Porn Star Puppy

Our new little puppy, Biscuit, is a pup of few talents, unless one considers chasing one's own tail to be an award-winning talent. If that classifies, he's a world champion. But to our shock, we soon discovered he had a...ahem...hidden talent, you might say, one in which heretofore he had kept covered up. Mercifully so.

One day while coming out of the shower, Biscuit lay in my path, licking something between his paws.

Exasperatedly, I said, "Biscuit, where'd you get the hot dog OH MY GOD!!!" Never in all of my many years of owning numerous male dogs have I ever seen such a...well, such a huge package on a dog.

My wife had first noticed it several weeks before. While upstairs, she said, "huh...weird."

When she came down, I was dying to know what was so weird (or at least weirder than the norm for our house). She said, "Biscuit's penis seems to be abnormally long."

I thought nothing of it. Until that fateful day when I came out of the shower. Starkers. Feeling kinda inadequate next to our "little" puppy.

It's always the little guy, it always is.

Zowie! Speaking of intellectual humor of the most scintillating sort, give my Zach and Zora books a shot. Critics everywhere have been hailing the series as "sophisticated, smart, witty, urbane, and...and..." I can't do it. I just can't keep lying to you. The books are crazy, nutty, goofy, politically incorrect, and dumb. Kinda like the main character, Zach, a dunderheaded male stripper whose sleuth sister has to keep bailing him out of being a murder suspect. But, hey, they make me laugh! And I'm unbiased! Check 'em out here!

Bubble Guts

I can always tell when my daughter's having a slow work day?

How?

Because I get the following text:

"Hey, Dad, have you ever heard of bubble guts?"

"No. What are they?"

"Look it up."

Sigh. So now she's got me hooked, an unwitting ally in her nefarious game. Just when I think I'm out, she draws me back in. As my fingers fly across the keyboard, I'm wondering what the elusive and mysterious "bubble guts" could be. What possible treasures of knowledge might it lead me to? Surely, for my daughter (and co-workers) to take time out of their busy work day to discuss bubble guts, it has to be something of such great import that it will lead to something to enrich my life! To improve the world!!!

Bring it on!

According to Ms. Wikipedia, bubble guts is a stomach rumble, also known as a bowel sound, peristaltic sound, abdominal sound, bubble gut or borborygmus, produced by movement of the contents of the gastro-intestinal tract as they are propelled through the small intestine.

Huh.

Furthermore, "the scientific name borborygmus is related to the 16th-century French word borborygme, itself from Latin." (Which doesn't tell me much except for borborygmus is taken very seriously by someone on Wikipedia and"bubble guts" is much easier to pronounce than "borborygmus.")

Okay. I now am aware of what bubble guts are. But honestly? I don't really feel my life is enriched all that much. And just why in the name of God did my daughter want me to look it up? And WHY were they discussing it at work?

She's not told me why, not yet, but I imagine the conversation went something like this:

"Oh, man, I've got bad bubble guts this morning," exclaims employee number one.

"What's bubble guts?" asks employee number two.

"I'm so glad you asked! Why, it's a stomach rumble, also known as a bowel sound, peristaltic sound, abdominal sound, bubble gut or borborygmus, bla, bla, bla..."

As I said, busy day at the work place.

But enough is enough. Why do we have an unpronounceable name for something that could just as easily be labeled as "gas?" And who gave it the "bubble guts" baby moniker? ("What's the matter, sweetums, has mommy's lil' baby gotums some bubble guts this morn-morn?") And not only is it taken seriously by the French, but dates back to Latin importance as well! That's a lotta high-falutin' involvement for gas!

Gah! Instead of enriching my life, it's just opened up a whole new world of mystery and unanswered questions.

I think I'll stick with "gas," thank you very much.

While I don't offer any books dealing with gas (and for that you should be very, very grateful), my character Zach (he of the Zach and Zora comical mystery series), is certainly full of hot air (see what I did there?). That is until he continually stumbles over dead bodies leading him into a world of trouble that only his sleuthing sister, Zora, can bail him out of. Check 'em out: Bad Day in a Banana Hammock and Murder by Massage. (More on the way soon!)

 

Murder by Massage...once more with feeling

It's the book "The Man" didn't want you to read! It's the book suppressed because of its daring and provocative subject matter! It's one of the top ten books that the hard-right conservatives want to see burned! It's the book that...that...

Okay, all of that is a lie. Kinda, sorta.

I guess "The Man" didn't really stop you from reading this book before when it was printed by another publisher. Nope, that was down to a couple of old romance writing ladies who didn't understand my rollicking sense of humor, outlandish characters, and ludicrous mysteries. So, I guess in a way, "The (Wo)Man" did hold you back.

On the other hand Boundless Book Reviews says, "Murder by Massage is chaotic, fun and hilarious!"

So, YOU be the judge!

Because Murder by Massage is back in print! What is Murder by Massage, you ask? Cool! I'm stoked to tell you...

It's the second book in the Zach and Zora comedy mystery series (following Bad Day in a Banana Hammock), that details the adventures of an unusual sibling sleuth duo. Zach’s a vapid male stripper prone to stumbling across dead bodies; Zora, his sister, is a very irritable, very pregnant, very competent ex-security specialist who bails her bro out of trouble (with three kids in tow).

Mix in a cult of "Furries;" a bewigged, pompous pastor and bratty kids; a dance-off; a g-string clad chase through the streets of Kansas City; radical revolutionist old hippies; lots of body oil; and laughs, murder and mystery.

Now, thanks to the good folks at Crossroad Press (*ahem* Clive Barker's publisher *ahem* shameless name drop, name drop, name drop *cough*), you can once again sit back, relax, and enjoy the adventures of Zach and Zora from the comforts of home. Or mass transit. Or work, if you're a slacker.

The third book in the series, Nightmare of Nannies, will follow and I'm currently still working on the fourth book, Massacre of Mustaches (yes, it's been a while; Hey, I'm getting old! My fingers ain't as swift as they used to be!).

SURGEON GENERAL WARNING: Do not read Bad Day in a Banana Hammock or Murder by Massage while operating heavy machinery. Do not attempt to read this comic mystery series while drinking liquids (particularly in front of any electronics). Pregnant women should avoid the Zach and Zora series as the books have been known to induce labor. The books may cause general dizziness, diarrhea, and halitosis. If symptoms persist, see a doctor and tell him Zach and Zora sent you. Don’t drive while reading the series because that’s just dumb.

That's Murder by Massage, part of a kinda cozy, kinda funny, mystery series, available here.

Take a Stripper Out to Lunch Day

OK, that's not really a thing, but maybe we should make it a special holiday. I mean, there's a "Talk Like a Pirate Day," so how comes strippers can't get a little lovin', too?

Let's look at some startling facts: recently the government kicked $1.4 billion dollars in taxpayer-backed corona virus aid to the U.S. Roman Catholic Church. Guess where the money's going? Yep, paying huge settlements because of clergy sexual abuse cover-ups! Wow. What a great way to give it up, government.

Now, pity the poor stripper. They've got mouths to feed, but their livelihood has been taken completely away from them due to the corona virus. Strip clubs were the first places shut down and they're still shut down. (Um, that's what I've read, at least).

Wouldn't you think Trump, at least, would want to help out strippers? Seems like it's right up his alley. Or does he prefer porn stars?

Before you guys start telling me I'm being sexist, understand that I don't like going to strip clubs, never have. I always hated bachelor parties. I'd tell my young and dumb cohorts, "Wouldn't you guys rather go somewhere where you actually might stand a chance of meeting a woman?" But, no, the clubs are one of those rites of passage things, I guess.

Anyway, since Trump's not going to come to the strippers rescue, some enterprising strippers down in Houston, Texas, took matters into their own hands. Yep, they opened up the first drive-through strip club! You drive your car inside, order a burger and beer from the safety of your car, while strippers dance for you behind a barricade. Patrons are encouraged to toss tips over the barricade.

While I appreciate ingenuity, somehow I just don't find the idea of a stripper wearing a Darth Vader mask do be all that exciting. Maybe it's just me, I dunno.

So the next time I hear about the government throwing their money to the Catholic Church while strippers everywhere go hungry, I'm gonna go ballistic. Strippers gotta eat, too. In fact, I think I'll make it my mission to take a stripper to lunch (while social distancing, natch) every day. Just doing my humanitarian duty.

Naturally, this would be a great time to plug my Zach and Zora comic murder mystery series, except...um, right now they're without a home after I quit the publisher! For those who don't know, Zach is an imbecilic stripper (well, he prefers "male entertainment dancer," thank you very much) who has a habit of stumbling over dead bodies. It's up to his gun-toting, children-toting sleuth sister to bail him out of jams. Three books so far in the series, Bad Day in a Banana Hammock, Murder by Massage, and Nightmare of Nannies (with a fourth one planned soonish, I hope). Fellow writers and publishers help me bring these books back to life and hit me with your ideas!

 

DON'T go in the bathroom!

As we crawled into bed the other night, my wife snuggled in and gave a long, satisfied sigh.

"I love our bed," she said.

"I do, too."

Talk about hot, burning romance for a Valentine's Day.

But it's true. Our bed's a modern marvel. It's a ginormous king-size with an extra comfy (and quiet! You can't hear your mate roll over!) foam mattress. We have a heated blanket on top for those brutal Midwestern nights and--the new sensation that's sweeping the nation--a weighted blanket. Going to bed is like getting dozens of hugs.

"This is my favorite place," my wife said and then sighed again. Of course newlyweds may find their bed their favorite place for other reasons, but we know what true pleasure is: comfort.

"Yeah, it's my favorite place, too," I added But then a sudden thought exploded in my head. "No, wait! It's my second favorite place!"

"What could be better than this?"

"The bathroom! Duh."

My wife gave me a head smack. "You men are so dumb.  Yesterday, on NPR--"

"Oh, well, if NPR says it, it has to be true," I said in the snidest of possible ways.

Head smack! Whap!

Other than the head-smack, my wife chose to ignore my childish retort. "On NPR, it came up that on average women spend five minutes to go to the bathroom. Men spend 20 minutes. 20 minutes! And that's just the average!"

Instead of knocking me down, I felt vindicated in my bathrooming habits. "Aha! See? I'm not a freak! Potty time's my quiet time!"

"Whatever... I don't want you going through hemorrhoid surgery again. The more time you spend on the toilet, the more likely that is to reoccur."

I gave it a sitting-on-the-toilet's worth of pondering. (And if you'd love to relive my hemorrhoid tale of wit and whimsy, check it out here: Assteroid Apocolypse.)  I decided I didn't want to think about that end of things too much.

"I love going to the bathroom. I guess...it's kinda like a mini-man-cave. A place we can temporarily call our own, let it all out (so to speak), and just flush our worries away."

"Yeah, they hit on that on NPR, too."

"Well if NPR says it's true, then--" 

SMAK!

"Cut it out!" I scooted a little bit closer to the edge of the bed, fearful of more retaliation. "But you never leave me alone in my mini-man-cave. You're...you're like a heat-seeking missile."


It's true, too. My wife, among possessing many other impressive talents and feats of will and brainery, knows exactly when I've nestled onto my roost upstairs. And like Lenny and Squiggy, the door suddenly cracks open loudly. "Hello!"

Then she'll discuss things that surely could wait until my pants are pulled up.


Her parting words are always wistful, dry, and haunting: "Light a candle!"

I pondered a little bit further and wondered what a future (God forbid!) job interview might sound like:

"Tell us a little bit about yourself, Mr. West."

"Well...I like to lay in our bed. A lot. It's a very, very, very comfy bed. Oh! And I like to go to the bathroom. A whole bunch. 'Cause it's quiet and relaxing." Eager smile.

Pause. The interviewer fingers his upper lip. Finally, he says, "Mr. West, you're exactly the type of man we're looking for! Welcome aboard!"

While we're on the topic of cutting-edge juvenile humor, have you guys checked out my Zach and Zora detective series? No? Whaddaya waiting for? Perfect reading for those quiet times on the toilet! The books recount the tales of a lunk-headed, but good-hearted male stripper (sorry...a "male entertainment dancer") and his seemingly always pregnant, short-tempered, but sharp private detective sister. That's Bad Day in a Banana Hammock, Murder by Massage, Nightmare of Nannies, and I'm slaving away on a forth one now!

Anthromoporphism Rulz!

It's probably unhealthy to attribute feelings to a discarded sofa.

When I threw out my well-used, crappy sofa at college, I felt sorry for it. It looked so forlorn sitting on top of a dumpster, kind of like an unloved red-headed stepchild. (Yes, I know that's an unfortunate, awful stereotype, but growing up red-headed and oddly different from the rest of my family, it applies). 

I bid my old friend, Sofa, farewell, hoped it'd find a second life elsewhere.

Inanimate objects always get to me. Empathetic to a point, I fall in love with coffee-makers, conduct yelling bouts with toilets, demand that fire alarms quit chirping. My gang. 

Don't even get me started on my best friend, Roomba. She actually talks. Sure, her dialogue is limited to warnings about being recharged or her desire to be moved and restarted, but it's nice to hear her voice. Bonus points in that she cleans the house while I sit and write. Ah, Roomba...  I apologize for stepping on you that one time.

Sigh...

I work at home. Loneliness is next to insanity.

My wife pretty much thinks my preoccupation with anthropomorphism is ludicrous. That may be. But she's never debated a hot dog before either, so she clearly doesn't know what she's missing.

Hey, while we're on the topic of insanity, check out my short story collection, Twisted Tales from Tornado Alley. There are quite a few people lurking within the pages who have more than a few screws loose.