Scariest Halloween EVER!

Boo! Boils and ghouls, I didn't mean to scare you with the photo! BOO! Ha, did it again. Gotcha! Sorry. 

But I'm scared, too.

We're a couple days away from the election that will definitely change history one way or another and I'd be reticent if I didn't say something. I might make a few haters along the way, but that's okay, certainly nothing new. 

I'd love to get back to the day when people can enjoy political debates with family and friends. Remember when it was sorta fun, even healthy?

Last week's presidential debate was actually--to my surprise--pretty much a real debate. Clearly, President Trump listened to his advisors and calmed down, got off the steroids and power drinks, and only several times blew his orange top. An early Christmas miracle!

I can talk about all of the "fake news (Trump's favorite term when anything doesn't go his way)" facts  (ahem!) President Trump cited (i.e., lies). Or I can talk about the creepy way he didn't address the camera/the viewers. Perhaps I could mention how he avoids, dodges, ducks, deflects into defense regarding Big Questions. But I'm not. 

I've already lost one friend over this stupidity. I'm sick of it.

What I will say is Trump's handling of COVID-19 was (and is) negligent at best. It's been widely documented that he chose to ignore it, was quoted as saying, "I don't want to cause panic."

Bully for him. And bullshit to him for downplaying it even after he was diagnosed with it. Not every person can afford a million dollars worth of the best doctors and medicine. And he unbelievably wants to do away with medical insurance for those with pre-existing conditions. Probably not the best time, Mr. President.

Why doesn't Trump ask anyone who's lost a loved one to COVID what they think of his marginalization of the many, many--too very many--deaths? Especially when if handled early and properly, many lives could have been saved.

COVID-19 doesn't really wake you up until it's personal. In the early days, I thought, "sure, I'll wear a mask, I'll be fine, we'll weather through it." That's simply not the case.

Every day, I worry about my wife, a teacher. She deals with students. A warrior. Still okay, knock on wood.

But at least twelve people I care about have been knocked down by this awful disease and the tally's increasing. One of my best friends is still struggling with it after many months. My daughter's dear, sweet, generous friend went from being diagnosed with COVID to dying within a week. 

Yet, there's Trump out there negating Dr. Fauci's advice, saying he's "a nice guy, but doesn't know what he's talking about." Calling him an "idiot," despite being the foremost contagious disease expert in the country who happens to be on Trump's "support team," but, hey, let's not nit-pick.

Lately, Trump's been out campaigning (understandable), but his rallies are not safe havens (not acceptable). "Super spreader events," some pundits call them. During one such groovy happening in Nebraska two days ago, people gathered via bus to listen to our president rant (and, I hope, danced again to the Village People. Only thing that could've made that better is if Mike Pence, Rudy Giuliani, and Mitch McConnell would've joined him in full VP garb.) People were apparently stranded afterward in freezing temps, the buses not able to keep up. Many were hospitalized for "various reasons."

Glad someone's happy.

Please understand Biden's not my ideal president. President Bartlett from "The West Wing" is. But since Bartlett's a fictional character, I'll take the only other choice who won't lead us further into despair and death and fear and hatred and racism and deficit.

Golly.

Is it to much to ask for a president who acts, you know, slightly presidential? How about a president who doesn't constantly bully, induce fear, and divide the country further with border-line racism? Or maybe a president who doesn't mock impaired people or insult those brave men and women who've fallen in the line of duty while serving their country? Someone who doesn't have a slew of sexual assault/harassment allegations against him? Perhaps a president who's more interested in serving the public instead of lining his pockets with more money? Wouldn't that be a nice change of pace. 

Ooh! I got it! How about a leader who doesn't spit all over democracy? Hey, anyone who doesn't have as grating of a screaming voice (and has anyone ever seen our president less than angry? SOOOO honorable) worse than Adam Sandler's affected "funny" voices while gargling broken glass is a step up, I kinda think. 

After passing another tax break bill to the rich, this is the president who was quoted as saying (at a dinner party), "I just made you all more rich." 

I know some people will vote for Trump because they're against abortion and that's what Republicans support. If pro-life is your belief, stand by it. Stay solid, don't back down, more power to you, that's what our country stands for. But consider this...um, how many abortions do you think Trump might have been responsible for given his penchant for porn stars and Russian hookers? 

Kanye would be better than four more years of this guy.

I remember thinking that we'd never again elect a worse president than George W's reign of dimwittedness and neglect. Man, was I dumb.

Guys, this is worse than depressing, the current state of "politics" is running our country into the ground.

But I'm an American. If the outcome next Tuesday is not what I'd prefer? I'll still support it, that's what our country does. That's what Democracy is supposed to be about. Look it up. (Trump didn't, apparently skipped school that day.)

Alright, I'm done now. No matter how the election turns out, I won't revisit the awful topic of politics again. 

But...VOTE. Vote like the wind! Vote your arses off! Make a difference either way you lean! Despite the electoral college ridiculousness, let's make a difference.

Hey, happy Halloween, boo!

 

Appearance, Personal Hygiene and You!

Appearance is everything, boys and girls. You never know when you may be out in public or appear on the news. So, for a happier and healthier lifestyle, take pride in your personal appearance!

For instance, take special note of the care I put into my appearance at this crucial election time. Sure, my wife says I'm gonna get the crap kicked outta me, particularly living in Kansas, but it's something I take great pride in. I wear this mask everywhere I go: grocery stores, liquor stores, on walks through the neighborhood, leisurely strolls through local Klan gatherings...

It's all about appearance, Mr. and Mrs. Young America! Gramma always used to tell me to be sure to put on clean underwear because you never know when you might die.

Well, A) that's a really disturbing thing for your Gramma to tell you as an impressionable young tyke; and B) it's really kinda stupid. Many people who die--especially in shocking, sudden, blunt trauma methods--fill their shorts as a final parting shot.

But never mind that! Gramma always knew best (even while hurling racist diatribes at the TV box and her stories)! So, it's important to always wear clean undergarments.

As another example, I harken back to the unexpected time when I had two detectives and all four local news networks banging on my front door. For  an hour-and-a-half that day, I had much more than twenty minutes of Warholian fame. I was the star sound-bite guy to beat.

The detectives weren't very forthcoming with information, just wanted to know what I could tell them about the twin women who lived next door (FACT! I didn't even know the women were twins until I ran into both of them at the grocery store together, and this after I'd been having--what I'd presumed--conversations with one woman over the fence for several years). What I told the detectives wasn't much; what they told me in return was absolutely nothing. I asked if the women were in trouble. One of the rude detectives laughed, shook her head, and walked off.

Later on, before my First Big TV Interview, the reporter (whom I reminded I had done shots with at a downtown bar many years ago; she just rolled her eyes and said, "yeah, that sounds like me.") filled me in. The twins had committed double suicide. It stunned me, and it shows in my kinda lackadaisical interviews. Then the rest of the film-crews came racing to find me. After my second interview, I locked the door, hunkered in and didn't answer the rest of the incessant door ringers (while my daughter kept watch from behind the front curtain).

But here's where appearance is important, boys and girls! Note the huge, glaring third eye I'm sporting in my interview! No one, and I mean NO ONE, wants to see that on their fancy, shmancy big-screen TV's.

One of my awesome bro-in-laws has the right idea; he says every time the TV weather crews come around when there's a tornado sighting, he slips on his Tweety sweatpants and "Who Farted?" T-Shirt, and goes outside hoping for his twenty minutes in the limelight.

That's why I have my "I Pooped Today!" T-Shirt standing by, boys and girls! Hanging in the foyer! Appearance is everything!

Back to the appearance my current mask is projecting: the running tally is nine positive comments, a crap-load of stares and double-takes, and a whole lot of menacing glares, always from the same type of person (see example below). So far, no bodily damage or hurt. But everywhere I go, I'm sporting my mask and clean underwear, doubling down before this crucial election.

I'm not gonna waste time and rant about who I feel you should vote for (as usual, I'm not excited about either candidate, but I do despise one over the other), because it's a colossal waste of time, especially with how divided we've become over the past four years. (Sigh... I remember when political debate among friends was healthy and fun! Oh, the golden years...) But. It's important to VOTE! VOTE, people, vote like the wind! (And wear clean underwear).

This has been a Public Service Announcement sponsored by the Underwear Manufacturers of the World.

Rainbows, Puppies, Unicorns, Racism...wait...

Say there, Mr. Average American! How are you? Looking quite dapper, I see. Say, is all this nonsense about the fear of Joe Biden turning our country into a socialist one getting you down? Is it putting the fear of oppressed, privileged white men into you? Don't worry your purty lil' head, Mr. Average American! Because that's all it is...nonsense. It's typical fear-mongering crap meant to further divide our country and the one behind it all is, of course, the Manchurian Cantaloupe. 

With the impending, looming, fateful election day around the corner, I'm afraid it's time for me to get up on my Twisted Tales soap-box once again. But the last time I veered into these dangerous waters I got into trouble. SO, I promise to behave (fingers crossed). Sorta (not really). Scout's honor (I was a Scout drop-out).

My wife and I were talking the other day about racism. As much as I'd like to lay the blame for its terrifying rise on President Klandalf, my wife says he didn't start it. But he's made it worse. Hell, yes, he has. He's out there fanning the cross-burning fires at this very moment. In fact (as I once told my mom), do you guys know why Trump has such a fabulous orange comb-over? So he can cover up his "666" birthmark, of course. (My mom just stared at me in spooky silence.)

To watch the recent preposterous "debate" between Forrest Trump and Biden was stomach-churning. Especially when Trump pronounced "I've done more for black people than any president since Lincoln." My God, I wonder what it's like living in his delirious, delusional, orange world built on flagrant lies. In the same debate/debacle, Trump more than tossed in with the heinous "Proud Boys," giving them a rallying cry of "stand down, but stand by." What kind of message is this supposed to give Mr. Average American? Sounds to me like a cry to pick up arms against those of different color. 

Trump is dangerous.

Frankly, it scares me how much a lot of the country is reverting to racism. Years ago, in my naivete, I nearly cried when Obama was elected as the first black president. Why? Because I was really proud of our little country, pulling up its big boy britches, and finally--FINALLY--casting aside their racist blinders. I thought we'd turned a corner and would never look back around it.

Dumb. So very dumb.

As my wife and I discussed the terrifying rise of racism (MUCH more frightening than Trump tossing around words like "socialism" to scare Mr. and Mrs. Average Joe), she said it's systemic. Recently, a black man held a door open for her. She replied, "thank you, sir." A few minutes later, she wondered why she went with "sir," instead of the usual chipper,"thanks!" Was she wrong? Was it a bit of a reaction to some of the recent self-searching and anti-bias conversations that have been going on lately? Clearly, we all have a lot to learn, as we realize how we can all be part of a systemic problem of society. 

Maybe we should just be nicer to everyone. I'd love to get to the point where this is the case.

But what she'd described is what I'd been going through for years. I used to go out of my way to smile at black people, speak to them, do everything I could to make up for the crappy-ass way they'd been treated throughout history. I started young on this well-intentioned, but misguided, path. In sixth grade, when I began to reject my parents' shackles of racism, I went out of my way to befriend the new (and only) black kid in school. 

My daughter and I recently discussed this topic as well. She said, "Did you befriend him because you felt like he was an outsider and wanted to make him feel better or because he was black?" Really good question. I thought about it, finally said, "Because of both, I think, but mostly because he was black." And part of me wanted to make it all about me, have my own "black experience." Yeah...now that I write about it, it doesn't sound that great.

Furthermore, I went on to tell my daughter that I guess I'm trying to make up for the sins of past generations. I said, "Sarah, your great great grandparents owned slaves for God's sake!"

She said, "Racism exists. But I grew up in a melting pot of a school where color was never hammered into us. It didn't matter and wasn't a big deal. My first job was at a Montessori school where most of the kids came from a different cultural and ethnic background. Difference in skin color was never mentioned. Kids don't care what color you are. Dumb adults do. Don't lay your white guilt on me, pops! My generation doesn't have anything to atone for. That's all on you guys."

Well. Yes and no. I do see an improvement in their generation regarding how they view people of color and those of different sexual leanings. But it's important to learn from the past. Furthermore, I believe there are are conscious or subconscious biases in all of us. And it's up to us to stop it.

So get out and vote. It figures that it took a man of orange color to further divide people of different colors in our country. Don't let this happen again. VOTE!

There. I'm done now. Don't make me come over there.

Mechanized (Near) Death!

Okay, I don't want to chat about those fondly remembered classroom scare films high school teachers used to show us to scare us all into driving like lil' ol' ladies. (Although come to think of it, they were a hoot. A friend of mine actually passed out during "Red Asphalt." {Hi, Jack!} Then again, knowing his probably stoned state-of-mind, maybe it wasn't the movie that made him pass out.) But, hey, I digress!

Not a hoax! Not an imaginary story! Not a dream! Two days ago, I nearly died on the highway and would have been the apex of a disastrous and deadly multi-car pile up.

There I was, minding my own business, tooling down the highway (I think humming along to Foster The People...okay, okay, it was Hall and Oates. Don't judge me!), when I come up to the ever-present highway construction. It's everywhere these days in Kansas City. You can't avoid it. During the pandemic, the orange cone industry has been thriving mightily.

Anyway, our major thoroughfare (I-35) is totally jacked up. The middle lane of the highway is closed with a stone barrier erected on both sides of it (just so the sadists in charge can.) So I role along into the two right-hand lanes, the barrier next to me. I notice a little bit ahead that four vehicles are suddenly slowing down in the right lane next to me. Ever vigilant, I watch them. At the very last second, this junker car (natch!) swings right in front of me, then stops.

Okay, I'm bearing down on this idiot while driving about 65 MPH. And the thoughts that rushed through my mind... That whole business about your life flashing in front of you? Total movie crap! All I could think of was "man, I'm not getting home anytime soon," and "Dammit. I'm gonna to be the focal point of many deaths," and, finally, "I hope my underwear remains clean."

Everything happened in a couple of seconds. I yanked my car onto the extremely narrow (and rapidly narrowing) shoulder. The cement barrier is literally two inches to my left. Tires screech, not only my own, but others behind me. I skid right alongside the stopped moron, missing her by another two inches. As I continue skidding, brakes crammed down to the floor, I wait for the first impact, anticipating a series of impacts to follow behind me, next to me, everywhere, as I waft off to my final destination. (Please, please, please let it be the good one!)

Miraculously, nothing happens. Finally, I come to a wiggling stop. Freaking out. And to my extreme shock, my underwear remained clean. But I'm shaking more than Mike Pence at a gay rights rally.

The idiot who nearly caused much death slowly moves on down the highway. I do what any citizen living in Trump's America would do...I catch up to her, next to her, ready to give her the Trumpian, one-fingered salute. I don't. Why? Because she's clearly crazy. Talking to herself, one hand in the air, scowling. Either certifiably crazy or she intentionally wanted to finance a new car through insurance. It was a hunk of junk, after all.

After that, I probably should've gotten off the highway I was shaking so much. Kinda delirious, too. Scared. An hour later, the adrenaline was still pumping through me. But, hey, thanks to my ever vigilant driving skills, I pulled it off! See? High school wasn't such a waste of time, after all!

On the subject of wasting time, how about turning off the TV, and give a read to my sinister, ultimate winter-storm-gone-wrong horror thriller, Dread and Breakfast? Not only will you be glad you did, you'll make me really glad, too! Ta till next week!

 

Sex Stupefication

You guys sick of hearing, reading, and talking about the pandemic? Me too! Let's talk about SEX!!!

Hell, yeah! Let's make sex great again, 2020!

I was a late bloomer in many ways. Hell, my voice didn't even change until the later years of high school. To me, "pubes" were pubescent children, 'cause I certainly didn't have any. No wonder I hated showering in gym class. (Speaking of which, what was up with the creepy gym teacher who hung out--literally--on the shower wall, arms draped over it, practically leering at us showering. I think one of 'em became a priest. Yow! Sorry, sorry, sorry...).

My "sex education" was sorely lacking, something I often think about. Good Gawd, for the longest time I thought I was an oddity, the only boy capable of a magic erection. I'm certainly glad I didn't show off my new-found trick in the showers.

Anyway, my first (attempted) education came from the principal of my junior high school. The boys were rounded up into one group while the girls went to Disneyland or something equally as great, mysterious, and a whole lot cooler than what we got. The principal was clearly uncomfortable with the lecture as he kept dancing around the topic and spinning plates as fast as he could. Some of the older, knowing, experienced, voice-already-changed, held back kids lobbed some grenades at him like, "how does the seed get into the woman?" Titters ensued. Of course I joined in (even though I was still living in a wondrous world of baby-dropping storks). Hey, I'd been bullied enough without my inexperience being blasted over the intercom.

The principal hemmed, hawed, did it again, turned 30 shades of grey, before mumbling "the man implants the seed into the egg." Still not very helpful.

In the gym class locker room, the older boys told stories about their sexual conquests. I had no choice but to nod knowingly, grinning in agreement over our mutual sexual conquests. Although, I'm fairly sure I didn't fool anyone. Then again, these older "kids" had been held back several years.

Not too many years ago, my brother and I were cleaning out my mom's basement to downsize her into an apartment. We stumbled across a book entitled How To Tell Your Children About Sex. My brother says, "huh, too bad you never read this, Mom."

She says, "What are you talking about? We were always open to you boys about sex."

Yeah, right. About as open as a Blockbuster Video store. 

Selective memory is a funny thing. The closest my parents ever came clean about sex was when my dad chastised me to never call someone "queer" because--and I quote his exact words--"it's when two boys rub their wee-wees against each other and hard stuff comes out. YUCK!" Again...not very helpful. (Yet it didn't escape my attention that Dad added the editorial "YUCK!" because he didn't want me running off and acting all queer and stuff.)

So. With my parents, school, locker room, lack of physical growth, experience, and naively childish imagination failing me, I turned to the next best thing: I found a mom 'n pop bookstore where the woman who owned the place didn't mind selling me used Penthouse magazines. The ridiculous forum/letters were clearly made up by guys like me (although better educated), but eye-opening and enlightening. And, soon enough, I was--ahem--spending an awful lot of time in the bathroom.

My brother says I taught him about sex. I don't remember it, but I'm sure it happened. No one else was helping us. Yet, still, I lacked personal (NOT hands-on, if you get my drift) experience.

In high school, my cretinous friends used to threaten me by going downtown, cruising for hookers, and chip in to buy me one. No thanks. I was still kinda, you know, holding onto the old-fashioned notion of love being involved.

Anyway, it was a rocky road traveled. Even my kissing skills lacked in the early years (I mean how do you learn THAT? God knows I didn't want my parents teaching me! My best teacher was George Peppard in movies because he'd grab women and just smash his face all over them. Not the best method, I later learned.). So, hey--and I know for a fact there are a couple of my early kissing victims out there who read my blog--to the women who I kissed horribly in my early years, I would like to publicly apologize.

I blame it all on Trump. Yeah.

You've been a great audience, ladies and gentlemen! I'll be here all weekend and don't forget to tip your poor, not-so-starving author!

Well, while we're on the topic of sex, pity poor Shawn, the protagonist of my novel, Corporate Wolf. Sure, he's got two very attractive women interested in him at the same time. It's a shame he has a very nasty hirsute problem and voracious appetite as a werewolf. Corporate Wolf, where horror, suspense, mystery, satire, forbidden love, and dark comedy bleed together. 

 

The Worst Film Sub-Genre of Them All

The unfortunate pun in my title is SOOOO intentional. Yes, I'm talking about the dreaded submarine movie.
Recently my wife told me she wants to see Greyhound. I had a vague remembrance of seeing the poster for it somewhere, but gave it no attention because the photo of a constipated and oh-so solemn Tom Hanks told me more than everything I needed to know. I just recalled Hanks wearing some kind of military outfit (strike number two). 
With mounting dread, I asked, "Is that the film where Tom Hanks is a military pilot?"
She answered, "No, he's a submarine commander."
"That's WAYYYY worse," I groaned.
Before I delve into the depths of why I hate submarine movies, I should probably clarify that the Solemn Tom Hanks movie is my third least favorite movie genre. I may be the only one in the world who feels that way (well, outside of my brother and a friend), but I just can't take another solemn and Important(!) Tom Hanks movie. Give me the early Tom Hanks when he was zany, cross-dressing, and table-dancing any day. What finally sealed the deal for me on Tom Hanks was when in an interview, he said, "My job is to hit the mark and tell the truth." Ugh. Okay, listen up, actors... Get over yourselves. You're NOT curing cancer. End of mini-rant.
(For the record, my second least favorite movie genre is the unfunny comedy, which pretty much amounts to 95% of current "comedies." Don't get me wrong. I love unintentionally bad films. They make me laugh. But comedies that don't work are just dire. I'm looking at you, Adam Sandler.)
Back to the awful submarine movie genre... When asked why I dislike sub movies, I reply, "Well,  because they're about a long, hard, immersed vessel full of seamen." (On second thought, I probably shouldn't say that out loud.) But spending two plus hours with a bunch of sweaty, smelly men in cramped quarters isn't my idea of entertainment.

Now, I can already hear you hardcore sub fans calling me un-American and that I don't know what I'm talking about. I've heard this many times, "What? Are you crazy? Das Boot is a great film!"
Well, yes, except, um...it's not.
I remember some college friends of mine dragging me to see it at the university theater. One guy said, "Come on, it's a great flick! I've seen it twice already." Reluctantly I went, thinking maybe my fears were unfounded.
They weren't. 
Two-and-a-half hours of sweaty close-ups of Germans in a small ship with various plips and plops and sonar beeps and AOOGAAAH horns was enough to turn me off of submarine movies for life. 
Years later, someone said, "Hey, wanna go see the new directors cut of Das Boot? It's three-and-a-half hours long!"
I'm no longer friends with that guy.

The only other person I know who has a similar aversion to submarine movies is my terrific mother-in-law. Notoriously, she watched the sub flick, Run Silent, Run Deep, a mind-numbing record of 18 times!
"Why, for God's sake," I'd asked her.
"Because I'd fallen asleep every time it was on and on the 18th viewing, I finally found out how it ended."
Huh. No wonder she fell asleep. I won't even watch the film once. The title alone sounds like Irritable Bowel Syndrome or something. And I probably could've saved her the pain of watching it 18 times by guessing how the movie ends. The same way EVERY submarine movie ends: the sub rises from the depths. It's not rocket science.
There you have it. If disliking Tom Hanks and submarine movies makes me un-American, I'm moving to Canada (which is sounding more like a good plan every day). Oh! And I don't like John Wayne and his non-acting either. (Ducks...)
While on the topic of everything All-American, be sure and pick up a copy of my short story collection, Twisted Tales from Tornado Alley. Not only is it full of horror and humor, it's a snapshot of what's going on in the heart of the Midwest right now. Hint...it ain't pretty.

Meeting the Pandemic Part-Way...

Well, we all want this damn pandemic over with, that's something everyone can agree upon. Everyday I hope scientists discover a vaccine so the suffering of victims and their loved ones can end. And I would hope the day-to-day fear everyone has just by going out and getting groceries comes to a conclusion.

Months ago, I thought the situation was just untenable, near hopeless. I couldn't envision a world where we had to wear masks and even those weren't fool-proof protection. But we've managed so far. Even though there are other factors (*ahem*, I'm looking at you NOTUS {the Numbskull of the United States}) going on in our world trying to thwart the best efforts to stop the spread of covid 19.

Not too long ago, I woke up for the first time in a mellow sort of acceptance state. It is what it is. Time to pull up my big boy britches and carry on, hampered by masks or whatever, let's show 'em that gung-ho, never-say-never, can-do spirit! How did this happen?

It wasn't a sudden epiphany or revelation or premonition or visitation from Joseph Smith or an anal probe by aliens or anything. No, the night before I'd had a dream, business as usual, except everyone was in masks. And the masks weren't the point of the dream, nothing out of the ordinary. The pandemic was the new normal.

People are resilient. I think everyone's tackling this pandemic on their own terms, generally going through variations of the six stages of grieving: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, day-drinking, and finally, acceptance. I know I did.

I'm not happy about it, but let's buck up and carry on. Particularly with masks.

And I applaud the creativity that's coming out in certain areas, making the most of what it is. I've seen a lotta great masks. My daughter, for instance, has taken up the doggy mask. 

My daughter's fave mask.

I've seen people accessorizing their masks to match their outfits. Creativity is soaring!

But about those masks... People, don't make me repeat myself: WEAR YOUR DAMN MASKS OVER YOUR NOSES! It doesn't do you--or us--any good if you don't. The nose allows things in and out too, you know. I don't know how many times I've seen ruddy-faced guys with masks nestled below their noses, their nostrils pluming like a charging rhinoceros with asthma. Geeze, I can't believe I even have to say this. Pretty soon, I'm gonna start hitting people up and telling them to yank it up (of course, then I'll have to yank myself up off the ground; have you SEEN the size of these guys?).

And stop listening to our wondrous president. These days Trump's preaching that people should not wear masks. Recently, NOTUS attempted to bully a reporter into taking his mask off. Trump's rage rallies are full of maskless buffoons (thanks for the thousands of new cases, commander-in-chump!), as he preens onstage like an orange peacock, calling people names and bragging about what a genius he is because he could name a lion on a cognitive test. It wasn't too long ago Trump said wearing a mask was patriotic. But whaddaya expect from a guy who changes his mind by the minute.

My preferred mask (even though my wife is afraid for me to wear it in public. I say, "Bring it, fascist cretins!" (Of course, that's before I get beat up in a grocery store.)

 

Anyway, hang in there folks. This week, I took real enlightenment from something my neighbor said--"You know, living through the pandemic may well make today's kids smarter, more adaptable, and more empathetic."." Talk about finding a silver lining. I'll take it.