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.

The Wise Guy of the Round Table

 

Several weeks ago, I managed to get (most of) "the band" back together. Just as we had done over 40 years ago, laughs were spilled, beers were drunk, and stories were told. It seemed like not much had changed in all of those decades. Except, of course, there were quite a few more pounds and quite fewer hairs. And a lot of the stories dealt with all of our aches, pains, and operations. Kinda like battle wounds.

After my brother came back from the bathroom, he shook our friend's hand next to him.

He said, "my hand's not wet from washing it."

After much giggling and groaning, he further elaborated, "I don't bother washing my hands after going to the bathroom. Why bother? Your hands just get dirty again opening the bathroom door."

"That's very sound advice," I opined.

"You can learn a lot from me," he replied.

What an extremely wise man.

While on the topic of wise guys, meet Charlie Broadmoor, a struggling stand-up comic, who wishes for more of an audience. Unfortunately, a demon is in his audience one night. One who Charlie mercilessly teases about his comb-over. Things quickly go downhill from there. Read all about it in my darkly comic horror tale,

Demon With A Comb-Over.

BANNED!

I suppose it's my fault really. No one to blame but myself. To fully comprehend the following tragic tale of insanity, jump with me, if you will, into the wayback machine...

When my daughter was younger, she liked to sing. She appeared to know practically every song in the world and I'm not really sure how she learned them as I brought her up on a steady diet of alternative rock. But soon enough, my wife and I enrolled her into singing lessons. (Strike number one: Encouragement!)

Then I created an even bigger mistake. I introduced her to musicals. First, I showed her some of my favorites such as West Side Story. Appearing to really enjoy it, I sought out all of the musicals for her I could find.

And woe unto us for the day she discovered the musical, Rent. First, we watched it several times. Then she showed it to all of her friends. I grew so sick of watching--and especially hearing--Rent, that I considered hiding the DVD. But that didn't stop my daughter. She bought the soundtrack and sang along at the top of her voice in her bedroom and worst of all, the shower.

Her showers were always hour-long affairs, but they weren't quiet ones. Every night we listened to the same  musical selections from Rent. No choice. No escape.

"I'm going to go AOOOOOOOOOOOOut tonight!" issued from the shower over and over and over again, finally stamping all over my nightmares.

Enough was enough and I threw down the Mean Parent gauntlet. "Hey!" I said. "From this day on, I'm officially banning show tunes from being sung in this house!"

Of course the rule didn't stick. But to this day, if I even see the title Rent, I grow sweaty and fearful and nauseous. Let this tragic tale serve as a warning to parents everywhere. Ban show tunes before it's too late!

This has been a Public Service Announcement from the Agitated Father Coalition.

Speaking of teens in trouble, it doesn't get much worse for high schooler Tex McKenna. He's bullied, struggles with the principal, is discovering love for the first time, and suddenly has a target on his back from a potential serial killer. Complicating matters is he has just discovered he's a witch. Check out Tex and friends adventures and mystery in my Tex, the Witch Boy trilogy here!

The Royalty of Weird

The other day I asked my wife if she could do my laundry. (Now before all the feminists get in an uproar, my wife kindly volunteered to take this task over from me because my knees went the way of disco and she doesn't want me crashing down the basement stairs.)

I said, "Thanks, honey. Could you start with my unspeakables?"

"Okay," she replied, "but it's 'unmentionables,' not 'unspeakables'."

"Have you seen my underwear?"

Pause. Blink. Finally, she hit me back with her most often used retort. "You're weird."

To which I responded, "Yeah? Well, you married weird."

BOOM! Mic drop. Even she had no witty comeback for that one.

Now. Let's get something straight. There's nothing wrong with being weird. I pride myself on being weird. It's far, far, far better than being "normal" or even worse, boring.

And it's worked out well for many people. There's Weird Al...and...um...Gary Busey...ah...Donny Trump?

Okay, so I can't use celebrities as a shining example of the success of being weird.

My wife won't admit it, but I think she's good with weird, too.

We're the royal King and Queen of Weird, our kingdom is Weirdopia. And I love my weird queen.

Speaking of all things weird, here's a strange little weird book of mine: Chili Run. It's kinda a lark, a comedic crime thriller based on a dream I had about being forced to run through downtown Kansas City in my tighty whities (or is it "tidy whities"? That's one controversy I've never resolved.). It's complicated. The hijinks ensue right here!

Monster Cat On The Loose!

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

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

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

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

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

Uh-oh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm wondering if I should call 911.

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

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

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

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

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!

Nakedopolis!

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

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

"God created them too," she answered.

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

"Mommy's busy right now."

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

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

"Because she disobeyed God." 

"But why was it a sin?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chatty Cathy

While I was waiting in one of the hospital beds for my second cataract surgery, an older woman was escorted by me and deposited in the bed next to me.

"I have Crohn's disease, don't you know," she started. "My mother had it and now I have it. It makes me sick sometimes."

"Hmmmm," said the clearly uninterested nurse.

"Yes, it's true." Totally unable (or unwilling) to read the room, she continued on relating her complete family history. "Now my father never had it and my sister doesn't have it, isn't that funny?"

"Huh."

"But my sister has GERD. Do you know what that is? Well, it's when stomach acid comes back up. I don't have GERD but I have Crohn's disease. Did I tell you that? Yes, I was diagnosed with it back in..."

The nurse politely excused herself and ran for cover. However, the anestheologist soon became her second victim.

"I have Crohn's disease, don't you know? It was diagnosed back in the 90's and it causes me to--"

"Do you smoke?" The anestheologist was not nearly as patient as the nurse had been, abruptly cutting off the old woman's reciting of her medical history.

But she remained hellbent on being heard. "No, I've never smoked. It's kind of disgusting if you ask me. My dad, he smoked. And that's what got him in the end, the cancer. But I've never had any desire or interest to--"

"That's interesting," replied the anestheologist. "Excuse me."

She rushed off but my bed neighbor was not discouraged as she latched onto another poor passing unsuspecting nurse.

And the hell began all over again. "I have Crohn's disease, don't you know? And my mother had it but my--"

The nurses all had a hasty escape plan, but alas, I was bed-ridden and helpless. I wished fervently for the drugs to kick in and put me to sleep. This was far worse than the unseen guy who sits down on a toilet stall next to you and wants to chat about the baseball game last night. Far, far worse.

Mercifully, after another half hour or so of her incessant rattling, I was wheeled away to surgery. With a smile on my face. Probably a first time for that reaction.

Early the next morning, I had a post-op visit scheduled with the doctor. My wife and I sat in the waiting room. The door opens and it's Chatty Cathy again! She sits across from us. And a fresh new hell opened up all over again.

"Did you have surgery yesterday, too?" she launched.

"Yes, I did. I--"

"What color are your eyes? I can't see from here. Did you have surgery for distance or close up? I had surgery to fix my close vision. Can you see better? I think I can. I have Crohn's disease, don't you know? Yes, it's true. My mother had it before me but my sister never had it. Isn't that funny? But she has GERD, do you know what that is? It's when your--"

"Stuart?" I nearly kissed the nurse as I escaped the nefarious clutches of Chatty Cathy. 

God must've been particularly unhappy with me those two days.

Speaking of which, check out my book Godland. It's a midwestern nightmare. Farm noir. Suspense and horror collide. You've been duly warned!

Impromptu High School Reunion

It all started with Doug. Doug was a fun guy who I had been close friends with off and on since grade school. Over the course of time, families and crap happens and old friendships kinda fall by the wayside.

So I was surprised to get a message on Facebook from Doug. "Hey, just a blast from the past," it read. I was shocked (because the last time I'd run into Doug and family was at a local eatery and the reception I got from them was sorta chilly), so of course the first thing I did before responding was to check it out and make sure it wasn't really some creepy middle-aged troll in his mom's basement.

It was really him! So after a few months of hemming and hawing around, we decided to meet at a local bar. "Blast from the past" didn't even begin to cover it. We reminisced about past good and bad times, much hilarity ensued, copious beers helped, and we ended up shouting "TEQUILA!" at frequent intervals.

About a month later, Doug invited me to join him at a neighborhood brewery. I soon found out he was sorta a "VIP" there, or more likely a "frequent flier." So we bellied up to the bar and beers were downed. Soon, Doug was waving at a woman at the end of the bar. 

She came over and it took a minute, but I recognized her as well. It was a girl we'd gone to grade school, middle school, and high school with. She had always been very friendly and likeable and (as both Doug and I had thought) innocent and angelic. Man, were we fooled.

I knew she didn't recognize me at first. So I jut out my hand and offered my name. Recognition flooded her and she launched into a solid and long hug. 

"Oh, I haven't seen you in forever!" she exclaimed, embracing me and patting my back like a TSA agent. And I had changed quite a bit in "forever."

"What I remember about you the most was your wavy red hair," she said.

"Yeah, um, it's been some years since I've had that. I remember playing against you in a chess tournament in sixth grade."

She said, "Did you beat me?"

"Yes," I replied, "but I think I cheated." (No "thinking" involved. I had her in check and didn't call it out. So when I took her king, she fought me a little on it until she kindly acquiesced.)

We talked about fellow class of 79 graduates and gossiped and then she regaled us with some wild stories. In sixth grade, she went to a sleepover and brought vodka! (In sixth grade, Doug and I didn't even know what drinking was.) Then she told us how she and another "angelic" good girl painted some bawdy slurs about our heinous vice principal on the school steps.

Wow! All these years, she and her sidekick had us fooled that they were sweet innocent girls who never got into any trouble.

Soon, another guy wandered up to our small group and said, "I just had to say hello before I go." Another class of 79 grad! Unbelievable (although I'm not too sure that the newcomer and I actually remembered one another). But more stories, more good and bad times, and lotsa tea was spilled.

Later I asked, "who else is gonna show up? Bob Bellman?" ("Bob Bellman"--NOT his real name--was the notorious high school bully who ran over my friend with his car. But you can read all about that in my book, Tex the Witch Boy.)

Doug and I outlasted the other two grads and drank the day away with the promise that we'd all get together again soon and invite even more graduates from the class of 79.

Now that I'm waxing all nostalgic and crap about the days of high school, now's as good a time as any to pimp out my book, Tex, the Witch Boy. It's a mystery, thriller, paranormal, comedy, romance tale largely detailing my traumatic days of high school. Read for yourself why our vice principal was so heinous RIGHT HERE!

Ooooooh, That Smell!

I'm not talking about that crappy arena rock song from Lynyrd Skynyrd (You old-timers remember them? From back in the  70's when all music was crappy?) when I say "Oooooooh, that smell!"

Nope, I'm talking about our oldest dog, Bijou. Monday morning I let her outside to do her stuff and when she gets back inside she pops up next to me on the love seat. And I get a good whiff of her.

"Good God!"

I've never smelled anything like it. But then that wasn't quite true. I knew the offending odor from somewhere before, but I couldn't quite place my finger on it. But my nose sure did. Like a nightmarish, musky, rotting smell, the odor permeated the room, the house, my shirt, and permanently scarred my olfactory system for life.

I stood up and ran from the room, hoping she'd follow me. She did. Then I jumped back into the TV room, shutting the dog gate behind me. Still that smell followed me around like a heat-seeking missile.

I couldn't escape it. Soon I resorted to kicking her out in the backyard (along with her little brother). I figured a good long stay outdoors might diminish the stink. After about at hour I went outside. Even in the open air, her odor assaulted me.

I noticed a side of her coat was rough, so she'd rolled in something, God only knows what. Sneakily, I approached her slowly with the hose. But once she saw the burbling water, she ran away. After playing tag for a while, I finally gave up.

Back inside, I finally came upon a solution. A solution that wise men resort to as their last ditch effort. I texted my wife. "When you get home, you need to give Bijou a bath. You'll see." (She excels at this job, something I'm not well-equipped for.)

So my wife threw her in the tub. After a while, I'm cooking dinner, and she calls out, "Wow. She still stinks. Back in the tub with her."

But she still reeked, even after her second bath. Just not as badly. All night long she kept "eye-begging" to hop up into my lap. Sadly, I dejected those puppy dog eyes.

That night, about 4:30 in the morning, I woke up with a real eureka moment. I finally recognized the odiferous odor: dead animal carcass.

Okay, now on the "Walking Dead," I understand the survivors' need to wear human entrails on their body to be able to move amongst the zombies, but why in the world would a dog think it a grand idea to roll around in a dead critters' remains? Claiming their territory? Geeze, next time just plant a flag or something.

Speaking of furry, smelly varmints, have you heard the one about the business corporation that has a werewolf amongst the employees? No? Well, then, by skippy, you've got to read my darkly comical, satirical, horror, mystery, thriller Corporate Wolf available right here!

Fun With Eye Surgery!

I swan (and you all KNOW how much I hate swanning), once you hit a certain age, it all goes careening quickly downhill from there. Take my latest checkup with my optometrist...please!

"Stuart, your cataracts have grown," said the doctor.

"Um...does this mean surgery?"

"I'm afraid it does."

Of COURSE it did. So off to an ophthalmologist I went, my wife riding shotgun. When the nurse tested my left eye, apparently I couldn't even read a six-inch tall single black letter. Which prompted my wife to laugh (tough crowd, tough crowd).

So Dr. Doogie Howser (I have shoes older than him) came in and told me he was going to hack off my cataracts.

"Wait...what? Wait!"

"I'll go in there and slice your cataract off and replace the cloudy filter on your eye with a new filter."

"AIEEEEEEEEEEEEE," I said.

The day of the procedure I wasn't allowed to eat or drink anything. Already it had started out miserably.

When I got to the surgical center, there were over a dozen people (all appearing disgruntled) in the tiny waiting room. Once they called me back, all sorts of fresh hell broke loose.

They handed me paper after paper (with the tiniest print ever; ironic, yes?) that I couldn't read and told me to sign them. Then the nurse put me through a barrage of questions. ("Name, date of birth, favorite boy band, etc."). Once they found a bed for me, they took me into a massive room with about twenty beds, with a variety of people laying on them, looking like some kind of war-time hospital room. There were moans and groans and snores. I very much wanted to get outta there.

A different nurse came in and went through all of the same damn questions again ("Stuart West, April 1961, Back Street Boys, etc.") and they began to put eye drops on me.

"To help numb your eye," said the nurse.

"Ahhh...please give me a lot of it," I said.

Then I noticed this old, shaky, bald, hunched over man wobbling around, clearly in worse shape than I was. I wondered why they let this clearly out-of-it patient roam freely through the room until he stopped by my bed and picked up a chart.

"Hi, Steve, I'm--"

"Stuart," I corrected even though he had no interest in getting my name right.

"I'm Mark, the anesthesia nurse."

Pause. Blink. Ponder. He waited for my response. I blurted out the first thing that came to mind. "Really?"

"Now this chart says you're...160 pounds and 5'6" tall..."

"Yeah, no. That's a mistake," I said. "A big mistake."

The wrinkles on Mark's head crinkled like ripples in a pond. "Hmmm. Now...which eye is being operated on?"

"My left one," I said.

"You left your eye where?"

"No. My left eye. Left!"

"You left your eye where?" Mark repeated before finally cracking a smile.

"Ohhhhhhhkay, I see what you did there, Mark. Eye humor." I so wanted to tell him that his joke wasn't funny nor did it even make sense, but I was kinda at everyone's mercy.

"Are you feeling pretty relaxed after the medicine we gave you?" he asked.

I shook my head. "I haven't had any medicine!"

"Hmmm." With that Mark waddled off to the guy next to me where he continued to harass the patient with his tired, same ol' schtick.

Soon they began to roll me into the surgical room, aka "The Polar Experience." Cold doesn't even begin to describe it.

"How're you doing, Stuart?" asked an unseen nurse.

"Kinda nervous. Um, could I get some medicine to relax me? Maybe? Please?"

The nurse laughed. Then strapped my head down to the point where I couldn't move. "Dr. Howser works under a microscope, so don't move a muscle," she directed.

Dr. Howser whizzed in (at least I assume it was him) and said, "Okay, we're going to start now. You won't feel a thing."

"Promise?"

The operation began. A series of bright lights blinded me (well...blinded me even more than I was) while a nurse kept squirting stuff into my eye. Soon I could see and feel something working around the perimeter of my eye. Cutting into it!

"Alright, we're halfway through. I cut out the cataract," said Dr. Howser.

"Great," I said, tied down and at a loss for words.

"We're in the home-stretch now." Soon enough it was done. They unwrapped me and put a plastic "shield" over the eye. 

"Wow," I said. "I can already tell that I can see better." I wasn't really sure if that was true or not, but I couldn't think of what else to say.

"Well..." said Dr. Howser. "That was a huge cataract."

They wheeled me back into the war room, where I immediately hopped out of bed, ready to get the hell out of there before they started hacking at my eye again.

The following week was recovery. And I had to wear the horrible eye shield every night while I slept. But I had got through it. Until in two more weeks when Dr. Howser will slice open my other eye.

AIEEEEEEEEE!

Speaking of things that make me scream, I have to make a blatant plug for my short story collection, Twisted Tales From Tornado Alley. It's full of horror, humor, and twists. But I'm especially proud of the final novella, "The Underdwellers." I believe it's the the scariest and most intense thing I've written. But don't take my word for it! Lay down some bucks and find out for yourself right here!

The Politeness of Brits

The politeness of our friends across the sea, the British people, never ceases to amaze me. It even extends into popular culture.

The other day I was watching an old British cop movie where the policeman (or "Bobby," if you will), pulled a pistol. He hollers (but never too loudly, mind you) after the fleeing criminal, "I shall fire this gun in the subjunctive."

Yow! You won't hear that in American cop films today! No, you'll more likely hear something along the lines of "You have the right to remain silent...forever, mother f@#$er!"

Sigh. Talk about the "ugly American."

This behavior even extends to trash TV reality junk. Lately, my daughter has hooked me on some of the trashiest TV shows in history. One is called "Love Is Blind," a ludicrous foray into bottom of the barrel humanity at its ugliest, involving numerous scandals, lying, cheating, and overall bad behavior. (Addictive though it is).

Not so the British counterpart of "Love Is Blind." Therein, the participants are exceedingly polite, scandals very rare and usually reduced to nothing more than a quick peck on the cheek that has not been revealed. In other words, very boring trash TV.

Now...why is this? Part of the reason must pertain to the old "keep a stiff upper lip" idiom usually associated with the British, wherein they generally remain calm and stoic in the face of potentially upsetting situations. Of course this can't be true all the time. Even Hugh Grant's gotta lose his temper on occasion.

Their polite behavior definitely isn't a result of their weather! No, they face ugly, gray, rainy skies on a nearly daily basis.

Maybe the British accent puts a delightful sheen on everything they say. Take for instance, a radio chat show about the importance of buttons, wherein the heavily accented host makes buttons sound fascinating. But this doesn't go any further into explaining their actual behavior.

I can definitely explain part of the "ugly American" behavior, a difference in our politicians. I've read a lot about their lousy leaders, but at least they don't rant, rave, rape, belittle, bully, lie, and ignore the US Constitution like a certain horrific president of ours. "Lead by example," so the ubiquitous "they" say.

(Following our shambles of a presidential election, BBC reporters were astounded at our choice of American presidents. All I can is "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry....")

But no, I believe that the overall politeness attributed to the British comes down to cultural norms. Ms. Google, my research assistant agrees with me, where she explains "politeness and good manners are seen as important in British culture passed down through generations." (The only American "Norm" I can think of is the overweight barfly on "Cheers.")

Collectively, we as a nation could learn a lot from our British friends (and please, let's remain friendsies despite the actions of our president!).

Hey ho, speaking of ugly Americans, there're plenty of them staying at one of the Midwest's finest bed 'n breakfasts, the Dandy Drop Inn. See how I, as an author, corrected their bad behavior in my horror thriller, Dread and Breakfast!

Mom's In The Army Now...

Even as a kid, I was a tree-hugging pacifist. So when I first became aware of the draft, the possibility of my being torn from the safety of my parents' protection and thrust into battle terrified me.

So at the age of six or so, I cried, "Mommy...I don't wanna get drafted!"

My Mom hugged me and said, "Shh, shh, shh. Don't worry. If you get drafted, I'll go with you."

That worked--temporarily--to assuage my childhood fears.

But I started thinking of the larger ramifications...

"Oh great googly-moogly! My eyes have to be playing tricks on me! Either that or you knuckleheads have finally driven me around the bend! Private West! Is that your mother behind you?"

"Sir, yes, sir!"

"My stars and garters! Now I've seen everything! Both of you drop and give me 20!"

"Yes sir!"

Or maybe this scenario...

"Hey, West! Is your mommy gonna dig your foxholes for you?"

"You boys shut up before I come over there and scratch your eyes out!" (This was my mother's favorite terrifying threat whenever she thought her darling little boys were being mistreated.)

So I took my concerns back to my mom. "Mommy...you wouldn't really scratch the other soldiers' eyes out, would you?"

"It depends on how they treat you," she replied.

This scared me, but at the time bigger issues started to swim around in my boyish brain. "Why don't ladies get drafted?"

"Because we have babies."

"Oh." I pondered this. It made absolutely no sense and just seemed unfair overall. "Well...why don't men have babies?"

"Because they go to war," she replied without hesitation.

Which just confused me even further. Besides the very odd correlation of giving birth to war, I didn't understand the world at all. And it just got more confusing as I grew older.

Matters weren't helped when my parents rarely told me the truth about anything when I was a child. (Don't even get me going on the topic of sex.)

My takeaway from this nostalgic reexamination is this: If you get drafted, bring your mother. And always wear clean underwear because you never know when a tank might run over you.

Now that I'm being nostalgic and all about my parents, check out my Tex, the Witch Boy trilogy. My protagonist's parents are based on my own (although--to my knowledge--my mom was never a witch). The fun starts here!

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!

Sexism in Hollywood

Take John Wayne...PLEASE!

You know, I've never really liked John Wayne. I thought his acting was more wooden than Pinocchio. (I know, I know, not a popular opinion, un-American, bla, bla, bla. You should hear what I think about Tom Hanks! I'm digressing...) But over the years I wondered if my initial assessment was too harsh, perhaps even wrong (After all, I figured, sooooo many Americans can't be wrong in their judgment, right? RIGHT??? Wait...never mind...).

Alas, I was correct. One note acting in a plethora of films, always the same character, I again couldn't understand his astounding popularity. But the worst of it was how he treated women.

Sure, he pretty much treated everyone in his movies like crap ("Injuns," young people, comical sidekicks), but the way he treated women was truly despicable. Condescending as all get out, women were objects to be ridiculed, laughed at, relegated to secondary status, and God forbid should a woman ever have an opinion about anything. In one particularly hard-to-take movie, he even grabbed a woman and put her across his lap to give her a spanking!

Before you think I'm heinous for picking on "The Duke (and what's with his weird sorta hip swiveling walk?)," this attitude in old-time Hollywood persevered in nearly every film of the period.

Don't even get me started on that beloved musical, "Seven Brides For Seven Brothers," a jaunty tribute to caveman behavior and raping and pillaging. But it's okay, 'cause you can sing along!

Women were never given choices regarding anything, particularly if it had something to do with their feelings. Feh, who cares what some silly little lady wants or doesn't want? They exist to please and compliment men, of course.

And the horror stories I've read about major Hollywood stars raping starlets is unbelievable. (I won't name names here, but Dr. Google is your friend.)

How is this relevant? Because it's the sort of America that today's ruling political party would love to see us return to. And by skippy, they're doing a damn fine job getting there.

I mean, hey, if our president can rape and denigrate women, why can't we all?

Okay, now that I've got my dander up, let's talk about a different kind of beast: the corporate raider. But the particular corporate raider I'm talking about is also a werewolf. Check out all the wacky, bloody shenanigans in my darkly comic, horror thriller, Corporate Wolf.

Total Duck-Up!

There's a relatively new start-up tech company in the San Francisco Bay area called "Stripe." They're apparently huge and growing at a rapid pace, claiming Amazon as one of their customers. I guess they're kinda a big deal.

But...but...recently they laid off 3.5% of their work-force. If you're a Stripe customer, this is reason enough to worry about who you've entrusted your tech needs to, never a comforting sign.

It gets even better: in the termination email, Stripe laid off the people with a picture of a cartoon duck.

Ta-daaaaahhhhh! What a "duck-up."

If I were Amazon, I'd be shopping around for a more competent tech company. (I mean, you're Amazon, for Gawd's sake! It's not like you wouldn't have companies frothing at the mouth to jump on your evil corporate giant shirttails.) 

"Tech" is supposed to be Stripe's area of expertise. Yet, they couldn't lay off employees via email without a cartoon duck accidentally slipping into the happy tidings of joy. (And what exactly does "US-non-California duck" mean? This taken from the actual duck that waddled its way into the layoff missives? Is this part of Trump's evil agenda to rid the US of all immigrants? And is this his new mascot? It'll probably be saying "You're fired...from the US!" soon.)

What's next? Police officers and doctors handing out business cards displaying a cartoon puppy with huge eyes saying, "Sorry your loved one died. Let's 'paws' to remember them. How 'bout a hug?"

Or maybe morticians will sit grieving loved ones down in front of a wacky cartoon with a dunderhead continuing to die in terrible accidents, with his ghost slipping out of the body, a huge smile pasted on his face, happily proclaiming his catch-phrase, "It ain't over yet, folks!" as he excitedly speeds Heaven-ward.

This is just...it's quackers is what it is!

No explanation came from the head honchos of Stripe. Just the usual cookie-cutter, boiler plate, "bla, bla, bla apologies to everyone who's been effected by this and bla, bla, bla." 

I'm sure this made all of the duck receivers feel loads better.

I won't even mention that in the same termination emails (a very chicken--{not "ducky" in the least}--way to lay people off, BTW), the wrong final work dates were given. Okay, I did mention it. But bad Stripe! Bad!

How does this happen? It's like Colonel Sanders suddenly forgetting how to make fried chicken, so will only serve liver and onions from now on. Tech is what Stripe is known for. Do better!

Speaking of "quacking up," meet Derek, a mild-mannered Midwesterner just trying to make ends meet and live a comfortable life in suburbia, USA. But something's bothering Derek. Something's not right with the new neighbors. And...is there something else residing in he and his wife's house? Something not living, yet not dead? Or could Derek be having another mental break like he'd had years ago? Find out the answers in my (hopefully) chilling ghost story, Neighborhood Watch. (Good luck finding it, though, it's currently between publishers. C'mon already, somebody snatch it up again!)

Dr. Quack

From as far back as I can remember, my parents used to drag my brother and I  (kicking and screaming) to a doctor who they swore by all the way up through high school. We'll call him "Dr. Quack" for that's what he was.

He was also a "baby doctor," meaning he specialized in toddlers, or so it seemed (I had this theory verified one day when I was about fifteen. I was stuck next to my mom in the waiting room and to my surprise, in strolled a notorious, chain-smoking, fully-bearded stoner, led by his mother. He groused loudly, "Mom, why do I have to go to a baby doctor?" I never thought of him as so notorious after that.).

Anyway, no matter my ailment, this quack's response was always the same: "Hmmm, I'm going to prescribe Singlets. If you're not better in two weeks, come back in." These "Singlets" never did a damn thing. Dr. Quack clearly had a special deal going on with the Big Pharma manufacturer of these sugar-coated placebos. He made a fortune off of Singlets just through my family alone.

Oh, he had one other thing he kept threatening to do to me. "Hmmm, if he keeps getting stuffed up ears," Dr. Quack said solemnly to my mom, "We'll have to put tubes in his ears."

Whaaaaaaaat? The thought of tubes in my ears terrified me. Not only would it be painful and torturous, but I easily imagined the bullies lined up at school waiting to pummel the unfortunate kid with tubes sticking out of his ears. Barbaric, worse than electro-shock treatment to my grade school stuffed up ears.

One day, Dr. Quack had convinced my mother that my brother and I had allergies. So off to another quack we flew. This guy decided I was allergic to peanut butter (absolutely not true), milk (ditto), and a slew of ordinary things that I constantly indulged in without any problem whatsoever. Regardless, we had to get painful shots each week. And even though we knew it was coming, we tried to block the tragic day out, utilizing a child's ability to believe that what you don't think about won't hurt you. And every Friday, there was a stubborn, tear-filled fit with my mom always winning. I don't even remember getting lollipops.

Finally, once I hit college, I escaped the menace of Dr. Quack, choosing instead to just power through the illness or go to the campus clinic. Until one day I was talking to my friend and things came around to Dr. Quack.

"Dr. Quack!" exclaimed my buddy. "He was a terrible doctor! Everybody knew that he was the guy to go to if you wanted to get out of gym or play football or whatever. I can't believe you guys went to him! HA HA HA HA HA HA..."

So, it seemed that even though I'd put distance between myself and the notorious Dr. Quack, his long shadow still loomed over me with a handful of Singlets and plastic tubing.

Years later, as an adult I went to a nearby walk-in clinic due to bronchitis. I nearly shrieked when I found out the doctor on call was...Dr. Quack Junior! My past still haunted me.

Speaking of haunts, visit beautiful Gannaway, Kansas. A cozy little mining town originating in the '20's, Gannaway offers plentiful jobs and beautiful country living and murders and ghosts and scares and ancient curses...and...and...wait! Okay, maybe you shouldn't visit Gannaway. Instead, why not read about it in my historical ghost tale Ghosts of Gannaway, the perfect book to cozy up to on these cold winter nights.

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!