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!

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!

More Neurotic Than the Dog

Recently, my wife said, "you're more neurotic than the dog."

"Huh," I said.

Then of course, I pondered the ramifications of this statement. You see, the dog she was referring to is kinda neurotic. She can't stay still, barks at the sky, and every bird and squirrel is taken as a personal affront on her good character.

So, point by point: 1) Am I able to stay still? Oh, hell yes, I'm an award-winning champion at planting myself on the sofa and not moving for twelve hours. In fact, I'd go as far to say I'm the Joey Chestnut of sofa sitting, a world champion. So that argument is shot.

 2) Do I bark at the sky? Of course not. I don't bark. However, a case could be made for my wife who shouts at stupid characters on TV. Now, who's the neurotic one?

3) Finally, while I don't particularly like birds and squirrels, I don't take it personally. Unless they poop on my car, which happens all the time, then I know they're out to get me. Okay, so maybe I get a little neurotic about those stupid birds dive-bombing my car repeatedly and "HEY, STUPID BIRDS! GET OUTTA MY YARD!"

This message has been presented to you by the Neurotic Board of Kansas.

Speaking of neurotic messes, poor Leon Garber would probably top that list. But he has good reason to. For Leon's a serial killer who targets the lowest scum he can find. However the sinister organization, Like-Minded Individuals, who used to work in conjunction with Leon by providing victim's names, have inexplicably targeted Leon. Check out the Secret Society trilogy of suspense and morbidly dark humor, available 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!

The Tragedy of Humpty Dumpty

Since childhood, I've had a certain love/hate relationship with Humpty Dumpty, maybe even what you might call an affinity for the poor guy. Or at least an understanding of his tragic plight. For you see, Mr. Dumpty is kind of a sad creature, just a yolk shy of being pathetic. I mean, honestly...why in hell is a guy made out of a fragile egg sitting on a wall in the first place? Just plain stupid. But as one who identifies with Humpty's outsider status and applauds his do-it-his-way mentality, I can't help but overlook his idiotic life choices. (It's a pity that to this day, my childhood book of nursery rhymes scarred me for life; I still vividly remember Humpty's corpse laying broken on the ground with yolk and his life force oozing out of him. Hardly what I'd consider a happy childhood bedtime tale. What's wrong with these fairy tale writers?)

But it seems that my lifelong acquaintance with Mr. Dumpty still continues to this day. 

It all began with a crappy horror film from the 80's (as so many incidents in our house do). Now, my wife doesn't share my excitement for crummy genre films, but something about "Bloodsuckers From Outer Space" drew her in, the dumb comedy aspect of it, I'm sure. In the movie a character was wandering about a kitchen and we both noticed a particularly ugly cookie jar.

"That cookie jar," said my wife. "What...what it is?"

Squinting at the screen, I replied, "I'm pretty sure that's Humpty Dumpty. I think." I felt fairly confident in my answer, seeing as how I'm one of the world's foremost experts on Humpty Dumpty.

"Sure is creepy," she said.

"I know, right? But it's cool! I like it! Don't you like it?"

My wife waffled around a while, before finally committing. "Yeah, I guess."

So inspiration struck me, harder than Dumpty's smashing into the ground. With Christmas just weeks away, I thought it'd make a funny and surprising gift for my wife. Off to the intronets I trawled, finally hitting pay-dirt. Sure enough, Ebay sellers were putting up their "vintage Humpty Dumpty collectible cookie jars" for sale, albeit at exorbitant prices.

But I found one on Mercari, an Ebay knockoff, at a cheaper, more affordable price. 

Here's what arrived...

Crap. So off I went to Mercari to get a refund. (Hang on a minute...it's time for a rant.) Now...have you guys ever ordered from Mercari? Word of advice: DON'T. Their website is incredibly confusing (purposefully so, I think) to navigate and it's next to impossible to contact an actual customer service rep. I tried to go through their proper channels, but the site wouldn't let me. All requests for refunds are channeled through a robot. The robot told me "I'm sorry, you have no purchases with us." What??? Tell that to PayPal, you stoopid robot! So I tried to contact the seller (and I should've known something was up because he goes by the name "Charlie Brown"). The seller responded and said, "Just go through the process online." But I couldn't because they didn't think I made a purchase! So, I carefully pored over the website looking for an email address or phone number. Wait...there it is! "Contact us!" So I hit the shiny contact button annnnnnnnd...it took me back to the robot who insisted I didn't buy a broken Humpty Dumpty. With exactly zero phone numbers or email addresses on the website, I turned to Dr. Google. The good doctor Google turned up a phone number. I called it and after punching in my phone number and all sorts of other stuff, the robot returned with "I'm sorry. Customer service is not available in your area." Whaaaaaaaa?

So I went back to good ol' Charlie Brown and pleaded my case. Suddenly my messages to Charlie on Mercari were being deleted by the administration 'bots. By this time, I'm livid, working myself up into a lather. Finally, I found an email address online and sent them an angry message. Two days later, someone overseas writes back and tells me all the hoops I have to jump through by taking fifty pictures of packaging (which was nothing more than empty Amazon boxes) and sending them. And get this...they said in order to get a refund, I had to do it within twelve hours. So...I knocked out the photos and sent them immediately. Only to wait another two days for a reply. (They must really, REALLY be far overseas since there's always a 48 hour time lag). Anyway, after much more give and take and frustration, I finally--FINALLY--got a refund. (Rant over...now back to our regularly scheduled post...)

As I looked at the shattered pieces of Humpty and my shattered dream of giving it to my wife sank in, the irony of it all struck me: I'm going to do what all the king's men and all the king's horses couldn't do! I'd put Humpty Dumpty back together again! It'll be fun, I stupidly thought.

Now, this was my first time working with epoxy. Nobody told me of the intricate and tricky nature of it. I just thought simple, squeeze it out, stick the pieces together, boom! Instant Humpty Dumpty. But no. You had to work with it fast or the actual package and nozzle gets glued together, disabling any chance of ever getting any more of it out of the tube. I went through three tubes, singlehandedly keeping the epoxy manufacturers in business. And good luck getting it off your hands.

As I screamed and cursed and thought how stupid I was for thinking this would be "fun," Humpty caved in on me several times. I started over four times. That's perseverance! Let's see the lazy king's horses do that! (And for God's sake, why is the king letting his horses operate on an egg-man? I don't believe their hooves are known for their surgical dexterity.)

Finally, I finished. Or at least as good as it was gonna get. I had to finally give up on all of the small pieces on the back of his head as they just wouldn't take. But here's the finished result...

Sure, he kinda looks like a freakish Batman villain, or maybe one of the king's horses put him together, but I was happy that my "fun" Christmas project was at an end.

And that's about when I found out my wife thought it was super-creepy and scary and never wanted this particular Humpty in the first place. Merry Christmas!

Speaking of bad eggs, there's more than a few lurking about in my serial killer trilogy, Killers Incorporated. No, I'm not talking about the serial killers; they're the good guys! It's complicated. Find out how complicated right here!

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 New Crackpot Group!

I've discovered a brand spanking new nutty group. At least they're new to me! This is exciting! I feel like I've uncovered a rare new species!

It's...the "Flat Earthers!" 

Now to be certain, let's draw the distinction between several other fringe groups... 

First, you have your Middle-Earthers (hobbits and trolls and Gollums and big, ol' hairy feet on little tiny guys). As far as I know, they don't look for conspiracies and are either extinct by this point or are hiding out in Greenland or wherever. I don't consider them a threat.

Then you have your Highlanders. No, I'm not talking about a secret cult devoted to the automobile of the same name, but rather, a group of fanatics who worship a silly pseudo-fantasy franchise filmed on the cheap (usually in Canada) regarding lopping off heads for some wonderful reason. While I don't believe this cult to be a threat to society, they can certainly be annoying, particularly when they quote the shows. However, I wouldn't worry about them too much, because as they like to say (in a booming, deep, theatrical voice), "There can only be one!" Hence, I'm putting them on the endangered list.

There's the Outlanders. This group I truly don't understand. I've heard raves--from fans and critics alike--about how wonderful their show is. I sampled half an episode which was TOO much for me. Romance in historical Scotland? Blech. The less said about this group, the better.

Finally, we have the Furries. And they're another ball of fur altogether. And, um...I really don't want to talk about them.

Which at last brings me back around to the Flat Earthers. These kooks insist the world is flat. Despite all science to the contrary ("Socialist, Marxist, evil liberal lies!") or even the actual photography of our planet's spherical shape ("Fake news! Filmed in a Russian warehouse!"), they refuse to believe the truth.

But since when has the "truth" ever got in the way of these fringe groups' outlandish beliefs?

Wait. It gets even better. To my hilarious delight, a district chair in Georgia, Kandiss Taylor, recently blabbered on about the Great Globe Propaganda Conspiracy.

Having recently uncovered biblical "evidence" that the earth is flat, she said "I turn on the TV, there’s globes in the background … Everywhere there’s globes. You see them all the time, it’s constant. My children will be like ‘Mama, globe, globe, globe, globe’ — they’re everywhere. Every store, you buy a globe, there’s globes everywhere. Every movie, every TV show, news media — why? More and more I’m like, it doesn’t make sense. And that's what they do to brainwash!"

Yow! Now, please keep in mind, this is a "lawmaker," deciding what happens in the lives of her constituents. And know that she babbled all of this nutty nonsense on her podcast called...you guys ready for this?...wait for it...here it comes..."Jesus, Guns, and Babies!" Personally, I can't think of a better title, can you? Why, the three items just go perfectly hand in hand.

Well. What do we expect from a grown woman whose name is "Kandiss." (Hey, Kandiss, leave the politicking behind and get back on your dancing pole!) Furthermore, a little background shows that after losing the last Georgia governor race, Kandiss proclaimed "It's rigged! I won! They cheated!" This coming from the candidate who scored 3% of the public vote to the winning governor's 73%. (Oh, the damage that the Orange Don has wrought on our country!)

I know that crackpot fringe and culty groups have been around forever, but the number of conspiracies and groups have skyrocketed since the grotesque MAGA movement (not to mention a disturbing increase in racism). Of course, we all know how Trump was ripped off in the last election. And how liberals are cannibalistic, baby-eating, Satan worshipers.  And did you guys know that the proceeds to girl scout cookies goes to fund abortions? I heard that gem recently.

I suppose it's too much to ask for our politicians and leaders to actually get around to doing something good or maybe something that the constituents actually care about or possibly helping those in need. Instead we've got a guy (who could possibly become our next president!) wasting millions of tax-payer dollars on fighting drag shows (*Gasp!*) and Disney World ((*Choke!Gag!*). 

Then there's those stupid globes which keep me up at night.

I'm sure we'll be seeing a bill banning globes in our future. They're just so...damn mean and round and WRONG!

While we're talking about nuts, there's a veritable tree full of them running around in my Killers Incorporated trilogy of thrillers regarding a conspiracy (AHA!) revolving around a nefarious corporation (PROBABLY LIBERAL!) that supplies services to serial killers for a fee. Until you cross them as did poor Leon Garber, our serial killer hero. But he's a good serial killer! It's complicated. Read all about it here in the first book, Secret Society.

Night of the Big Snit-Fit

Several nights ago, I was unloading the dishwasher when my wife came home. As is my wont, I was cursing up a sailor's storm while tossing the dishes around. (It's not that I hate the job of unloading the dishwasher so much as my back despises it, call it the ravages of getting old.)

I plead with my wife, "Can you please help me?"

She jumps in. While I'm bending over the lower deck (and why geniuses haven't decided to create dishwashers for tall guys is beyond me), I yell, "My back can't take this any more! You finish it!"

I go sit down. My wife follows me. Exasperated, I toss my arms up. "What? You're not going to finish unloading the damn dryer?"

Calmly, she says, "As soon as you're done being snitty, we can finish it together."

"I'm not being snitty! You're being snitty!"

"Oh, you're soooooo being snitty."

"Am not," I reply in a very anti-snitty, mature manner. "If anyone's snitty, you're the snittiest."

"You're Frank Snitty!"

"You're snitty, gritty, lower than any dirt band!"

"You constantly wallow in the Secret Life of Walter Snitty!"

I held up two finger guns. "Snitty, snitty, bang, bang!"

"Are you quite finished with your snittiness yet?" she asks.

"No! Because I'm not snitty! I'm the anti-snitty! There's an aura of snittiness surrounding you! You're just swimming in your own snittiness!"

This went on quite a while. Much to do over a tiny little word like "snit."

Which sent me hurtling--hurtling, I tell you!--toward the nearest electronic device to consult with my research assistant, Ms. Google.

A snit is defined as a fit of irritation or a sulk, hence the term "snit fit." Furthermore, the word derives from the Proto-Germanic word "snidaz," which means to cut, slice, or piece. Yow! First of all, I had no idea there were so many variations of the German language. Secondly (and an even bigger Yow!), "snidaz" sounds more like Norman Bates on holiday, rather than a little sulk.

I'm glad my wife and I called a halt to our (she would have you believe it mine alone) snit-fit before the knives came out.

But something still seemed wrong. I always thought a "fit" referred to a voluntary or involuntary physically violent altered state, you know, the classic rolling on the ground, pounding your fists over the floorboards, moaning and crying and shrieking to the unfair Gods of Mean Parents about how you never get to watch Star Trek on TV and instead have to suffer through yet another geriatric, boring detective show (not that I speak from experience, mind you). It's hardly fitting behavior when teamed with a "snit," a mere irritant. Aren't we treading softly into the land of Oxymoronia?

Back to Ms. Google I raced for the answer, who defined the term "having a fit" as being very angry or shocked. Well. I wasn't really angry at the dishwasher, more than just in pain at having a sore back. I definitely wasn't shocked at the resultant dishes (other than a few that stubbornly refused to come clean no matter how many times we washed them). And, of course, I never resorted to floor rolling (although knives sprang to mind a couple times). So...is what I experienced even remotely close to a "fit?" Furthermore and henceforth, the combined definition of the words "snit fit" means being irritated to the point where you're reaching for the knives (so, sooooo close at hand in the dishwasher...) to resolve your irritation.

Such a cute, little phrase. Such a deadly consequence.

Ahoy, matey, lots of deadly consequences arise in my darkly satirical serial killer trilogy, Killers Incorporated, resulting in--you guessed it--numerous snit-fits that don't end well for the intended targets. Knives come out, heads are dropped and swapped in lots of serial killer cat 'n mouse games. Start with the beginning, Secret Society (available here and other fine on-line book sellers, because all brick and mortar bookstores are as dead as most of the casts of my books), and read 'em all. Go on. Whaddaya waiting for? I'll wait right here until you're done. Don't make me have a snit-fit! You won't like me when I have a snit-fit! 

 

The Agony of Switching Phones

Everybody faces stress these days, particularly in today's rocky political, social and economic climate. There's the stress of crazed dictators ready to press that Big Red Shiny Button to end everything. It's kinda stressful when the so-called lawmakers of our country act like feuding children on the playground. Who doesn't stress on making ends meet? And health scares? "Wait a minute, wait a minute, hold on just a minute! Was this stressful mole there yesterday?" Gotta love family! Family's always a fun stressor. But the biggest stressor of all (or at least in the top three), is changing phones.

I feel like I've just been through war and the side of electronics nearly beat me down. But I persevered, sweating it out for days, until...victory!

Let me give you a bit of background (you're welcome!): For years, I fought my wife over wanting to get me a cell phone. Period. 

I said, "Wife, I don't want a celluar telephone."

She replied, "Why not, husband?" (Yes, we're weird.)

"Because I don't want to become those people. You know...the people who go out to eat and won't even attend to their partner over the dinner table, but instead are putting dog noses on their faces in photos and sending it out to strangers they don't even know."

I could get away with that kinda reasoning for only so long. After awhile, I began to understand how a cell phone could simplify life. So I finally relented and got my very own celluar flip phone! Trumpets!

And I was perfectly content with it, too. I could answer calls while not at home! Wow! I could actually send a text message! Cool! (Even though it took me 15 minutes... Tap, Tap, Tap, bingo, right letter! Tap, tap, tap...crap! Start over...) Everything and then some of all I needed.

Then my wife decides I should upgrade.

"Why?"

"You're a dinosaur. Nobody uses flip phones any more. With an upgrade, you can get directions, weather, cruise the internet..."

But like Grandpa fighting those newfangled, dad-gummed VCR's, I defied change and chose to dwell in my dinosaur valley. Until my wife gifted me with an Android one Christmas, probably the only way I'd ever upgrade.

Looking at it, I crinkled up my face like I'd just opened a package of underwear. "But...but...but...how does it work?"

Slowly, baby-steps, ever so carefully, I learned, mastered, and conquered. It only took eight months, too! I ended up putting my entire life into the phone. Passwords, photos (including several of me with a dog-nose), important documents, and most importantly, my ongoing games of choice (Angry Birds 2 and Wordle).

Alas, the Android had its drawbacks. I found this out after about eight years. The memory was crap. It locked up all the time. And the biggest problem of all? I couldn't do all the great filters on SnapChat that my brother could do on his iPhone.

But, still, I hesitated... I didn't want to lose the progress on my games that I'd carefully cultivated for years. As I stated earlier, my whole life was on the phone. What if something went astray in the Great Changeover of 2023?

So, I took the bold plunge into 2023 with a sparkly new iPhone. And immediately I wished I hadn't. Much, MUCH more complex than my humble Android, there were bells and whistles controlling bells and whistles signifying more hidden bells and whistles. I still can't figure out how to turn it off without going all the way into the settings and then some sub-sets after that. I don't need all of these blasted bells and whistles. I just need the button that puts a dog nose on my photo!

My wife says, "Go to one of the phone shops and ask them." That, of course, was out of the question. There are three kinds of demons walking the earth: 1) Car salespeople; 2) Furniture salespeople; and 3) Phone salespeople. (The fourth kind is politicians, but I've covered that area enough for a while). All of these demons share an in-your-face, fast-talking, no time to breathe, hardcore sales approach and I loathe dealing with them. In many ways, the phone guys are the worse. All of them are completely tech-savvy millennials who can't wait to smirk at the dumb old guy bringing in his eight year old Android that looks like a Transformer with the neon green, clunky protective case. The idiot who can't turn his phone off. So, that option was off the table.

My biggest fear was transferring my data. How? I could manually load in every single contact (how did I get to know so many people?), but didn't have the patience or time. Time spent better playing Angry Birds 2. 

Ms. Google steered me toward two directions. The Apple preferred manner was to set up some commands on both phones, punch a few buttons, then completely wipe your Android and lose all data! WHAAAAAA? Oh, HELL no. I wasn't going to lose eight years of my life. Terrifyingly stressful.

The second option was go into your various phone "stores" and download an app that would transfer data. With great trepidation, I did so. I watched the YouTube video over and over, pausing intermittently to recite back the next step. On my work table, I had two phones, my laptop, and pen and paper. My finger hovered over the button, ready to push, while my mind screamed to stop, taking on the personality and traits of my old beaten up Android: AIEEEEEE! Don't KILL me, Stuart! PLEASE, dear God, don't kill meeeeeeeee!

I held my breath. Closed my eyes, praying to the tech gods who lurk next door to Cthulhu (and why he doesn't mow his damn yard is a point of contention), opened my eyes. With a shaking finger, I let it rip.

I waited. Like watching a pot boiling water, but much, much more intense.

Finally...SUCCESS! I couldn't believe it. I checked everything and by gum, it seemed to all be there. Still, I distrusted it. Continually, I set the phone down, picked it up ten minutes later to make sure the data was still there (kinda like new parents putting their hand on their baby while its sleeping to make sure it's still breathing; admit it, parents! We've all done it.).

Yet there was a long road ahead of me. Passwords were not copied over as were other various things. But all of my dog-nosed pictures had been saved. Mercifully so. After 48 hours, I finally was able to sleep.

While my head's still confused over the entire ordeal, pity poor Leon Garber. He doesn't understand why the corporation he used to work remotely for, Like-Minded Individuals, Inc., has blackballed him. Maybe even wants to kill him. And really, all he wants to do is go about his business: accounting during the day and killing off evil scum at night. That's right, it's Secret Society (the first of a trilogy) full of darkly black humor, thrills, mystery and suspense. You can get it here or ask for it at your local bookstore (but do it in a whisper; you never know when Like-Minded Individuals, Inc. are listening.)