New Breed Sighting: The Human Whale!

Recently, spectators caught sight of this bizarre, tireless creature outside of President Trump's golf course, spouting air through its blowhole onto the frail humans walking beside him! A new species is born!

Okay, you guys have probably read the story of this goofball and what he's up to: protesting the protesters who're protesting... something or other. Honestly, I can't keep track of all of the protesting going on anymore. I need a murder board to keep it all straight. I'm not gonna trot out what any of the protesters are protesting at this particular venue, needless to say it's gonna piss off half the U.S. population one way or the other.

It's all so...tired. Aren't you guys exhausted? Both political sides have displayed poor extremist behavior and are embarrassing their respective parties. I'm not gonna exclude myself from name-calling, getting angry, and pointing fingers in the past. But I'm done.

So...let's talk about the important matters here: first...this guy's style. Just look at his spectacular form, letting it all hang out, apparently never exhausting his copious amount of oxygen (as an ex-smoker, there's no way I could've maintained his stamina without passing out), not once caring how foolish he looks. I gotta give the guy props for that, at least. And, oh! His perfectly round blowhole is something to be envied (by someone, somewhere, I'm fairly sure).

Obviously, this idiot could be a carrier of coronavirus and not have symptoms, so I'm glad they charged him. (Thus further cementing my thought that not only does 2020 suck, but now it blows, too.) 

But what about the precedent this guy is setting? Particularly for the future and laws relating to such similar crimes? I mean, he was arrested for misdemeanor assault after all.

How in the world could this be proven in court?

For instance...

Matlock (espousing his cracker-barrel philosophy): "Your honor, it's a travesty, just a travesty, I say, that my client is even being charged with this laughable perceived 'crime'."

Opposing Counsel: "Objection, your honor, the defendant is clearly shown in photographic evidence breathing on the victims! He obviously--"

Matlock: "Did you just take a breath there, Mr. Opposing Counsel? I swan I saw you do such a thing. Your honor, isn't breathin' just a natural body function? I know I'm sure as shootin' glad I'm still breathin'."

Judge (smiling and chuckling): "I'll allow Mr. Matlock to say anything just as long as he keeps speaking in that warm, down-home drawl." (Aims puppy dog eyes at Matlock.)

See what I mean? This is setting a terrible precedent for legal cases in 2021 and beyond. Don't the courts have more important things to be dealing with like...oh...wait, scratch that example.

Here, try another scenario:

(Cue an All-American Family in a car.)

Little Suzie: "Daaaaad! Billy just breathed on me! Gah!"

Little Billy: "Did not, did not, did not, did not, did not, did--"

Dad (red-faced with veins bulging out of his forehead): "Gawd dammit, Billy, quit breathing! Don't MAKE me come back there!"

Not a pretty future, is it?

Nothing's certainly been pretty in the last couple months or so. My retinas have been permanently scarred by so-called "news" outlets releasing revolting photos (thus making the National Enquirer the class-act news outlet on the block now). There's the aforementioned Human Whale. 

How about Trump dancing to the Village People's song "Y.M.C.A" (and I still find it outrageous that no one in Trump's cabinet had the testicular fortitude to tell the guy what that song was really about)? There was Mitch McConnell's awful close-ups of his white, black, pink, and purple appearance (I almost felt sorry for the guy. On second thought...nahhhhhh.). 

And finally Giuliani's infamous double-whammy with his "acting" debut in Borat 2, followed by the manic-looking photo where his head bled down upon him exacting revenge.

 (Looks at clock. Checks calendar.) Hurry up, 2021!

While we're waiting for this ghastly year to come to a sluggish stop, how about entertaining yourself with my ghastly horror collection, Twisted Tales from Tornado Alley? Lots of horror and laughs guaranteed to take your mind off the horror and laughs of 2020.

 

Six Degrees of Bob Berdella, Kansas City serial killer

Kansas City's had its share of notorious serial killers. Terry Blair killed at least seven women in the KC metro area. There's good ol' Robert J. Gross, who'd been happily stalking and killing massage parlor workers for decades, before finally being caught. How about Lorenzo Gilyard, a trash company supervisor, who was suspected of killing 13 women, colorfully known as The Kansas City Strangler? I guess working trash must've been stressful. Casting the net further, of course, Kansas gave birth to the BTK Strangler. You're welcome! Oh, and the Westboro Baptist Church.

But perhaps the killer with the most notoriety was Bob Berdella, aka The Kansas City Butcher, aka The Collector. Or at least he scared me the most. For I had several near encounters with him, my version of Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon, I suppose.

For those who don't know, the short story is Bob was actually a relatively well-known Kansas City fixture, hiding in plain sight. Many knew him as a civic-minded citizen, who helped to form the Hyde Park Neighborhood Crime and Watch Program. Long out of the closet, he took in young male hustlers and attempted to get them off of drugs. Soon he started capturing, torturing (for up to six weeks!), and killing young gay men, disposing of them in handy-sized chunks in trash bags at the landfill. All of this took place at his home at 4315 Charlotte Street.

Now, at the same time, one of my closest friends lived directly one block over at 4315 Harrison Street. It was ideal for our group of pals, as A) he was the only one with a house at the time and we could all crash there (it had, like, four floors and endless rooms!); and B) it was within walking distance of our favorite nightlife area, Westport.

Many wee hours were spent stumbling home from the bars to the house on Harrison while Bob was busy directly behind us pouring Drano down a poor hapless victim's throat. Even scarier was another friend, who was particularly directionally-challenged after drinking, spent the night mistakenly on Bob's front porch! Lucky for him, Bob must've slept through his intrusion, otherwise he would've seen it as a Christmas miracle, no doubt.

But you know, in our stupid and immature youthful naivety and false feelings of invulnerability, we never worried about the crime-ridden neighborhood, let alone ending up as shish-ka-Bob-Berdellaed!

Speaking of Westport, Bob ran a booth down there called "Bob's Bizarre Bazaar." The little shop specialized in selling odd items from around the world. Now, the booth was inside another building called "The Westport Flea Market," a very unusual joint comprised of dozens of booths lining three walls and a hamburger restaurant (that had crab races on Sunday nights!) in the center. I spent many an afternoon and night in that joint while Bob undoubtedly watched me gnawing on a burger. (The place still prides itself as "the best burger in KC," but the Berdella fallout wasn't the greatest publicity for meat-eaters, as you can imagine.)

I never went into his booth, but was familiar with it. I'm pretty sure I even saw him sitting on a stool there a couple times. Another friend of mine did visit there once with a date (talk about a memorable date!), where Bob displayed a human skull for sale. At the time my pal thought it was fake, now, not so much. One thing about Bob, he had clever ways of getting rid of his victims.

When the story broke, we all watched it from the perceived safety of the house on Harrison Street. Suddenly, it didn't feel so safe any longer.

On the topic of serial killers, check out my darkly-humorous trilogy of thrillers about beleaguered serial killers under fire. And they're the good guys! (Wait until you meet the bad guys...) That's Secret Society, Strike, and Killer King. Ask for them by name!

Take a Stripper Out to Lunch Day

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Tales From the Sofa

I am Stuart's sofa.

I'm the couch hub of the Midwest, the loveseat heart of suburban Kansas. An upholstery covered melting pot suitable for every race, color, creed, and religious bottom of humanity. There are eight million stories to be told from my cushions and this is one of them. For you see...

Wait. Hold on a minute. It's a lie. All of it!

My life is boring. I get to service Stuart's rear-end only. Day in and day out, he sits on me, writing. Sure, some times his wife parks on me, but as far as variety? Forget about it.

Frankly, watching someone write is really, really boring.

On occasion, though, I'm privy to the insights of the writing process. For instance, Stuart's frequently asked "where do you get your ideas?" Usually--as is his lame and lazy approach--he responds "I don't know." (See what I mean? BORING.)

This hammock thinks it has it bad? Try being me, Stuart's suffering sofa!

But last week, something interesting finally happened. While wearing me down (and would it hurt Stuart to sit on my other side on occasion?), Stuart received a text on his phone.

It read: Hey! It's Theresa! I'm using Tim's phone because I lost mine! See you in a bit! DON'T text back on this phone!

This set Stuart to thinking, never a good idea. He didn't know a Tim or Theresa. He couldn't very well text back, either, tell Theresa she had a wrong number. After all, she'd strictly forbidden him to do so.

Weened on thrillers and mysteries, Stuart started pulling pieces together. Clearly, Theresa was cheating on Tim. The heart emojis sealed the deal. Should Stuart warn Tim? Write back anyway and let Theresa know she had the wrong number?

What did Stuart, the man of inaction, the writer do? Nothing. Altogether now: BORING.

Several hours later, Theresa texted back: Thinking bout you. Had a great time.

Again, Stuart didn't respond. Through-out the day, Theresa kept texting, her anxiety ramping up with each missive: Helloooo? What's wrong? Why aren't you responding? Dammit, talk to me!

Finally, Theresa's final message: That's it. I'm talking to Tim. Even more troublesome? Theresa attached a photo of a baby in a car seat.

Like a Hitchcockian protagonist from days of old, Stuart had unwittingly become an unwilling, silent partner in an affair, the fourth member of a sordid situation that would undoubtedly end in murrrderrrr.

Yes sir, it was the most excitement I'd had since I was a wee settee at the sofa factory.

Stuart deliberated, didn't have a clue as to what to do. In his typically inert fashion, he decided to fashion the incident into a thriller to be written at a later date. The seed of an idea had been planted and his mind began to water it.

So...that's where one of Stuart's book ideas came from.

Wait! Here he comes! Gotta' run. I'll talk to--Oooff!