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.

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!

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!

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.

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!

Tail-Chasing

Usually, I believe that dogs have it made. What a cush life.  Sitting around all day, sleeping long hours, pooping wherever the whim takes you, being fed and taken care of, all in return for a little love. Easy-peasy.

Until you start considering the ultimate act of futility: chasing one's tail. I mean, what are they expecting? 

"Some day I'll get you, you damned tail," they'll growl. "So close, yet so far! But one of these days...one of these days, mister!"

Now, I've seen some smart dogs and some dumb dogs. Currently, we run the gamut of mutt-types in our house. Our newest dog, Biscuit, is a tail-chaser. But, c'mon! Chasing your own tail has got to be one of the most aggravating and useless wastes of time since approaching a MAGA guy and hoping for inciteful political debate.

Everyone knows Einstein's definition of madness: "Insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results." Well, fine, in a dog's defense, I'm sure they're not very well-schooled on Einstein. But surely, they've run into a smarter dog than them who might help to guide them.

"Hey. Hey, Longfellow...Psst...you know your tail's attached to you, right?"

"Whaaaaaaaat? No it's not! Quit pulling my paw!"

DO they know their tail is attached to them? I had so many questions, so I turned to my trusty research assistant (who ALWAYS supplies nothing but facts), Dr. Google.

Dr. Google found a quote from an animal behaviorist who works at Camp Bow Wow (no, I'm not making this up; everything Dr. Google tells me is always true.): "Dogs are aware that their tails are attached to them. However, puppies may be exploring their bodies in this manner."

Well, I guess I can understand that. I spent many an adolescent day behind bathroom doors exploring my body, if you know what I mean and I think you do.

But there are also other reasons for tail-chasing. There's OCD. Now...leave it to us to adopt a puppy with OCD. But that may explain Biscuit's sitch. Every day we gather up the dog toys and every day, he must grab every single one of them and spread them all over the house, setting traps for his clumsy people.

Or it could be boredom. That holds true for our new puppy addition, certainly. Guy never rests and he hates when I'm on the computer. That's generally when most tail-chasing occurs.

Yet the behaviorist went on to say that the reason why they may be chasing their tails is they like the reaction people give them. While it's true that I laugh at Biscuit's ludicrous behavior, he'll always stop in his tracks upon hearing me as if in a game of musical chairs and stand very still. Definitely no tail-wagging as the behaviorist said they'll do upon pleasing their humans. So I'm going back to OCD as our puppy's diagnosis.

Furthermore, the behaviorist suggests taking your dog to the vet upon continuous tail-chasing. Where, I dunno, I suppose the vet will put the pup onto a chaise and ask him about his mother and stuff.

"Okay, Biscuit, what does this ink blot look like to you?" Dr. Freud will ask.

"Woof!" (Translation: "My tail!")

I believe Biscuit is truly in his "anal stage."

Speaking of dime-store psychology, you'll find a ton of it in my thriller trilogy, Killers Incorporated. Take my protagonist, Leon Garber. He's got some issues, a few daddy issues amongst other things. He's also a serial killer. Oh! And he's the hero! Read about his exploits in the darkly, morbidly humorous suspense trilogy, beginning with the first book, Secret Society!

Cone-a-copia

I hate dog cones. Probably not as much as dogs do, but I'm right up there with them. So imagine the fun that developed when one of our dogs and one of my daughter's dogs ended up in cones at the same damn time! My wife and I were juggling responsibilities between our house and my daughters' trying to keep the conesiness of it all relatively sane and safe for humans and dogs alike.

Here's what happened to poor little Mr. Loomis...

While playing with the fence-jumping neighbors' golden lab, Loomis got caught in the crossfire between his larger (younger) sister and the lab. While inside, I heard a blood-curdling shriek from Loomis and went out to see what the problem was. Apparently, the neighbor heard it too, but his dog clearly felt guilt-ridden and wouldn't heed his owner's calling, instead looking forlornly, tail between legs, back at Loomis.

But the damage had been done.

A couple days later, I noticed that Loomis' eye had gunked up. Naturally, I noticed this the day before I was to go help out my daughter with her dogs and the day before my wife was leaving town.

"Hmmm, there appears to be something wrong with Loomis' eye," I said.

The vet verified this. "Well, he has an ulcer on his eye and it's a bad one."

An ulcer??? In the eye??? My limited medical knowledge thought that an ulcer was something you develop in your stomach because you're worried about making financial ends meet or the current state of politics or what decent clothes I may have that still fit. Definitely not an eye issue!

So, armed with seven kinds of eyedrops and 34--count 'em, 34!--applications through the day (and all spaced apart, natch), we went down the long road of coneheadedness. The cone was clearly too large for Mr. Loomis. He'd sadly drag it through the backyard, face down into the dirt. Inside, he'd bang into everything he possibly could. At night, when he'd go into the bathroom for a drink of water, he'd constantly shut the door onto himself by bashing the door with his cone. Worse than having a baby, I was up numerous times through several nights.

And all the time, Loomis would give me a look suggesting, "Why in the HELL are you punishing me, bald baby man?"

So we bought him a "comfy cone." Comfy cones are designed to be...well, comfy. Softer and smaller and more pliable than the damn plastic cones of torture, I wasn't sure how it would work, if it'd keep Loomis from rubbing his eye. I believe it helped, but he was still locking himself into the bathroom. He even did it when he finally got the cone off, maybe seeking fun where he could or he'd emBARKed on a revenge tour to destroy my sleep. Loomis certainly hated the velcro ripping sound when we'd put the cone on him, paddling his paws madly, trying to make a getaway from the constant torture.

Meanwhile, in my daughter's town, Merle had surgery to remove some masses. 

Now, Merle is a huge, honkin' Redbone Coonhound who sounds and acts like an angry walrus, probably not the ideal candidate for The Great Coning. But cone him we did, although he rarely kept it on. And talk about banging around into things. My Gawd, you'd think it was Fourth of July, 24-7: BANG! CRACK! SPILL! TUMBLE, TUMBLE, TUMBLE...wash, rinse, repeat.

When the vet told us he needed to keep the cone on for two weeks, we screamed "TWO WEEKS???" causing the entire vet clinic to erupt in a pandemonium of barking, led by Merle himself, who I'm sure didn't even understand why he was barking, but he loves the act sooooooooo much.

My daughter took a cue from us and ordered Merle a "Comfy Cone." I had doubts, mainly because Merle possesses super-animal strength and is able to bend steel bars with the power of his jaws. But Merle had doubts because when we opened the comfy cone package, the item was pink.

"That is NOT what I ordered," said my daughter, taking in the pinkishness of it all. "Amazon's trying to make my dog a sissy."

I tried to comfort her trauma over the emasculation of Merle by telling her her dog looked like he was wearing a bad-ass hoodie. Just a pink one (tee hee hee).

As of this writing, we've finally done away with the two cones (or four, if you're keeping count). My wife thinks I anthropomorphize the dogs and their responses to cones too much. But their abject misery is way too palpable to ignore and the looks on their faces are just heartbreaking. Bah. The only good cone is of the ice cream variety.

While I'm yakking about dogs, a dog plays an important role in my book Secret Society, the first in the Killers Incorporated trilogy. But that's not all! There are more serial killers to be found in the pages of these morbidly amusing, dark, suspense thrillers than you can shake a dog at. And they're the "good guys." It's complicated. Read all about it here! (No dogs were harmed during the writing of this book, unless you count a "coning," which I certainly think is harmful to a dog's mental state of mind, so never mind my ASPCA disclaimer.)

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?) 

 

 

Nobody told me P.T. stands for Personal Torture

Since the pandemic began, I've put on weight. So much that my body has been complaining about it and my back is flat-out screaming in pain, "No more!" It hurts when I bend over and really puts the kibosh on my doing house work. Mowing the yard is a joke. Every week the neighbors gather on lawn chairs to watch my torturous ordeal. What used to take under an hour now takes double the time, mostly just having to rest my back every couple of rows.

Alright, so I'm working on my end by dieting. But it's still not enough.

My wife says, "You need to go to P.T."

"But...but...whyyyyyyyy?"

"Because I'm tired of hearing you whine about your back."

"But...but...honeyyyyyyy, I don't whiiiiiiiiiiiine!"

Well, against my better judgement, I signed up. Oh, but first I did my best to avoid it.

Begrudgingly, I told my doctor my wife wants me to go to physical therapy.

The doctor said, "Your wife's right. It should help you."

"But I don't have the right clothes for it," I whined lamely (Writer's note: I know that last bit is shoddy writing, but I couldn't resist the gag.).

"What do you mean you don't have the clothes? You got sweat pants?"

"No," I replied.

"Well, go to Walmart. They have sweat pants. You got any shorts?"

"No. Well, not any good ones."

"This isn't a fashion show," said the doctor with a sigh. "Go to Walmart."

I also "accidentally" missed all of the physical therapist's phone calls. But they proved relentless. After their final threatening text that they'd tell my doctor if I didn't call them back, I caved.

I just got back from my first P.T. event. No one told me that the "P.T." stands for "personal torture."

Earlier, my wife told me, "Just relax and enjoy it."

Enjoy what? The therapist was one of those guys with muscles on top of muscles and the legs of a satyr.  And here I am, all flabby and pasty in my Walmart shorts. The guy flips me onto a table and pokes and prods and pulls and pushes until not only my back is screaming, my entire body is groaning, practically asking, "Why me?"

I'm exercising muscles that have long atrophied, muscles I've never knew existed before. He seems hell-bent on strengthening my butt muscles and I giggle over how many times he says "butt." (In times of extreme duress, I have to find humor in the unlikeliest places.) When he starts working on my spine--"loosening me up" he calls it; more like breaking my back--I'm watching the seconds on the clock tick by, one agonizing second at a time.

Finally, when the blue-haired squad arrives as the next round of victims, I practically collapse and kiss the carpet, knowing my hour of torture is about over.

Too bad I gotta go back in a couple more days. Twice a week! And I have to pay an outrageous amount to be pummeled. Seems that they have that last part backward. How can something that's supposed to be good for you be so damned painful?

P.T. isn't for everyone. Nor for the weak of heart (I kinda wonder how the blue-haired, little ol' ladies make out under torture. Maybe they just go to ogle ol' Satyr legs.). In fact, I'm all for banishing physical therapy under violation of the Geneva Convention.

I should've never, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever gone to Walmart. That's my takeaway from this.

While on the topic of torture, have you heard about the secret society of like-minded individuals? You haven't? What's wrong with you? The secret society of like-minded individuals is comprised of serial killers who've signed contracts with a shady, secretive organization called Like-Minded Individuals, Inc. for protection, new identities, and list of prospects so the members are freed up to do what they do best: kill. And these are the "good guys." It's complicated. Read all about it in the first book of the trilogy, Secret Society.

 

Sociopathic Childhood Pals

We've all had 'em. I'm not talking about bullies. I've enjoyed those, too, mostly because I was an overweight kid. (Fun fact: bullies hate fat. It's like being overweight personally affronts their otherwise good-natured, fun-loving, huggable temperaments). No, I'm talking about the kids we befriended as children who turned out to be Jeffrey Dahmers.

I was contemplating this the other night during a particularly nasty bout of insomnia and discovered that I've had quite a few in my upbringing (Hey, counting psychotic children is much more lucrative than wasting time counting those endless, infernal bleating sheep jump over a fence.) 

I'll start with my first because you never forget your first. We'll call him Dickie Hutchinson. I first befriended Dickie in the sixth grade where I found out that he had a collection of ultra-rare forties comic-books in his attic. Pleading with him to see these rarities, he continued making excuses about how he can't reach them or they fell into a crevice that would destroy the house trying to get at them. So, we found other things to waste time with (because that's what kids do; waste time. We can't drive, don't want to rely on parents, haven't quite discovered the opposite sex outside of nice smiles or cool attitudes, and haven't yet found a way to get beer). One day, Dickie and I were out walking past a suburban neighborhood privacy fence. Beyond the fence, a huge menacing dog growled, scrabbled at the wood, barked, and basically wanted to tear our throats out. A few minutes later, a collared cat wanders up to us. Dickie picks it up and pitches it over the fence. Then runs. I'm stunned, shocked. Felt horrible, but ran away as horrific yowls and meows ensued.

When I caught up to Dickie, I read him the riot act. "Why in the hell did you do that, you dick? (Sixth grade was when I discovered the fun of naughty words; still couldn't bring myself to drop any "f-bombs," though.)"

Dickie just shrugs, tries to turn it around on me. "Whatever. Don't be a pussy."

I storm off with these parting words, "You're a dick! And a liar 'cause your comic books don't exist!"

That was the end of that friendship. I had no idea he derived pleasure in torturing animals and I spent many a worried night about that cat.

See what I mean? That's how Jeffrey Dahmer got started.

But as I grew older, the sociopathic slant of my childhood friends changed as well. Animal torture was out. But turning on your so-called friends was the "new cool!"

Meet Barry Burgenstock. I did in eighth grade. He was new to school and even though a lowly "sevvy (seventh grader)," I soon discovered he shared an offbeat sense of humor with me. I just had to befriend him. For a while, everything was cool. We snuck into some R-rated films, had some laughs, cruised the mean streets of suburban Kansas at night and lived to tell about it.

Until one afternoon, I brought Barry home with me. My parents were at work, so we went outside to hang in the backyard. My friendly, retired neighbor was out. I hollered hello, introduced Barry. 

The neighbor said, "Hi Barry, how are you?"

Barry, with a stupid innocent grin, says, "Eat shit."

Crickets. Sooooooo many crickets.

Again, I was gobsmacked. As was the neighbor who blinked, turned snow white, than fire engine red, furrowed up that brow, and stormed inside. Once again, I yelled at my "friend" for doing this. He just grinned and said, "What's the problem? You're being a pussy." (Amongst boys, that word's the ultimate insult. I haven't used that derogatory term since high school, haven't even heard it until our ex-orange-president made it vogue again.)

Later on, I had to apologize to the neighbor one-on-one for my buddy's behavior. But stupidly, I gave Barry a second chance.

A couple nights later we were walking down the street. He'd found a metal pipe and started swinging it around. Suddenly he swung it at me a few times like a ninja with involuntary spasms.

"What're you doing?" My false smile trembled.

"I'm going to kick your ass." He swung it a few more times in front of my face. Then he threw it down. "I don't need that to beat your ass."

Through it all, I attempted to maintain my unsteady grin, thinking that surely he was pulling my leg. He wasn't. 

I walked away as he continued to hurl insults after me. 

I went through a LOT of "friendships" in my youth.

Finally, I'm reminded of Steve Brynner. Now, Steve was actually my brother's best friend (both one grade below me), and we'd started hanging out together a couple times over the summer after I graduated. All of us eighteen at the time, we discovered the joy of beer!

After one night in a bar, we walked back to the car, and Steve starts telling us how he could kick both our asses. Inwardly, I sigh. I've been down this path before, but can't lose face because I'm a year older. My brother just watches and Steve grabs me, throws me to the ground and starts wrestling with me as a huge crowd of teens gather to watch. No punches were hurled, but it was highly embarrassing, not to mention unnecessary. I didn't get it.

Later, my brother said he was a psycho and that he always turned on a dime.

Figures. A trait the West boys shared: really cool friends.

Cut to a year later, when I ran into Steve in Westport, the local summer College bar hang-out area. Outside of a bar he wanted to talk. I just sorta laughed him off, shook my head derisively, said, "whatever," and walked off with my friends.

Steve wasn't having it. In the crowded street, he starts screaming nonsense, howling like a madman as I sped up to get out of there. Seriously deranged, yelling weird things like, "You used to be my best friends brotherrrrrrr! And now I want to killllllllll youuuuuuuuu!" It went on and on, echoing throughout the buildings until his voice started choking with sobs and rage-filled tears.

Thankfully, that was the last either of us ever saw of him (even though he didn't live too far from us). Probably ended up taking his rage overseas. Or to prison.

There were several others, but these guys were the highlights. And I wouldn't be surprised if one or more didn't go the route of Jeffrey Dahmer. Maybe they did and just haven't been caught.

Maybe I need to be more careful in who I befriend. I don't want to ride out my golden years as a serial killer magnet.

While we're on the topic of serial killers, have you guys read my serial killer thriller trilogy, Killers Incorporated? There're more serial killers than you can shake a stick at in these pages. Watch as they stalk, betray, befriend, and annoy one another. Heads are chopped, dropped, and swapped! In other words, good wholesome fun for the entire family. (And I'm pretty sure I'm friends with at least four of these guys). Check out the first book in the series, Secret Society, right here!

When Dogs Murder

Psst... There's something dreadfully wrong with my daughter's dog, Baron!

Don't let his cute looks deceive you! He wears those well-earned Debbil's Horns for a reason.

Let me 'splain...

Last weekend, I was visiting my daughter and dog-watching for her so she could go gallivanting across the Midwest. Now, to take on the daunting chore of dog-sitting means I have to sacrifice sleep for the cause. For you see, her two dogs are "bed dogs." Personally, I don't think any dog should be a bed dog (especially when one of them is several hundred pounds of red coon hound who inevitably takes up 90% of the bed), but, hey, they're not my dogs and it's not my house.

So, there I was, tossing and turning, fighting for dominance over the bed with the coon hound. But he's not the problem. It's the other one I'm wary of, needing to keep an eye on.

For you see, once I finally did knock out for the night, I felt a very strange sensation. A presence in my face, the way you can intuit someone in the dark, silent as snow.

I open my eyes and my daughter's Beagle is standing over me, hovering, quiet, still as a statue, snout close to my face. Unnerving doesn't do it justice.

What did he want? What did it mean? Why didn't he lick me, at least, or maybe yip, whine, or bark?

I got nothing, except for a case of cold chills.

When my daughter returned the next morning, I told her of my odd, nocturnal, alien encounter.

She said, "I know, right? He does that." She gave it some more thought and added, "Do you think he's plotting to kill us?"

Yes. Yes, I do think that very, very much.

You guys have all heard the horrific story of some woman in France who got wasted, passed out, and her dog ate her face off, right? Fun, I know, but who knows what Baron's plotting. Maybe a fate even worse then face eating. Or perhaps he was envisioning how my face would taste, one step away from giving into his secret cravings.

Who really knows what goes on in the minds of dogs, particularly with my daughter's sociopathic, murderous Beagle? I think he's just biding his time, waiting for the revolt to begin so he and his cohorts can finally turn the tables on their human oppressors and put us in collars and make us go to the bathroom outside in the snow.

All I know is I'm keeping one eye open the next time I sleep over. Of course that would probably be the first delectable morsel Baron would go after.

Speaking of nefarious plots, have a look at my darkly comic and suspenseful serial killer trilogy, Killers Incorporated. There's so much plotting, back-stabbing, murder, mayhem, and action going on, it took three books to unravel my tale of serial killers versus the evil corporate world (psst, the serial killers are the good guys. Kinda. Sorta. It's complicated.). The first book is Secret Society, followed by Strike and Killer King. Whaddaya waiting for? Go!