Return of the Furnace Sadists

Just when my wife and I thought we were warming up again after the Big Freeze-Out of 2022 (see "Maple Avenue Freeze-Out"), those sadists from the HVAC rip-off outfit show up again at our doorstep, wearing ear-to-ear smiles, little cute footsy protectors, and dollar signs in their eyes.

I suppose it's our fault, really. I mean, the HVAC company pestered us and bugged us about setting up our yearly furnace maintenance check-up (Ka-Chinggggg!), until we finally bowed down to furnace bullying. I know that Americans never give in to terrorism, but they'd worn us down. So on the eighteenth call, my wife says, "Okay, fine, we'll schedule it soon."

The next day, the mysterious Furnace Phone Lady (I'm not even sure she's real!) calls back and says, "Say, we had a sudden cancellation today in our schedule and have a technician ready and eager to come out and pleasure your furnace (or something like that)!" It's the second time they've used that ploy on us. But just wanting to put them in our rear-view mirror, we gave in. (Ka-Ching, Ka-Chinggggg!)

Sure enough, within 45 minutes the duo of Tony (short, dark, swarthy like a 60's crooner, smooth-talking lead guy) and Bart (stout, friendly, all-American, ginger-haired and bearded lumberjack trainee) are grinning on the stoop. Meanwhile, one of my dogs is going crazy, ready to take a bite out of furnace crime. She showed good taste, but I restrained her, while I let the true beasts inside.

We went through the usual rigamarole, Tony reciting his speech, which I knew by heart and started saying it along with him. I leave the guys to get to work in the basement, this time foregoing my offer to give them a cup of coffee. (I used to think this might soften them up, make them not want to rip me off as much, but to hell with that! I've doled out more than a few cups of $4,000 coffee in the past, surely they can now afford their own.) I go upstairs and pray to the Furnace Gods to go gently on us this time and offer them a sacrificial pot of coffee.

After three hours of chit-chatter from the basement, numerous phone calls (NEVER a good sign), and no word, I finally go down to check on them.

"Well, there's good news and bad news," says swarthy and smooth Tony with his hair teased to well-coiffed points. 

I force swallow the goose-egg of dread in my throat and feel it plummet down to my gut like a weighted-down "goodfella" tossed into a lake. "Okay...what's the good news?"

"Your humidifier filter is in beautiful shape," Tony offers with car salesman sincerity. "Looks like it's never been used."

Good ol' Bart smiles, sticks his hands in his pockets, and nods.

"Huh," I manage, now in a walking daze of torment. "And the bad news?"

"The reason your filter is in such good shape is because your humidifier isn't working."

"Oh..."

"Looks like your humidistat (I think they make these words up to non-technical rubes such as myself) is busted." Tony says it with a smile. No...a leer.

Bart nods, a very empathetic nod. Good cop/bad cop.

"I...see." But, really, the only thing I could see was our bank account flying away on the wings of an angel. "And how much will that cost me?"

Tony flips a curl out of his eye--the way Fabio used to do it--and pretends to consult his iPad, although I'm pretty sure he and Bart have already conspired to come up with a magnificent number. "Let's see..." Annoyingly, Tony makes a clicking sound with his mouth as he pretends to check some numbers. "Looks like...about $695."

"What??? We just blew thousands on the furnace a couple weeks ago! Why didn't they catch it then?"

Tony stares at me blankly while Bart nods, displaying sympathetic, round dog-eyes.

"Okay, fine, whatever," I say. "How long will it take for the part to come in?"

"Oh!" Tony's face brightens. (Ka-Ching, Ka-Ching, Ka-Chinggggg!) "I just happen to have one in the van!"

Of course you do, I thought. "Fine. Let's do it," I say instead. These guys have perfected the art of planned obsolescence.

Another hour later, Tony comes upstairs, banging around the huge-ass furnace filter (just like those chain oil-change places always do), with Bart nipping at his heels.

"I think you need a new furnace filter," says Tony. "I mean, just look at it." He displays it like Vanna White, with a toothy enough grin to give her a run for the money.

"And how much will that cost?"

Tony goes through his imaginary iPad search again. "Lessee...uh-huh...yep...uh-huh...$175 dollars."

"Well," I said, more than a little miffed and ready for some payback, "I really wanted to look for those on Amazon. Pretty sure they carry them. And at a lot cheaper price, too. Oh! But I'm not supposed to talk about that, am I?" 

Bart lets out a laugh and a genuine smile. Tony shoots him a look. Then there's silence. Silence like the suffocating silence before a Spaghetti Western shoot-out. My eyebrow raises. Tony's eyes squint. Bart stifles another laugh. Somewhere Ennio Morricone music is playing. Tony opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. His jaw lowers and closes several times, resembling a land-locked fish.

Finally, he says, "Well...what you're really paying for is the convenience of us having it." A smile inches back, but this time not as assured.

I twist the sweet, sweet knife of revenge. "Oh, you mean it's more convenient than Amazon delivering it to my door?"

Bart laughs again. Probably his last laugh ever on the job.

I had my moment. Now, I just wanted to get them out of my house. Either that or unleash my dog on 'em.

While I'm thinking about wild animals tearing apart humans, have you guys checked out my darkly comical and horrific werewolf book, Corporate Wolf, yet? Well, do it already! Or I'll sic the furnace sadists from hell on ya! 

 

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.

ASMR...Whaaaaaat?

Always late to the party, we just started watching "The White Lotus." In the second episode, the two heinous, emotionless, mean teen girls get stoned and then do some "ASMR." 

I asked my wife, "What's that?"

She said, "Look it up, it's so stupid."

SOLD!

So, off to consult with my writing assistant, Ms. Google, I went. The results will astound you! I say, I say, ASTOUND you! (Read that in a Foghorn Leghorn voice.)

Get this...ASMR stands for "autonomous sensory meridian response." What a load of hooey explaining nothing. 

Let's break it down. "Autonomous" means the feeling is in your body. Well...of course it's in your body, Dr. Numbskull! Where else would it be? In a rock, perhaps? Now, I hear some of you New Age Wiccans (I have a HUGE following amongst the Wiccans), taking me to task over that and saying, "But, Stuart, usually feelings are in your mind." Well, yes, but where's your "mind?" In your body, dammit!

"Sensory" explains that your senses perceive the feeling. Again...duh. Do we really need a word telling us this? Isn't this pretty much common sense?

Here's my favorite: "meridian." The word indicates the energy of feeling in your body. Ha ha haaaaaaa! Who do we have to blame for THIS word? I'm beginning to see a lot of repetition here.

Finally, we have "response," which shows how a feeling is a response to stimuli.

I say, ballyhoo! We've got four fancy-pants words, all pretty much redundantly describing "feelings from outside stimuli." We could've easily shortened the acronym to "SR," and not missed a beat.

Now comes the fun part. We've broken down the high-falutin' acronym, signifying nothing, so let's chat about the "process." It's a "calming sensation in response to outside stimuli, a pleasant tingling that starts at the top of the head and works it's way through the spine and limbs." Examples of stimuli cited are whispering or someone playing with your hair (damn...I missed that ASMR boat!).

Back in my day (before color TV), we used to call it "goose bumps."

Blame it on Jennifer Allen, an internet chat frequent flier, who coined the term in 2010. Taking it a step further, in 2015, the first scientific study on ASMR was conducted. Craig Richard, a physiology professor at Shenandoah University compiled a survey of 30,000 applicants. He then formed (are you ready for this?)...the "ASMR University," an online resource for everything ASMR. (I wonder what it would take to get my Masters at ASMR University? I already have a BS in Goose Bumpery.)

A phenomenon was created. (Or so the ubiquitous "they" say...I'm pretty sure even cavemen got goose bumps, but why quibble?) 

And it has exploded. New words and cutesy nonsense group names are trending. "ASMRtists" are making online videos, trying to induce feelings by making sounds over a microphone. "GibiASMR," "GentleWhispering ASMR," and "ASMR Darling" have gathered millions of followers on YouTube and other social media platforms. The highly scientific noises created include whispers, mouth noises (I wonder if burps are considered spine-tingly?), chewing (gross!), page turning (at the lightning speed my wife smacks through a book's pages, it's anything but relaxing), and "finger flutters," a so-called popular trigger. I don't know about you guys, but I don't even know what a finger flutter is, let alone know if it makes a sound.

The end results are calmness, sleepiness, and a state of relaxation.

Maybe I'll become an ASMRtist and make a video featuring the close-range sounds of fingernails across a chalk board, pieces of Styrofoam rubbed together,  Gilbert Gottfried, Rosanne Barr laughing, the Emergency Broadcast System alert, and ancient Uncle Bobby farting in his sleep. (It's gotta be more lucrative than churning out novels these days.) I wonder if the ASMRheads would make me an ASMRlegend?

Again, let's just call it goose bumps. Or I'll even modernize a bit (not too much, mind you) and go with the same results from yoga, mediation, or a massage.

I suppose even physiologists and psychologists gotta eat, though. But c'mon, guys! Enough is enough! Quit making up new titles for old junk simply because there's nothing else new to study just so you can obtain job security! I call quackery! Tomfoolery! Shenanigans! But really, I call it goose bumps.

Wait a minute... Do I hear... I think I do! The sound of one of the dogs piddling in the hallway! Ahhhh...the wondrous release of ASMR.

While we're talking about tomfoolery, there's a whole lot to be found in the adventures of Zach and Zora in my comical mystery series consisting of three (so far...I hope!) books starting with Bad Day in a Banana Hammock. If you like your mysteries full of dumb male strippers and angry pregnant sleuths and a myriad of other nutty characters, I recommend you drop in at the Bone-In-Beef dance club where Zach is about to take the stage (until he stumbles over yet another dead body, natch). Nine out of ten priests recommend the books available here!

 

Throwdown in Aisle Four!

I was having a day. It was so cold out that when penguins woke up, they checked the thermometer, then went back to bed. Not wanting to mess with gloves, the tips of my fingers had grown white and numb. In the grocery store parking lot, some clown zigged into the parking spot I had been waiting on, cutting me off.

So, of course, I was in the perfect mood to go grocery shopping. Fun!

As I pushed my cart down the salad aisle, some kid was bent over, endlessly stocking and restocking. It was a risk going behind him, because I knew--absolutely KNEW--he'd back into me, but I took the plunge anyway, just wanting to get in and out of there as fast as possible.

"Behind you, behind you, behind you," I muttered to the kid as a warning. A warning he didn't heed.

Sure enough, he straightens and backs into me, knocking me sideways a couple of inches. A little bit indignant, I say "Excuse me."

Stares are exchanged. The silence is interminable. I'm waiting for the inevitable polite exchange of niceties expected in civilized societies. But the kid's got nothing.

But I sure did. I walked a few feet and stopped. 

Oh, hell no, I thought, he's not gonna get away with saying nothing. Whatever happened to the customer's always right and all that rot? Surely the onus should be on Stock Boy #13 to make things right with the customer he'd just assaulted, right? Right???

I turn back around and repeat loudly, "Excuse me!" I wait. More waiting. My blood's boiling up into my face, a red-hot three alarmer.

Annnnnnnd, the kid's still got nothing. He flashes a brief, cocky smile, then drops it. His brow furrows, wondering what this crazy ol' coot wants. Lips quiver.

I help him along a bit. "I said, 'excuse me!' Annnnnnnnd...." I roll my hand out in a Vanna White fashion, hoping to push this kid into some manners. It doesn't take. I go through my routine three more times. "Excuse me! Annnnnnnnnd..." By now, my hand's flapping like I'm trying to take flight.

Finally--FINALLY--the kid mumbles "excuse me." But intoned a question mark at the end of it, like I'm being outrageously insane in trying to bring back courtesy in our broken society.

But it'd have to do. Clearly Tik-Tok doesn't teach manners. I go racing through the store, talking madly to myself, an insane old guy with a grocery cart, itching to kill. I whip down the meat counter, grab some pork chops and harshly pitch them in the cart. I blast down the canned vegetable aisle, daggers of angry eyes ready to pounce on the next rude stock boy. Flying through the soda lane, I notice they still haven't restocked the Fresca (Stupid store! Dumb-ass, lazy stock boys have no manners and can't even restock the Fresca, for God's sake! What's this world coming to???).

By the time I zipped past the dairy goods, I start thinking... Wait a minute... Am I being a jack-ass? Am I making a bigger deal outta this than I should? Am I contributing to the downfall of our country? Like Trump?

I tear past the health food section (as I always do, because who needs healthy food, right?) and begin to circle back to the poor, abused stock boy.

There he is, still stocking and restocking the salads. Same position, same oblivious back to the world.

"Excuse me," I say again, coming full circle, with a lot less indignation and anger.

He turns around. Once more, he he pastes on that smarmy, half-amused grin. But no, I won't give in to my inner Karen, not gonna Hulk out. Not this time.

"Hey, sorry that I was a jerk a little while ago. I've been having a day," I say.

"Oh. Well, I'm sorry if I did something to offend you." Like he's still clueless, but whatever. Baby steps.

"No, no, you're fine. It was my bad. I just wanted to apologize."

"Okay," he says, still having no idea how he broke our societal contract of mores.

As I headed toward the checkout lane, I felt a little bit better about myself and my relationship with others around me. Perhaps if we all took a minute to just check ourselves, put ourselves into the other person's shoes for a minute, realize that we're not the only ones having a bad day, and that maybe--

"Whaddaya mean, $3.99??? Your stupid sign said these hot dogs were on sale, dammit! I'm not gonna pay $3.99 for hot dogs that aren't even real meat! This is the last time I'm taking my business here! Where's your manager??? This is highway robbery! Why, I never, ever..."

Hey, ho, speaking of people behaving badly, there's a whole mess of bad behavior going on during a terrible winter storm at the Dandy Drop Inn. Why, I'm talking hit men, mobsters, embezzlers, religious zealots, insane angry husbands, crooked cops, and maybe even a serial killer or two. (No rude stock boys, however.) Come on down, check into the Dandy Drop Inn, join the fun, and hope you don't drop dead from the horror of it all. That's Dread and Breakfast, natch. Ask for it by name!

The Beauty of Slop-Pots

Holidays sure are funny. Not really funny "ha ha (although they can be that as well)," but it's a time of sharing and gathering with family and loved ones and you never know where the conversation will lead.

Oh, sure, I can bring up how corrupt Donny Trump is, but when your family is all on the same team, where's the fun in that?

So, I suppose it was inevitable that our holiday chatter eventually wound its way around to outhouses.

"Man, it sure is cold out," I said with an extraordinarily lousy segue. "I would've hated to have to go out to an outhouse and perform my duties. I mean, freezing cold and butt splinters."

Forks were dropped all around the table, but interest rose.

"I would've hated it, too," said my mother-in-law. 

"And why in the world did they have half-moons carved into the doors?" I asked. "Is it to give ventilation? Maybe a spot of moonlight to guide your through your bidness?"

Like magic, electronic gadgets were whipped out. My wife being the fastest supplied the answer. "Yes, the moon was for ventilation and moonlight, but also it was widely acknowledged as a sort of sight language for those who couldn't read. The crescent moon represented a derriere."

While I couldn't quite see how a crescent moon resembled a butt, I said, "Ohhhhhhhhhh," anyway, not wanting to be the dumbest guy at the table.

"Well, another option for certain families was a 'slop-pot,'" offered my mother-in-law.

"Oh? Tell me more," I said as I shoveled a forkful of casserole into my mouth.

"They were ceramic jars with lids for people who didn't want to go out into the cold."

"Huh."

"And sometimes they'd be beautifully decorated."

Suddenly, a whole new world of wondrousness opened up to me. I began to see slop-pots everywhere, planning my next bodily function. Besides there were seven of us and one bathroom.

"So that's what that is in our bedroom," I shouted in a very Sherlockian manner.

"No...that's a spittoon. You'd have to have very good aim," said my mother-in-law.

"And in the hallway...it's a bigger slop-pot!"

"Don't you dare use that, Stuart. That's a butter churner."

See what I mean? Slop-pots everywhere. And before that fateful day, I'd never even heard of them!

Soon, the dinner conversation drifted to potty chairs. "For the wealthier women at high society tea parties, it was considered polite to excuse yourself and use a potty chair," explained my mother-in-law.

"Wait...what?"

"It was usually a wooden chair that had a hole cut out in it with a ceramic bowl beneath to catch stuff. Some of the bowls were beautiful."

"You mean...these hoity-toity ladies were soooooo caught up in their tea parties, they just dropped trou right in the middle of the she-bang and let it drop because they didn't want to miss anything? And no one cared?"

"Well...the chairs were in dark corners of the room and--"

"Gross!"

See what I mean? A whole new world of essential information. Soon, I had another "A-HA" moment.

"Wait a minute..." I said. "My mom had one of those potty chairs in her basement. When my brother and I moved her into an apartment, we secretly threw it away because she didn't want to throw away anything."

Jaws dropped, but forks still remained high.

"You didn't..." gasped my wife. "You threw out... It was a very valuable antique!"

While I mourned my perhaps hasty decision to toss it out, the notion of a "potty chair" going up at an expensive antique auction absolutely fills me with delight. Beauty surrounds us!

The more you know...

Speaking of essential information, while researching the first book in the Zach and Zora comical mystery series, Ms. Google led me down some dark alleys regarding male strippers, places that I'd care not to revisit ever again. So please help my hard-earned research pay off and check out one of the books, Bad Day in a Banana Hammock, Murder by Massage, and Nightmare of Nannies. Only YOU can help to erase the horrific imagery and videos that's scarred me for life!

 

Stooping to a New Low

Recently, I knew the neighbors across the street were going to be away for a couple of days, so I snatched a newly delivered box from their stoop. (Not that they asked me to, mind you...it's just during the holidays Amazon is the gift that keeps on giving, even when you haven't paid for anything! Of course, I'm kidding. Or...AM I?)

So, I said to my wife, "Wife," I said, "I just grabbed a package from the neighbors' stoop."

She stared at me. Of all the responses I expected, I had somehow overlooked amused silence.

Finally--FINALLY!--at long last, she says, "That's twice now you've used 'stoop' today. Nobody says that anymore. It makes you sound like a redneck."

I can tolerate a lot, but nobody gets away with calling me a redneck! "Harumph," I snorted. "Ain't nothin' rednecky about saying stoop. What would you call it? 'A landing deck?'"

"It's a porch. Call it a porch. Civilized people call it a porch."

I took a peek out the window at the neighbors' so-called "porch." "That is not a porch! A porch constitutes s a gathering place where you can hang out with a friend, sit in a rocking chair, drink hard lemonades, and yell at the neighbors' kids. THAT is nothing but a one step up, 6 by 6 foot hunk of cement. Hence, it's a stoop!"

Things got pretty heated in the great stoop versus porch debate, so I walked away, mumbling, "Sometimes a stoop is just a stoop."

But it got me thinking even though I forgot about it for a couple of days soon after. Until my wife sent me an article.

Helpfully entitled "The Difference Between a Stoop and a Porch," I felt my heart slowly dropping into my stomach for I was certain the article in question would certify my wife as the winner of this bout (and she usually is). Otherwise why would she send me incriminating evidence she was wrong?

(Then I thought, "Huh. You mean...there're other people in the world where this fine distinction is debated over?")

With great trepidation, I began to read.

A porch is typically a roofed area that projects from the exterior wall of a house or other building, while a stoop refers to the steps leading up to an entryway.

Wait...what? Whazzat??? Could I be misreading things??? Did I finally--FINALLY, FOREVER FINALLY--win a battle of the words with my all-knowing wife?

HUZZAH!  Shout! Raise the roof (but not so much as to disturb what's very oh-so-obviously a PORCH)! Smack the cat and put the kids out! I was right!!!

But I'm a humble winner. When my wife got home, I kept my glory down to a dull minimum (Fireworks! Attempted cartwheels that ended up with me in traction! "In your FACE!!! BWA HA HA HA HA HAAAAAAAA!" Banging of pots and pans! Phone calls to my friends applying bragging rights! "STOOP! There it issss...STOOP, there it isssss..." Okay, okay, maybe it was overkill. But you gotta understand something...I'm not used to being right! HA HA HAAAAAAAAAA!)

I think I'll go sit on my porch and bask in my victory (while opening up my new gift from the neighbors.).

Speaking of men behaving badly, meet Shawn and his mentor/bad penny buddy, Redmond. Stuck in corporate hell, their days are spent in walking, mind-numbing comas, while their nights are spent in bars, trying to forget their days. But if you think that's bad, wait until a werewolf starts ripping Shawn's coworkers to shreds. Could the werewolf be one of Shawn's coworkers? Maybe someone close to him? Or...could it be Shawn himself? Find out in Corporate Wolf, available right here!

 

The Name Game

What's in a name? Quite a lot as I discovered this past Thanksgiving.

Ever since the holiday, when my relatives dropped some great names and stories, I've been thinking about it quite a bit.

Let's take college sports, for instance. My nephew told me that the name of the University of Oklahoma's quarterback is..."General Booty." Yep, not a typo, not a bad dream, not a military title, but more than probably parents with a sense of humor. Or they hated their son.

I mean, I can hear the game announcements already: "Looks like we've got General Booty on the field!" or "Would you look at that General Booty!" or "The ref just made a Booty call!"

Poor guy. No wonder he had to excel at sports. (Although I suppose it's better than being named "Specific Booty.")

Then here in my stomping grounds of Kansas, ripped straight from the basketball team of my alma mater, KU, comes...Gradey Dick! Now on the surface, the Jayhawk guard's name isn't that unusual. But it's become kinda a Big Deal with people on the intronets, trying to one-up each other with naughty posts on Gradey's name. It's even become part of the lexicon of the game announcers (whether they realize it or not). Things I've read or heard include: "Dick is driving it hard on the floor!' and "What we need right now is some Dick!" and "Looks like Dick is pummeling the other team!"

(But don't feel too bad for Mr. Dick. My niece told me some less than pleasant things about the guy. Clearly trying to live up to his name-sake, I suppose.)

While we leave the world of sports behind, let's turn to real-life, shall we? Over the holiday, there'd been some reminiscing about stories from many years ago in Oklahoma. I'm thinking specifically of "Egghead Dinger."

"Egghead Dinger?" I said. "Why was he called 'Egghead'? Or was that his real name?"

"Well," said the anonymous storyteller, "his head looked like an egg."

While I was busy giggling over the poor Dinger, I tried to imagine just how egg-like his head was.

Quickly, my relative added, "But he was a good-looking guy!"

Now, I really was curious to see a handsome egghead.

Perhaps feeling guilty about disparaging Egghead's head, my relative continued trying to make Eggy seem palatable. "He was so good-looking, he married Fannie Mae, who--"

"Wait a minute, wait a minute! 'Fannie Mae?'"

"Yes. Fannie was the school teacher who all the guys--and the kids--were gaga over. She rented an apartment with another local teacher that overlooked the school-yard. All the kids gathered around the yard at a certain time because it became wide-spread that Fannie liked to dress with her curtains open."

Yow! Now I REALLY wanted to see a pic of Egghead and Fannie, two of the best names ever! If I wrote them into a book, all credibility would be lost. Sometimes truth is stranger than fiction.

So I started thinking about horrible names. And why the parents of these horribly named offspring felt the need to punish them for all their lives.

I uncovered Phat Ho, Dick Swett, Mr. Perv (a grade school teacher), Chris P. Bacon (wouldn't you think he'd drop the middle initial by now?), Mike Litoris, Moe Lester, Major Dickie Head (And how is that better than "Richard?"), Dr. Wett Fartz, F. You, and so many more.

You can't tell me these poor long-suffering people were unaware of their names, even with a language translation barrier. There are plenty of bilingual bullies out there. And what kind of sadistic animals are their parents? I suppose some parents find it cute. Then again, most of my cited examples involve (intentional or unintentional) potty humor.

In my ever-diligent research (Hello, Ms. Google!), I found a recent British study of 1,772 parents, with the majority of them claiming they gave their spawn weird names to help them stand out on social media! Dayum! Since when do parents want their kids to be noticed on Tik-Tok, where the likes of "Mr. Perv" goes by the handle of "Sunshiny Unicorn" or whatever? Why, I remember the day when parents wished for their kids to have better clothes, better schooling, and an all-round better life. 

Even more startling is 94% of the respondents claim that made-up nonsense names are "in" for kids!

Huh. So if I were to have another child, I think I'd name it "Poo-Poo Platter." Because I would want my child to have nothing but the best and most visible internet presence. Ever.

While we're on the topic of bad names, my protagonist (of three novels, so far!), chooses to go by "Tex," rather than  his birth name of "Richard." Because bullies early on let him know that "Dick" was short for Richard. But you can't explain bullies' behavior. Never mind all that. Tex has just discovered he's a witch. And there's a serial killer targeting his friends at school. And a lotta other stuff. Check out Tex, the Witch Boy, the first in a series.