Drowning in Word Soup

Okay, kids! I know it's summer, but what would summer be without a little summer school?  Oh, quit yer belly-aching, it's just a short pop quiz. Put on your thinking caps and your smart kicks and put away Tik-Tok because here we go!...

Which popular orange-coiffed clown recently said the following to a large crowd?

"And the fake news they go, he told this crazy story with electric. It's actually not crazy. It's sort of a smart story, right? Sort of like, you know, it's like the snake, it's a smart when you, you figure what you're leaving in, right? You're bringing it in the, you know, the snake, right? The snake and the snake. I tell that and they do the same thing."  June 23, 2024

Was it:

A) Ronald McDonald?

B) Beloved orange-haired comedian Carrot-Top?

C) Donald Trump?

DING, DING, DING! If you picked, "C," you win! Go to recess.

Yow! Can anyone make sense of that blast of word soup, noodling for coherency? It boggles my mind that half the country believes this man competent to lead (RULE!) our country. Now, for the sake of staying on track, I won't even get into what I believe to be all of Trump's other faults (cough*CONVICTED FELON*cough), but let's chat about mental competency.

First of all, to be fair, Biden scared the dickens out of me with his horrific debate "performance." Instead of an American president, I saw a doddering, forgetful old uncle that you keep trying to avoid at a wedding reception, but who finds you nonetheless. I tried to hold onto my belief in Biden, but there comes a time when you gotta say "No go, Joe! It was great while it lasted."

So, why does no-one talk about Trump's incoherency during his rallies or his wee hours of the morning Truth Social rants? The guy rarely makes sense, rambling on about sharks, Hannibal Lecter (whom he appears to believe is a real person AND a stand-up guy), windmills, and now snakes. Constantly, he confuses facts (ahem, LIES), politicians (who he's running against), people (Pelosi, his own doctor, etc.), how many World Wars there've been, and let's not forget "2 Corinthians," this coming from a great, self-proclaimed Christian with numerous bibles in his house (no doubt kept right next to his classified, stolen documents in the Golden Bathroom).

He scares me. So, I made a mistake and posted Trump's word soup quote (which I lifted from another poster) on Facebook (where EVERYTHING is true, don't ya' know?).

Here's a reply (sic) I got: "Youre obviously clueless. The snake is a fabke Trump says in rallies. Now why don't we talk about Bidens uncle eaten by cannibals?"

Okay! I looooove social media!

Let's take this at each point.

A) Yes, I guess I am obviously clueless because Trump's quote makes absolutely no sense to me. My fault for being a dummy. Totes. But...but...can the MAGA loyal decipher his nonsense? Do they have special  decoder rings that descramble Trump's cryptic ramblings? Are the MAGA core flying higher on a mental plain that we lowly Democrats are unable to achieve? Please! I wanna know if I'm missing out on something special.

B) True, I was clueless about Trump's snake "fabke (is that a Russian tasty treat?)," so I decided to edumacate myself. It's not a fable at all, but apparently lyrics to a song entitled "The Snake." At his rallies, Trump whips out a paper and reads the lyrics about a tender-hearted woman who rescues a half-frozen snake only to have it bite her. There you have it! Obviously America is the tender-hearted woman and the vile, blood-poisoning snake is an illegal immigrant. I'm not that smart (remember I'm clueless) to figure out Trump's metaphor; it's Trump's Cliff Notes explanation after he reads the lyrics. (Other Note: Trump misattributed the song to Al Wilson.)

C) Yes, being clueless, I'd never heard of Biden's uncle being eaten by cannibals. But, straight from Biden himself, he's attributed the remains of his uncle (World War 2 fighter pilot downed near New Guinea) to have been eaten by cannibals. Yumpin' Yiminy! Okay, admittedly, the story does sound kinda crazy (you know, like something that doddering, drunken uncle at a wedding reception might recount), but Biden's put it out there twice. And, in the past, he's had his fair share of moments of "embellishing" the truth. But at least his story made sense.

Wrapping up here, make sure you vote in November. I don't care who you vote for, but please, please, PLEASE make sure you vote for someone who at least is coherent and can string together a sentence. Do a write-in candidate if you must. You know, someone logical, sane, and coherent like Gary Busey.

If you're sick to death of what passes for the sorry state of American politics and worried about November, read a book! Here...I just happen to have some suggestions, all of them fine and available here!

Medical Fun In My Swinging Sixties

Ah, yes, another week, another medical crisis. Folks, do whatever you can to avoid your sixties. Once I hit 60, it all started slaloming downhill like an out-of-control bus driven by a blind man on an ice-covered highway.

One day my wife says, "Hey, they're having heart scans for calcium build-up for a discount. I think it'd be a good idea if we did this."

I paused the TV and said, "Yeah, sure, sounds great," while having no idea what I was signing up for.

Okay, let's fast-forward to after the test (which was no big deal). Immediately, I get a call from a panicked nurse.

"Mr. West..." She sounded hesitant, a lowly assistant fated to deliver bad news.

"Yes?"

"Um, we got back the test results on your heart screening and...ah...your calcium levels are off the charts!"

Pause. Silence. Sooooo many crickets.

"Am I...am I...dying?"

"No. But you need to make some lifestyle changes."

"Wait...but...wait..."

"We'll send results in the mail."

I did indeed get results in the mail. Very non-specific results which said I was in the high calcium plaque level.

My wife dragged me to a cardiologist and he said, "Hmmmm. These results aren't very specific." 

"That's what I said, doc!" Defiantly, I stood my ground. "What can we do about this plaque in my arteries?"

"Well...get Roto-Rooter, maybe." Clearly tickled with himself, I let his joke falter beside my stone face. 

"Outside of that," he continued, "I'm going to order a stress test and echocardiogram." 

I groaned as he laid out the details of what this entailed.

Couple weeks later, I'm at the hospital awaiting alongside a buncha other old folks in walkers, wheelchairs, and lugging around oxygen tanks (straight from the casinos) to get into my three hour testing grounds. What life must feel like in an old folks home; the ghost of Christmas Future, ho, ho, ho.

The first nurse out of about a zillion, an amiably sleepy guy, comes to get me and explain the lay of the land.

"Now, I'm gonna stick this needle in your arm and then get an IV going."

Suddenly, I'm having PTSD flashbacks from sadistic Nurse Wretched from my days of being a lab rat in a skin study. "But...but, Josh," I whined, "my veins are really tough to find."

He says, "I'm an expert. It's boring to me, really."

Well, far be it from me to wake amiable Josh out of his going-through-the-motions sleepwalking on the job, so I let him do his job. True to his word, he hit it spot-on. Then he takes me back to the death waiting room. Where there's a horrendous drilling sound shaking the walls. Terrified, I look around at my "peers" to see if they're as fearful about the tortures awaiting them as I am, but mercifully for them, they don't have their hearing aids turned on.

Josh slides back in and gathers me up for my echocardiogram. "Meet Gunner, he's a really nice guy," he says and deposits me into the curiously monikered "Gunner's" hands.

"Get your shirt off and lay down facing me, arms up over your head, knees bent, butt back," he orders. The intern with him grimaces when I strip and attempt to do an awkward, backwards pirouette up onto the table, the least comfy contortionist position you could ever attempt. Sadists, the whole lot of them.

Gunner says, "Well, you don't really have to stick your butt out...I just think it's a fun lil' ice-breaker." Gunner and the intern giggle. I turn fifty shades of red.

Soon they're gelling up my chest and searching for my heart.

"Hmmmm..." says Gunner.

"'Hmmmm?' I repeat. "Is that a good 'hmmmm' or a bad 'hmmmm?"

"Well...according to the readings...you're already dead. But I'm sure the machine is just on the blink again." Gunner winks at the intern with a grin. "Pretty sure."

When I'm finally done with the comedy stylings of Gunner and his silent sidekick, Josh snags me again and takes me into another room. A nurse comes out and says, "Hi, I'm Natalie...and I'm here to stress you out."

I force a laugh while remembering a couple of past stress tests I've taken. Pure hell where they put you on a treadmill until you're ready to pass out and your heart explodes. Thankfully, with my arthritic knees, that's an impossibility for me now.

"I'm going to inject you with chemicals that will increase your heartrate. It might feel pretty weird for you," she says.

Wondering how "weird" things might get, I ask the burning question that's flaming through my brain. "Ahhh...has this ever given anyone a...you know, heart attack?"

"Well..." she drawls, digging deep into her nostalgia closet, "there was this one guy who apparently had a heart attack. But it turned out that he was high on cocaine and it simulated a heart attack. If it's any consolation, he loved it."

"Um...yeah, Natalie, that makes me feel soooooo much more comfortable."

After the injection, I'm awaiting for the spasms and seizures and freak-outs that are sure to accompany it, but not much happens. I get jittery (what else is new?), anxious (status quo, says my wife), and headachy, but no big freak-out.

They keep checking on me. "Doing okay?"

"Yeah...just a little anxious, but nothing new."

"Ummmm...your heart rate's off the charts, though."

"Is that...good or bad???"

"Normal," says Natalie.

A little dizzy, I sit up and wait it out while Josh comes back in to sleepily look me over and whisk me away to a tubular machine where he takes multiple pictures of my chest.

And finally, I'm released! Released into the wilds of wheelchairs, walkers, and oxygen tanks. Now...where's my cigarettes?

Speaking of making really stupid life choices, Tex McKenna, teenaged, angsty male witch, just can't help himself. I mean, why else try and find out the identity of the killer who's systematically taking out his high school's bullies (not that Tex will miss them all that much)? Soon enough, Tex and his small group of loyal allies are also in the killer's sites. Check out the mysterious, thrilling, funny, scary, suspenseful, romantic, paranormal adventures of Tex and company in my Tex, the Witch Boy trilogy!

Big, Fat Guys

There's no denying that the world has it in for "big, fat guys." The blessedly thin look down their noses with disdain at overweight people, one of the more common, yet relatively restrained "hate groups" in our country. We even have an ex-president (and let's keep it that way) who insults a Republican competitor with fat insults (and honestly, shouldn't this guy look in a mirror? All of those Big Macs are going somewhere. Recently he claimed he was 6'3" and 215 pounds. HA HA HA HA HA HA HA! ).

Recently, I've come to realize something odd about how people refer to overweight folks. Have you ever noticed that it's always "big, fat guy?" It's never just, "hey, check out that big guy over there," or "Wow, look at that fat guy!" Nope, it's always "get a load of that BIG, FAT guy!"

Why do we need both "big" and "fat?" Aren't they kind of redundant? Is it merely trying to doubly amplify one's size in derision? When you refer to an underweight person, you don't call them a "thin, skinny guy." And sometimes, people like to go for the trifecta of fat insults and up the ante to "big, giant, fat guy."

And it's always "guy." People don't like to personalize it, maybe too afraid to get to know the big, fat guy and hang a name on him. "Say, there goes big, fat Phil" is just unheard of in polite circles.

But how best to politely describe overweight people? The "experts (a bunch of THIN experts, I have no doubt)" have presented some guidelines:

*Plump: This sounds so veddy British and polite, that it already wins you over. In fact, there's a jolliness attached to it, evoking everyone's favorite good-natured "plump" fellow, Santa Claus. Come to think of it, as a child I don't EVER recall my peers referring to Santa as that "creepy big, fat guy who breaks into homes." No, they kept their mouths glued until December 26th when things reverted back to business as usual and open fire was declared on the hapless, overweight kid on the playground.

*Big-Boned: I don't know. This one kinda sounds like an excuse the thin give overweight people to explain their girth while they don't really buy into it for one minute. Besides, I don't think big bones really add to your overall size. Unless you're a Tyrannosaurus Rex or whatever.

*Heavy Set: I suppose this one's okay. At least it doesn't fly to the stratosphere with "BIG" and "FAT," leaving a little bit of leeway in the wide range of "heavy settedness."

*Larger: Well, duh. But larger than what or whom? Who's the standard bearer for weight? I mean, this kinda changes with the times, doesn't it? Look at the movies made between the '20's and '50's, where many leading starlets (and men) tipped the scales. Our currently popular, bone-thin, heroin-chic models wouldn't have a place on the silver screen back in the day.

*Overweight: This is a favorite of doctors. Used by anyone else, it's insulting. But those glib, thin doctors get away with it frequently. (Besides, I don't know if I'd trust a doctor who diagnoses you as "pleasantly plump.")

*Morbidly Obese: No. JUST no. Talk about insulting. And people who use it usually don't even understand the terminology. The word "morbid" constitutes sickness and death. Once, in my heavier youth, my dad actually called me this. Thanks Dad!

*Plus Size: Often used in modelling, I assume this term makes people feel okay about themselves, because hey! It's modelling! Personally, I find it slightly insulting, but really, all of these are. But if it makes an overweight person okay with who they are, more power to them.

*Curvy: This is the term a buddy uses when he sets you up with his girlfriend's friend. 

*Full-Figured: see "Curvy."

*Stocky, Stout, Burly, Bulky, and Husky: These are all interchangeable and bring to mind muscle more than sheer mass. So large guys might readily adopt these euphemisms.

There you have but a slight selection of euphemisms and code words for overweight people. Tons more than there are for thin people, just part of the overweight bias prevalent in our culture. I've been on both sides of the spectrum, many times up and down through my life (currently I'm tipping those scales upward again, but I'll be back down again at some point), so I feel I'm uniquely qualified to be able to talk about subject. 

Really, it probably depends on the individual what you refer to them as, but why refer to their weight at all? Proper names or even "hey, you!" are much preferred.

Now that I'm off my soapbox, it's shameless plug time! Elspeth, the Living Dead Girl is a YA paranormal murder mystery with loads of humor and suspense about, well...a living dead girl. It's complicated. Find out how complicated riiiiiiiiiiiiiight HERE!

Man-Dog!

Well. The uprising has started earlier than I thought it would. And it wasn't robots OR apes. Nope! It came from a surprise insurgent group that sorta snuck right up on humanity. Yes, I'm talking about humans disguising themselves as animals.

First, we have humans dressed up as sun bears in a Chinese zoo, waving merrily at spectators. (Or ARE they human? I swan, conspiracy theorists will find a smoking gun behind everything.)

And now we have the man living as a collie. Ladies and gents, I give you Toco! Let's hear it for Toco! (I'll wait until the smattering of applause has died down.)

While "Toco" is an alias, not much is known about him, other than that he's Japanese with a YouTube channel comprised of 31,000 subscribers (and growing). And he's living out his lifelong dream of being a dog.

Dream big, Toco, you champion in the clouds, dream big!

I'm happy for Toco, being able to (sorta) fulfill his lifelong dream and (kinda) live life to the fullest extreme. While most people (usually in their childhood years) dream of being...oh, I dunno...a fireman or a ballerina or even a cowboy, Toco took the higher canine path and commissioned a company to design a lifelike dog costume for him for a mere $16,000. That's 16 large, folks! Think of all the "real" dogs you could've fed for that amount of money.

I'm beginning to think there's something a little wrong with Toco. Just a hunch. I believe he may think that about himself as well, but doesn't really come out and say it. In an interview, he told the reporter he wants to keep his identity anonymous, because "I don't want my hobbies to be known, especially by the people I work with" and "I rarely tell my friends, because I am afraid they might think I am weird."

Gee. Ya think? And even more importantly...he's got a job? And friends???

Just look at him frolicking in the streets with people. But the actual dogs he encounters appear smarter than people, displaying hesitance and fear at approaching him, at least at first. Dogs have always shown good taste.

How far will Toco take this? If he has a significant other, does this person control Toco's shock collar? Does Toco use a toilet or go in the backyard? Is Toco rewarded with gross dog treats? Is he spanked with a newspaper every time he misbehaves? Does Toco eat human food or dog food? YOU be the judge! 

But who am I to judge? If this makes Toco happy, and he's not hurting anyone, then more power to him for fulfilling his dream. As nightmarish as it is.

Speaking of nightmares, check out my book, Ghosts of Gannaway, a book chock full of nightmarish scenarios of ghosts, human and supernatural villains, an Indian curse, an attack of ravens, murder, photographs come to life, and lots of other creepy happenings. But that only tells half the tale: Gannaway is heavily based on true events that happened in a small mining town in Picher, Oklahoma. Sometimes the truth is scarier than fiction. Check it out here!

Pesca-what-now?

My wife says to me, "What do you think about pescatarians?" 

I shrug and say, "Hmmm. Kinda indifferent, really. Aren't those the guys on 'Star Trek' with the ridged foreheads?"

She responds with an award-winning eyeroll.

Next I offer, "Wait... They're the scary cult of Joe Pesci fanatics, right?"

"Don't be dense, dear."

"Okay, okay. I know it's the fish-like people of Pescaria. But are they ruled by Aquaman or Submariner?"

Alright, the above is malarkey. I actually knew what a pescatarian was, but wasn't quite sure I was ready to take the full plunge. You see, my wife and I are constantly on the lookout for diets that work for us. For a long while, the low-carb deal worked wonders. But the older we get, the harder it is to take off those well-earned pounds.

So. Pescatarian it is! (For those few who don't know, pescatarians incorporate fish into an otherwise vegetarian diet. We're vegetarians who cheat.)

Of course there're pros and cons to this diet plan. On the con side, no more meat. Boooooooo! But to be honest, lately I'd been giving that some thought. Not too long ago, I remember gnawing at a chicken breast and began to think about the ramifications of this poor, brave chicken who valiantly gave its life so I could chow down on its meat. Except...it didn't really give its life. It had no say in the matter. It'd been raised in a pen only to be slaughtered and sold as food. Gross! And I don't see President Biden "pardoning" chickens every day. 

As an animal lover, the whole meat-eating thing's been kinda bugging me recently. (And, natch, as a meat lover of nearly sixty years, I was also torn, struggling to leave my slavering, carnivore instincts behind.) But I took the splash and dove in (hello, fishies!).

Now I hear some of you saying, "Stuart, don't feed us that liberal, granola b.s. about meat is murder. Get a grip, man! Go hug a tree, feel good about yourself, then follow that up with a slab of A-1 cow ribs!"

To that I say, "Leave me alone, dammit!" (I was always a great debater.)

Others may say, "Pffft. Animals are dumb. They're here to supply us food. Besides...everyone knows animals don't have souls."

And I would respond, "We don't know that. There's no possible way to scientifically discern that. For that matter, we don't even know if we have souls. A soul is not a scientific construct!"

Now before you bible-thumping, meat-eating guys come after me with a pitchfork, I'll grant you this little bit of hypocrisy: If based solely on moral reasoning, I think it's a bit insincere for pescatarians to eat fish and not meat. Science has proven that fish can feel pain. So there's that. Also, they have a central nervous system. (Now I'm thinking about all of those hooks into their mouths. Yikes.) 

Why are pescatarians allowed to eat fish and not meat? Beats me. Maybe it's because we try not to think of fish in the same way as we do, say, cows. I mean, fish don't walk, right? And let's face it...fish are kinda gross. Far from cute. At least the edible kind. 

Perhaps it's because fish aren't as visibly prevalent as chickens, hiding out in the ocean doing God knows what. You know...outta sight, outta mind, fair game to eat, let's dine! Bam!

But based upon an intensely in-depth scientific study I conducted (I made it up), the real reason pescatarians allow themselves to devour fish? So they can eat sushi. Everyone knows humankind can't exist without sushi.

(I kinda think the real reason, though, is that fish provides a great deal of nutrients and vitamins, and on a straight-up vegetarian diet, you could become anemic. But THAT'S hardly fun to yak about.)

So, how is the pescatarian diet going for me? Well, I've only been on it for a couple weeks, having it been kickstarted by a freak storm knocking out our electricity for days, thus forcing us to toss out all of our meat. A sign!

But the results so far have varied. When I'm eating a celery, peppers, and other junk wrap, I can't help but think about a juicy hamburger.

Speaking of which, my wife picked up some plant-based "burger" patties called "Beyond Meat." It's beyond meat alright...beyond and all the way into the trash can. When I cooked a couple in a skillet, I made the mistake of cooking them as long as meat. Needless to say, the rank odor of burnt plants still fills the house. (I bet Moses could relate, burning bush and all.) I also made the mistake of thinking it'd taste just like a meat burger. Instead, it sorta tasted like cardboard. Only worse.

I miss pizza. But, hey! I always forget I can have a 52 cheese pizza (hold the veggies, please, just this once) and pretend there's sausage on it. 

There are other cheats, too, lots of substitutes. And of course, all the gross fish I care to eat. It's a much better diet than straight-up vegetarianism. At least I get sushi!

While on the topic of what seemed like a good idea at the time, meet my protagonist "Tex" McKenna, regular guy who just wants to survive the travails of high school, such as bullying. Problem is he keeps making bad decisions, teenage style. Also, he's found out he's a witch. Compound that with the mysterious repeat killer who's targeted him and his few, but loyal friends. It's all in Tex, the Witch Boy, the first in a series of books.

God In A Recycling Bin

I was out of town for a couple days and when I got back, I looked into the recycling bin. (Isn't that the first thing you guys do after being out-of-town?) And what do I see? A flattened box with three heavy, huge letters on it Loudly Proclaiming "GOD."

Yow! Things sure had changed in just two days! My wife was buying God in a box! I thought, "Stuart, don't be such a nincompoop. God doesn't come in a box. He (She?) isn't a breakfast cereal."

But...God IS everywhere, right? After my initial shock of seeing a box of God, upon closer inspection, I realized it said "COD." Quite a difference.

And it got my rusty ol' synapses sparking. Why can't God be packaged? Sure, I'm not talking literally, but it could be some sort of recruitment box of Godliness that door-to-door hucksters could peddle. Hey, if it's good enough for Donald Trump, Jr., why not? (Who could forget that lil' Donny was hawking bibles on his website for the super-affordable price of a mere $70? I'm trying to forget it!)

 What could come in such a box? Well, maybe some bread and (faux) wine to be multiplied. Perhaps a vial of holy water. Nice, votive candles, of course. Some famous televangelist trading cards (personally I'm holding out for the uber-rare Tammy Faye card, the one with her makeup running down her face like the muddy Mississippi). Hey, maybe the Trumps could get in on the action and throw in a Donald Trump NFT, something every "God-fearing" person of belief should have.

The mind just boggles. And again, as the ubiquitous "They" say, "God is everywhere." So why not a box? 

(Personal disclaimer to GOD: This is meant to be a satirical piece only and does not represent the viewpoints of the author, so please don't smite me down. Just hedging my bets, your pal, Stuart.)

Okay, speaking of touchy subjects, my Tex, the Witch Boy trilogy (quartet if you include the Elspeth, the Living Dead Girl spin-off) tries to tackle a bunch of tough subjects that teenagers face on a daily basis, including bullying, body-shaming, drugs, identity, suicide, gender, sexual preference, and much more. But, hey, I hope in an entertaining way with lots of suspense, mystery, romance, humor, and horror! Have a look-see!

 

"I'll Scratch Their Eyes Out!"

During childhood, I remember my mom as being the kindest, sweetest, most loving mother in the world. I suppose most of us do (excluding some horror film serial killers or maybe Joan Crawford's daughter). But my mom had one simple tear in the fabric. When she turned "Dark Mom," it was terrifying!

No, I'm not talking about when she'd try and "spank" my brother and I. Actually, we hoped for that because she pulled her punches and cried more than our crocodile tears. (It was a much better fate than awaiting the flying, fiercely flailing hand {or belt} of my dad. I'm pretty sure Ward Cleaver took after the Beaver with the metal end of a belt, too, but that footage was cut from TV.)

There was one trigger--only one--that would morph my June Cleaveresque ray of sunshine mom into Dark Mom: when my mom "perceived" other adults--mostly teachers--as abusing her poor lil' innocent (*Cough!*) angel children. (And make no doubt about it, my brother and I genuinely deserved the teachers' wrath, at least 9 times out of 10, but that's hardly the point, right?). When Mom was triggered, brimstone lit up her eyes. Smoke roiled out of her nose. Her rosy complexion burned into a Devil's red. Hands gripped the steering wheel until knuckles turned bone white and I swear--no, I SWAN--claws began to grow from her fingernails.

But it was what she said that terrified me the most. "I'm gonna go scratch her eyes out!!!"

Yow!

First of all, the imagery, oh, the imagery. I vividly imagined Mom going up to my fourth grade teacher and stabbing her long nails into Miss Billyous's eyes, plunging them in again and again, while all sorts of viscera slung across the chalkboard and splattered my fellow students. She'd finish with two runny egg-like eyeballs impaled upon both index fingernails. All the time during this horrendous vision, she was hysterically tittering and laughing like the Wicked Witch of the West. Our namesake after all.

And poor Miss Billyou's crime against humanity? She dared to tell the class, "Well, by now, I'm sure all of you know that Santa Claus isn't real. It's your parents." (Side bar, your honor: To be honest, I was in the Santa doubting stage at that time, kinda wanting to hold onto the magic, the myth. But deep down, the logistics of it all didn't quite add up. I believe my fellow students had already bypassed that stage and nodded enthusiastically with Miss Billyous's whistle-blowing, to which I joined along, not to be labeled a pariah. Not like poor Roger Danton, who was audibly shocked and ridiculed because of it.)

So when my mom picked me up from school, I made the mistake of telling her about this. At the time, I believed I was being clever, trying to coerce a confession out of her, demanding an explanation why she'd lied to me all those years. After everything we'd been through together. So much for truth being the best policy and all that crap.

But something unexpected happened, she turned into Dark Mom. Immediately I knew I'd made a big mistake. 

"I'm going to go scratch her eyes out!" she shouted.

She zipped the car back into the parking lot, squealing the tires and making the scrambling kiddies squeal. In the backseat, I was hysterical. I didn't want Miss Billyous's eyes to get scratched out. I kinda liked Miss Billyous. Also, I didn't want my mom to be a prison lifer. Who'd make my sammitches? And I suppose part of me didn't want to have to deal with the humiliation of being the only student whose mother scratched the eyes out of their teacher.

"Please, Mom, don't do it! PLEEEEEESE! OH, NOOOOOOOO! She didn't mean it! I'll DO ANYTHING! PLEEEEEEEE..." I'm screaming and crying and I think I even threw my arms around my mom's neck to keep her from scratching out my teacher's eyes. My younger brother beside me had no idea what was going on, nor did he have a reason to join in the caterwauling, but he did, sensing trauma like a dog.

Thank God my mom finally relented. She huffed her way back to the mommy we knew and loved, almost shrinking with each loud exhalation huffed through her nose. "Fine," she finally said. "But she'd better not cross my path!"

So...if not a complete win, at least a stay of execution.

Now, I believe this trauma had been blown way out of proportion in my work-in-progress brain by a late night viewing my mom and I shared several weeks prior. It was something we enjoyed doing together on Saturday nights. She'd let me stay up with her for the 10:30 movie, we'd (she'd) cook popcorn and I can firmly nail this ritual down as the beginning of my love for movies.

Not that time, though. It was Alfred Hitchcock's The Birds. The one where Suzanne Pleshette's eyes were pecked out by birds. EEEEEEEEEEEEEE! For years, I vividly remembered the quick shot, Suzanne's eyes all bloodied with gunk oozing out and splayed all across her teacher's blouse. (Of course, upon revisiting the film, my faulty childhood memory had the wrong character getting their eyes pecked out; I also remember thinking, "But...but...the movie didn't have an ending! What a rook!")

Anyway, I didn't want Miss Billyous ending up like a similar teacher with a similar fate, Suzanne Pleshette.

Well, that was the first Dark Mom transformation I recalled. There were many more after that. And each time, they became less and less traumatic. Near the end, I'd just roll my eyes and "whatever" her.

Now, the incident I just cited was a rarity. As I'd noted earlier, most times my brother and I came face to face with the misdirected wrath of Dark Mom, we usually deserved the teacher's punishment. We WERE brats. 

Case in point, my seventh grade art teacher banned me to sit in the hallway several days. My mom, upon hearing this, went Dark. She said, "I'll scratch her eyes out! She's just jealous of your art skills!" Well...no. Granted I was a good artist and granted, the teacher did dislike me. But she had good reason, too. I was the agent provocateur in that class and led about eight students into misbehaving along with me, their Don of Delinquency. When the teacher would go into the mysterious back supply closet, I had them all throwing yarn up and around the lights. It was a beautiful sight to behold. And Boom! I was sentenced to the hallway. Got an "F" for my troubles, too. Well deserved and bravo, old chap, an education utilized wisely!

So, I had to talk my mom out of scratching the teacher's eyes out. Not that I really thought she'd do it, mind you--not in the wise, experienced, mature mind of a seventh grader--but rather, I didn't want to go through the embarrassment of "Mommy yelling at teacher." I had street cred to maintain.

Wrapping this sermon up, I suppose if Mom morphed into Dark Mom, I, too, had a secret identity: Dark Pre-Teen.

Now that I've laid down just a taste of the kinda kid I was (just a taste, mind you), some of my *good* teenage years behavior can be found in my first book, Tex, The Witch Boy (republished recently by The Wild Rose Press). It's not all me, natch. I wasn't a witch, nor did I tackle murders, but a lot of the bullying and other incidents actually happened to me or a friend. (Ahem, artistic license is taken. I wasn't exactly a complete angel in high school, either. But those incidents are for another series...) That's Tex, the Witch Boy! Get it before all the copies magically go *POOF!*

Who would win in a fight, the Mandalorian or the Witcher?

Answer: NEITHER!

Because they'd bore each other to death!

I can see their climactic confrontation now. It takes place on a swinging rope bridge. In the rain, natch. In monotone voices--so, so deadly dull--they threaten one another. The Mandalorian mutters "This is the way." The Witcher parries and growls "Hmmm." The Witcher swings a weapon. So does the Mandalorian. The bridge swings. Then they start getting sleepy. Sooooooo sleepy. And lay down on the bridge for a long, nice slumber.

Honestly, what's all the fuss about these two dull shows starring two of the most boring "heroes" ever to grace the TV screen? Both of the shows have turned into phenomenons and I don't understand why.

I know this will be an unpopular opinion, but it's not like I haven't tried. Really. I've suffered through two seasons of both.

Let's start with The Mandalorian. Okay, sure he's got Star Wars canon behind him, so I get the following there (but has anyone REALLY been able to keep up with all the Disney Star Wars TV shows? Seems like homework to me. But if they ever offer a Jar Jar Binks variety show, I'm all over it.). And I will admit "Baby Yoda" is adorbs (don't get on my case for calling him Baby Yoda, Star Wars fans; I can't pronounce his real name, let alone remember it.). But that's it.

Regarding the titular hero? He's the worst. He wears a tin can over his head for the entire series. Worse, he talks in a terribly dull monotone, made agonizingly more painful by the muffled tin can echoing effect. Snooooooze...wake me up when the can comes off.

Here's the worst offense: one year, the guy was nominated for a best actor emmy. It is to make me laugh. Now I've seen Pedro Pascal actually show some acting chops before (notably, Game of Thrones and Narcos), but in The Mandalorian, he's gotta have the cushiest, best paying, laziest gig in Hollywood. Hell, he doesn't even have to sit in the make-up chair. For all I know he doesn't memorize his lines and just has them piped in via ear pods.

Moving on to The Witcher (must we?)... This one I REALLY don't get. Two seasons in and I'm out. Felt akin to torture, a real struggle. By the second season, I just had it on in the background while I did more important things like, say, play games on my phone.

I don't know about the original source, but to me the series seems like cookie-cutter fantasy, checking all the boxes (Princess on the run? Check! Brooding hero with a troubled past? Check! Frog-like humanoids? Check! Etc? Check!). I can see the Netflix board meeting now...

"Powers that be, we have the next Game of Thrones right here! Guaranteed!"

"Hmmm, what's it about?" Management taps a pencil on the long table.

"It's about a lotta stuff! See, there's a Witcher and he--"

"Hold on, just wait a minute!" Management shakes head, furrows brow. "I don't think witches will appeal to our target audience, particularly the family market because they're scary and--"

"He's a hunk."

"Oh. I see." Dollar signs light up Management's eyes. "Does he take his shirt off?"

"As often as you want!"

"Sounds promising, sounds promising." Management sits up in million dollar chair. "Annnnnnd, does he show his butt?"

"You better believe it!"

"Sold!"

It's fantasy at it's most juvenile level. Instead of calling the lead female "Jennifer," the show's creators came up with "Yennifer," merely changing the first letter of her name, believing it to be cool-ass and other-worldly. I'm just waiting for her evil twin brother "Yevin" to show up (although I won't be waiting, not really).

Which brings us to the big, boring, brooding "hero" of the show, the Witcher. Again talking in an emotionless monotone, never showing any differentiation on his face other than the look of chronic constipation or residual road rage. (Points to Henry Cavill for at least showing up with his face painted white instead of hiding in a can, though.)

Where are the identifiable heroes of genre TV land? Remember Buffy and the gang? Angel and his cohorts? Heroes who were connectable and empathetic? Soooooo many other great genre shows of the past? 

Yet these two dullards are amongst the most popular current heroes on TV. The only thing I can think of to explain it is the "hunkability" factor. Gotta be it.  Yet...Pascal doesn't ever show his face, so...

I dunno. Give me a real hero from the golden, olden days of TV any day. Heroes like...Robert Blake and...um...Bill Cosby...and....wait...scratch that. Never mind. When does The Mandalorian start up again?

Speaking of heroes to root for, why not give my troubled, teen-aged, bullied witch boy, Tex, a shot? He's an every-man (well, "every-teen"), someone with relatable problems (a ton of 'em), always tries to do the right thing and rise above the occasion. Not to mention putting his newly discovered (but unwanted) witch powers to good use such as discovering who's murdering the bullies in his high school. (Eat it, The Witcher!) That's Tex, the Witch Boy, conjuring up right here and other cool online bookstores.

Getting Sick in Public!

Hey kids, have you heard? It's the newest sensation that's sweeping the nation! All the cool kids are in the know, so go ahead and give it a go! Be sure your friends film it, funnier than a blow to the groin video!

Good grief. I haven't been sick in public since I was a kid and that pretty much scarred me for life. (After gorging myself on popcorn, candy and soda at the movies, my parents thought it'd be a wonderful idea to go out for pizza. On my mad dash to the bathroom, I didn't quite make it, and a woman screamed. Actually screamed!) So...after this traumatic incident, you better believe I was totally mortified about what happened last weekend.

My wife and I are still testing the waters of our pandemic era, but we miss eating out. So I found a new restaurant that bragged about two--count 'em, two!--patios. With the weather suddenly nice, we decided to invite a couple friends and outside we sat.

Now, I have to detail this important interlude: Lately I am prone to having mega-honkingly-humongous vitamins stuck in my chest and I can't even get liquid down before they come splashing up again. It also happens with dry chicken. And sometimes when I skip a meal in anticipation of the culinary delights ahead of me or I get excited and speak without properly chewing my food (I know... I'm a barbarian). This occurs three or four times a year. The last time I remember it happening was Thanksgiving. But I knew it was coming, so excused myself to the bathroom, back in time for pumpkin pie.

I've told a doctor about this occurrence and she brushed it off as acid reflux.

(I remember having a conversation with my mom about it:

"What did the doctor say?"

"That I have acid reflux."

"Spit-up," she says, nodding with authority as only mothers can.

"No, not 'spit-up,' whatever that is. The doctor called it acid reflux."

"Right. Spit-up."

"No! It's not spit-up! It's acid--"

"I know, Stuart, I know! You don't have to yell at me! Spit-up!")

Anyway, I don't think it's acid reflux, nor do I think it's spit-up (which I'm still not sure what that is). It's not stomach related. More of a choking thing.

My wife thinks I may have a "constricted esophagus." Which sounds kinda bad-ass. At least much more so than "spit-up." Besides, it would go right along with my "deviated septum." Which is what I put on my social media profiles: Hi, I'm Stuart and I have a constricted esophagus and deviated septum." (I think this explains why I'm on a few watch lists.) If only I had a narrow urethra, then I'd have the trifecta of cool. But there I go again, getting digression all over the place.

Back to the restaurant, I didn't heed the warning signs. Dear God, I wished I had. I suppose I knew it was coming, starting with a few up-top hiccups (not the deep kind that rattle your rib-cage, but from up on top of my throat). I even said, "Uh oh."

Jokes were made, my buddy suggested scaring me. Ha ha ha all around. My wife quietly urged, "Go to the bathroom."

But I stuck it out, thinking I could fight the rising tide. I have before. If only I could get past that blockage. I started drinking more water (what little I could swallow) which just made it worse.

Sure enough, I felt the tide rise and surge. Not wanting to cause a scene, I whipped the cloth napkin to my mouth. I would've ran to the john, but of course the armada of servers decided to descend on us at the same time (There were at least five servers bringing food out, no kidding; the only thing missing was Wagner's "Ride of the Valkyries" over the speakers.). So I was stuck. Sitting there throwing up, trying to swallow it back down, coughing into my napkin, and filling it with all sorts of awful stuff. Meanwhile, several servers are trying to ask if I had the filet. My eyes are watering, vomit's running down my shirt, and Chad is asking if I had the filet.

Dizzy, I stood, dashed all the way inside and through the restaurant, pin-balling off of employees and customers, and barely made it into the bathroom. (And when I say "into" the bathroom, that's kinda not accurate; it's a new out in the open, unisex line of stalls. I'm certain those enjoying their dinners were appreciating my calling the dinosaurs.)

Thoroughly humiliated, I splashed my face and slunk back to our table. Everyone inquired as to how I was doing, but I really just wanted to get outta there.

As we left, the army of servers were all extremely polite. We ran a veritable gauntlet of them, opening doors for us, wishing us well, thanking us... major overkill while all I wanted was to die a quiet death. The staff was either thrilled to get rid of me or worried I'd sue over choking.

Yep, my first bout with public sickness since childhood. Only this time was much, MUCH worse.

So, let this be a cautionary tale. If your body speaks out, heed the advice and go to the john before it's too late.

Speaking of getting sick, meet Richard "Tex" McKenna, teenage guy witch. He's got problems, man, has he got 'em. Caught between two warring high school gangs, a mysterious goth girl, and a vengeful ghost, Tex barely has time for school and the requisite bullies. But he gets revenge on one bully by hurling on him (okay, okay, I know it's not that big of a deal to the book, but I had to tie it into the blog post some how!). Read all about it in book #2 of the Tex, the Witch Boy series, Tex and the Gangs of Suburbia!

The Worst City Planner in the Country

After formulating a highly scientific study on every city in the country (or at least a couple near me that I drive through), there's a clear-cut winner in the worst city planner category.

Without further ado, I give you...Roeland Park! Ta-dahhhhh!

Now, don't get me wrong, Roeland Park has its charms. It's a quaint little suburb nestled right into the middle of the Kansas City metropolitan area, with a lovely variance in neighborhoods, houses and yards.

And truth be told, I hold a personal grudge. For you see, Roeland Park is just one block over from where we live and the pampered, sissy Roeland Parkers actually are able to rake their leaves to the curb and the city picks 'em up. Constantly, the Roeland Parkers drive by, taunting, smirking, and honking as we break our backs picking up leaves and stuffing 'em into eco-friendly and awkward to use paper bags.

Jerks.

But I digress.

The City Planner of Roeland Park is either a mad man or is laughing all the way to the bank.

Case in point: Roeland Park used to be a nice little place with small mom and pop stores lining a couple of streets that were easy to drive through to get from point A to point B. Not any longer. Mr. Big Britches City Planner Man decided to discard these streets and stores and plotz a huge, honking eyesore of a Walmart into the middle of town. Now to reach one of the nearest main streets, one has to drive through the Walmart parking lot, while avoiding kazillions of Walmart shoppers (20 points for families!). It simply can't be avoided.

 Also, Mr. I'm So Crazy, I'm Gonna Jack Up This City Planner Guy decided it'd be really purty to put an old-fashioned, partial brick street at the entrance-way to a strip mall. Sure, it's purty. For six months. But after every six months or so, the bricks have to be replaced because they can't stand up beneath the weight of the traffic!

That same entrance-way should be nick-named "Death Drive." There's no light or signage before you're thrust out onto a major thoroughfare. If you're unfamiliar with the quirks of Roeland Park, you're about to be T-boned!

Don't get me going on the art. Check out this statue...

The holy hell??? What is it, some kinda terrifying monster looking to steal kids away from their beds in the middle of the night?

Also, I think Freddy Krueger did the sculptures for the local skate park. They're all gone now, which makes me think the Angry Mom Society must've had their say. But there were sculptures of a dismembered foot on a skateboard along with various other body parts, a serial killer's dream park. I can no longer find any evidence of these monstrosities other than this creepy photo of a killer's mask on a skate board...

Then there's the lovely, billion dollar mural on 47th street. Personally, I like it. But it's dropped into the crazy, winding, deadly 47th street where people like to pretend they're in the Indy 500 and careen down it at breakneck speeds. Who has time to look at it? It's hard enough trying to stay alive (pedestrian or driver) along this snake-like road.

Then there was the time Mr. Hot-Shot, I'll Show You Who's Boss City Planner looked at everyone's homes and dropped mandatory notices that about 95% of the homes had to be painted or else you'd be subject to fines. Some kinda eye-in-the-sky beautification project or something. The problem is, these guys were all about quantity over quality and dinged brick houses and homes with siding!

These are just a few of my gripes with Roeland Park's city planner. (But, really, I think it boils down to my anger that we still have to bag leaves. If our city ever opts for the curbside pick-up, all will be forgiven, Roeland Park!)

While I'm kavetching over plans, it seems some plans are just doomed from the start. Tex McKenna, suburban Kansas high school student, has the simplest of plans. He just wants to survive the trauma of high school, what with its bullies and sadistic gym teachers and other issues. Yet when he finds out he's a witch and there's a serial killer stalking the bullies of his high school, Tex has to make some readjustments to his plans (and that's putting it mildly!). See what all the fuss is about (at least in my head) and check out Tex the Witch Boy.