach for it, she yanks it away. I try again, and she raises it above her head like some playground bully.

Feral as a rabid badger, she shakes her head and growls at me. "I said I'd give it to her! Not you!" Teeth clenched, the badger metaphor truly applies.

I sigh, try to retain my cool. 'Cause the only thing worse than being a tall, shaved-headed, big guy is how freaked out people get when they see a big, shaved-headed, tall guy freak out. 

"She can't read it," I explain. "She's blind."

Lips pursed, eyes narrowed, the cashier says, "Is she really, now?"

"Yes. Well, okay, about 90% or so. She has Macular Degeneration." Now, I'm getting pissed off because I'm being questioned, put on the spot, and forced to explain myself. Mercifully, my mom's oblivious to the entire exchange.

At long last--and much to the relief of the growing line of people behind us--the cashier relents and unleashes her treasure. "Okay, then."

"Gee thanks." I snag it away and instantly give it to my mother. After all I don't want the cashier thinking I kept the literature all to myself for evil, nefarious means. (Mwah, hah, hahhhhh, I shall rule all of Kansas with the power vested in me by this almighty brochure!)

"What's this?" asks my mom.

Sigh. "It's the brochure, Mom," I shout. And by this time, I truly am shouting, partly out of frustration, mostly out of anger. Which I'm sure makes me look like I'm being mean to this poor sweet lil' ol' lady. I had to get outta there. Fast. Before mob mentality took me out over in the produce aisle.

The trials and tribulations of being the tallest, most despised man in grocery store lines.

Speaking of trials and tribulations, anyone who's ever read any of my books knows I like to drag my characters to Hell and back. Sometimes, literally! Check out Demon with a Comb-Over, my serio-comic horror tale about a hapless stand-up comic (who's tall, shaved-headed, and big!) who has the bad misfortune of heckling a demon. 

Brownies: The Gateway Food To Destruction

Everyone knows that one puff of a marijuana reefer leads directly to heroin addiction. (I think Trump said that, so, of course, I believe it.)

 

But what about that confectionery catastrophe, that most dangerous of desserts, the sultan of sugar, the brownie? The truth about this devious dessert, sadly, is swept under the rugs like a deep dark family secret everyone is too afraid to shine a light on.

Until now. In my ongoing quest for journalistic judiciousness, I'm knocking down the doors, and exposing the hidden dangers of...the brownie.

First things first, let's ponder the name: the brownie. Hmmm. Wikipedia sheds some very interesting facts about the brownie. It's widely known to be a supernatural entity, a nocturnal spirit creature who pretends to do good things at night, such as clean your house, only to pull ghastly pranks when least expected. I know I'm not alone in receiving a mysterious "Wet Willie" in the middle of the night. This smacks of satanism.

Furthermore, these hideous, foul creatures have insinuated themselves into an insidious cult that goes by the name, "Brownies." On the outside, the members look like clean-cut, wholesome, sweet and innocent young girl scouts (grades 2-3), but don't be fooled by their appearance.

Because something smells fishy. What is the "Brownies'" primary function? Why to spread sugar and diabetes and disease throughout the lands, the goal being the fattening of America, making us ripe for the forthcoming, inevitable Satanic slaughter.

Think I'm kidding?  I have first-hand knowledge of the dangers of The Brownie.

During the (un)Great Quarantine of 2020, the brownie took hold of our lives here in Kansas. I'd like to blame my wife, I'll settle for a mutual blaming, but honestly? It's the Brownie's fault and the powers that lie in it's kitchen of killing grounds.

Early on in our quarantine, my wife said all she felt like doing is baking. I pondered that while she went upstairs to work. I pondered some more until I was salivating. Slowly--as if in a trance--I made my way downstairs to the food pantry, where I knew a brownie mix awaited. My fingers inched closer to the door. I hesitated, then pulled it open with a creak. As if being pushed toward me, the brownie mix box plopped to the floor. With trembling hands, I picked it up. Then raised it over my head just as Simba had done in The Lion King. And somewhere--far away, yet everywhere at once--I heard a deep, Barry-White-deep, voice laughing.

Now, I've never made brownies. Never had a desire to. Didn't even think they were that good. But I baked. I baked until sweat broke across my brow. I went upstairs to share the news with my wife.

She said, "I don't know whether to be pissed off at you or to kiss you."

The vile nature of the brownie.

Sure, the pecans I found and put in the batch were rancid, but it didn't stop us. On the contrary. Brownies became nearly an every day occurrence in our household.

It took its toll. My clothes started shrinking (the work of supernatural brownie pranksters, no doubt). My gut grew to kangaroo-pouch proportions (birthing Eeeevilllll). And we didn't stop. We couldn't stop.

Until, one night when I awoke from a nightmare. I had started eating entire fried chickens, bricks of pre-fab cheese, and watermelons. And that was just a snack!

Things had to change.

Now, we're on a diet. It's hard. The temptation's there. But...I've already lost 15 pounds, so it's working. But I still think of those sweet, sweet bricks of sugary goodness and melty deliciousness...and...and... NO! Satan, get behind me with those brownies!

This is a cautionary tale, folks. Please heed it. And remember, the next time you go to a grocery store and see "Brownies" pandering their demonic delights, whip out your crucifixes and lay some goodness smack on them. People will applaud you. Trust me.

Speaking of Satan, why not give my book, Demon with a Comb-Over a shot? It, too, is a manifesto of goodness versus evil. Who wins? I'm not telling, you'll have to read the book. It's a delightful romp about a crappy stand-up comedian who accidentally pisses off a demon in the audience. Clean-cut fun for the entire family!

Energy-Devouring, Soul-Sucking Convenience Store Employee

Demons are everywhere, it's a known fact.

During a recent weekend, my daughter and I desperately needed caffeine.

"Let's go to Casey's," I said. "It's closest."

"No! We can't go there, Dad! We can't! Don't make me!" My daughter looked horrified, wringing her hands in ghastly anticipation.

"Why not?"

"Because, Chelsea will be working there! Ugh! She's the worst!"

I started thinking about it. Just how bad can a convenience store employee be? What, pray tell, could she have possibly done to my daughter to make her react in such a violent manner? Did they get in a tussle over by the mocha machine?

"Whatever, Sarah," I said. "She can't be that bad."

"Noooo! She is! UGH! She's...she's a soul-sucking demon who'll try and start a long and boring conversation with you and keep you there forever! Every time I go in there, she just feeds off my energy and drains me! Chelsea's the worst! UGH!"

Laughing my arse off, I really, really had to go see what a convenience store, soul-sucking, energy-devouring demon looked like. Sadly, Chelsea wasn't working. But my demon-hunting days aren't over until I finally track down the satanic Chelsea. And my daughter still refuses to set foot into the shop even though it could save her a five minute drive to the next caffeine depot.

Demons are everywhere, it seems, even in comedy clubs. Don't believe me? Check out Demon with a Comb-Over (and no, I'm not talking about Donald Trump, although, actually I do kinda wonder if he's a demon, too).

Adventures in the Amazon Day Three: "Welcome, my dear Mr. Bond, to...Monkey Island!

Marvel at the cute, wacky antics of lovable monkeys!

"For you see, Mr. Bond, Monkey Island is a training ground for my personal army of monkeys where I shall eventually unleash them on an unwitting world to conquer...Disneyland! Mwah-hah-hah!"

Yes, Monkey Island sounds like a Bond villain compound. And, yes, Monkey Island actually exists. Come with me now, intrepid explorers, as I recount our adventures on...MONKEY ISLAND!

Tuesday morning we set out by boat on the Nanay River, an Amazon River tributary. Where the tributary meets the Amazon River, a visually distinctive color change differentiates the two rivers from "black (that's what it's called, although it's not really. Hey, I don't make up the rules.)" to light creamy brown. Shifting sediment causes color change. 

Thrill at the incredible changing water color!

Which is just one of the many amazing things about the Amazon: the landscape changes constantly. (I saw a huge tree actually topple into the river as we traveled. And there are "walking trees!" They uproot themselves and move toward sunlight. Sure, they're slower than sloths, but I ain't making this up!)

See the incredible, uncanny tree that walks like a man!

Soon, we neared MONKEY ISLAND ("ka-blammo!"). My spidey senses tingled (or maybe that was water sickness). As we disembarked, I was quickly reminded of my lousy sense of balance and lack of grace. Pay heed, folks, for we'll be revisiting this theme many times.

Excitement swelled in our group as we walked the planks up to...Monkey Island! ("Bum, bum, bummmm...") 

Duck and cover from flying feces!

Another habitat (brought to you by the fine folks of the previous manatee habitat), Monkey Island personnel rescues rare monkeys and nurses them to health. Unlike the manatee habitat, though, the monkeys roam their island freely to jack with unsuspecting visitors.

Our host warned us to wash off all bug spray and sunscreen since there'd been an earlier incident where several monkeys died by licking toxic bug lotion. We were also told, "monkeys are curious. So watch your jewelry." Understatement.

Our group washed up, stripped down, and prepared to enter...MONKEY ISLAND ("Dun, dun, dunnnnnn...").

Three minutes into our tour, a woolly monkey approached my wife, crawled up her body, and tossed its arms around her. For twenty minutes, they were inseparable as the monkey licked and kissed her and tugged playfully at her necklace.

Get jealous as my wife finds comfort in the arms of a furry stranger!

One of our traveling companions wasn't so lucky. Sara's monkey started off all cutesy, innocent and sweet, but within seconds "cute" morphed into stark-raving TERROR! The monkey climbed atop Sara's head, yanked at her hair, entangled its limbs throughout Sara's tresses, and held on tight. Like a victim in the film The Birds, Sara ineffectively tried to disengage her primate pal, plucking at it to no avail. That monkey wasn't going anywhere.

Elsewhere on MONKEY ISLAND ("Zinnnnnngggg!"), another fellow traveler, Liz, welcomed a monkey into her arms. But this monkey had a hidden agenda, an evil one. Feigning sweetness, it jabbed out, snatched Liz's glasses, and tore off into the bushes. Miraculously, one of the guides was able to retrieve the glasses.

Don't dare trust these little b@$+@*ds!

Yet another monkey dragged one of our pals, Kelly, by the hand. We all thought it the cutest thing. Until the demonic beast's true intentions became apparent. The creature stopped Kelly by a small tree, positioned her oh-so-carefully, then used her as a ladder to climb into the tree's limbs.

Hold onto your wallets and purses!

Even the sloth appeared less than trustworthy, evil gleaming in its eyes. (But I wasn't too worried; even I could outrun a sloth should it come to it.)

Me? My only contact was with a parrot. Oh, sure, it was friendly enough as it roosted on the teens in our group, but when I approached, it pecked at me.

Beware the feathered face of evil!

Maybe these surface-cuddly beasts truly were a secret, evil army in training after all.

Speaking of evil beasts, have you heard the one about the Demon with a Comb-Over? No? You just might die laughing reading this sucker. 

Clickety-click-click for horror with a side of humor.

Swab the poop-deck! I mean, literally...

Dear bird:

Why do you hate me?

First, you dive-bomb my car. Three times. Then my house, because the car wasn't enough.

I've never, EVER, hurt one of you avian fiends.

Just look at my deck. Those spatters hardly evoke relaxation.

Well, I thought I'd show you! I rented a three ton power washer. Painstakingly washed every inch of the deck, a back-breaking ordeal. It looked great!

Until an hour later when you unloaded again.

But this time, you changed up your diet. You discovered berries of some sort, some exotic fruit that apparently doesn't agree with your intestinal tract. Seriously, bird, you've got some messed up bowels.

Which leaves permanent purple stains no matter how hard I scrub.

Perhaps you discovered the dumpster behind Taco Bell?
 
I needed to seal the deck, but I couldn't until 48 hours. Out of options, low on patience, we put down a tarp. Ten minutes later...

Next, we planted a fake, scary owl. The fright made you unleash your pestilence even more.

We even tried balloons! With faces on them! While we look like neighborhood maniacs, you've found new friends.

Bird, do you guys have doctors? I mean, come on. Get some help. Just because you have irritable birdy bowel syndrome doesn't entitle you to take it out on me.

Speaking of irritants, have you heard about the supremely annoying demon with a comb-over? No? What're you waiting for? Click here by cracky for laughs with your scares!