If Only I Had a Third Eyelid

Last week there was a huge food mishap in our house. No, for once it wasn't my doing. Our senior dog happened to be lollygagging around our largest dog while she was eating. Things didn't go well. She attacked the elderly pup (shades of when a white trash drunk young woman tried to beat me up in a Holiday Inn!). By the time I broke it up, the damage had been done.

Mr. Loomis had a chest wound, but worse, his eye was nearly completely red.  Being a responsible adult and pet owner, I did the only mature, responsible thing that was needed: I panicked.

I'd never seen a dog's eye wound like that before. I called our doggy thousand dollar ophthalmologist (yes, Virginia, there IS such a thing), but she was booked solid. I called our regular vet, but they were full up as well.

Then I did the next responsible thing and called my out-of-town wife. "Oh my God, dear, there's blood everywhere! Literally gushing from his eye!"

Silence. Then, "Okay, how bad is it, really?"

"Um, his eye's mostly red."

"He needs to be seen," she said.

So, I knew what I had to do. A dreaded trip to the million dollar doggy E.R. (again, Virginia, duh, they exist. What rock have you been hiding under?), where patience and Big Bills are rarely rewarded.

The assistant who checked me in said, "Wait...what's your wife's name?"

I told her.

"I KNOW Mr. Loomis," she shouted exuberantly. "I used to work at your thousand dollar doggy ophthalmologist. Mr. Loomis was our patient!"

It's a small doggy world, it turns out. Too bad the doggy bills aren't so small.

Anyway, she led me back to the room and I had hoped that her goodwill with Mr. Loomis would speed things up a bit. But Mr. Loomis and I waited. And waited. And waited. Waited until my phone died. Then I left.

The next morning I was able to see the thousand dollar doggy ophthalmologist. 

She said, "The good news is it looks like his third eyelid is doing its job."

"Wait...what?" I looked carefully into Mr. Loomis' blood-filled eye. "Is...is...my dog a...mutant? I've never even HEARD of a third eyelid!"

The doctor rolled her (presumably double-lidded) eyes and said, "We humans are the oddball. We're the only mammals that don't have a third eyelid."

Whoa! Freaky!

So I nodded and pretended I wasn't nearly as dumb as I actually am. But when we got home, I looked up the third eyelid via my assistant, Ms. Google.

"The third eyelid is located in the inner corner of the eye and sweeps across the eye in a horizontal direction when the eyeball retracts during a blink. This protects the eye, distributes tears, and helps maintain vision."

Where was I when this was being taught in school? (Oh, yeah, probably skipping class and smoking weed and hanging out in the parking lot. I can admit this now since both of my parents have passed away.)

But it got me thinking. So...do dogs actually have SIX eyelids? When don't they refer to them as the third and sixth eyelid?

And why can't humans have the third eyelid? It'd probably help with my perpetually weeping eyes. It could be, like, my superpower.

"There's no need to fear!" I'd shout triumphantly with chest out and hands on hips. "My special third eyelid will take out the evildoer!"

"Oh, thank you, Third Eyelid Man," an adoring, hot blonde bystander would say.

Speaking of nice dreams, well...I don't really write about "nice" dreams. Only bad dreams. Like in my horror-filled, dark humor-laced short story collection Twisted Tales From Tornado Alley. (Yes, Virginia, I know it's a terrible tie-in, but I needed some kinda segue to pimp my books. Now shut your pie-hole! Kids today!)

Front Yard Olympics

Every two years, my wife and I become experts on the Olympics. "Holy cow! Did you see the way she perfectly landed that triple Sowkow?" It just comes naturally.

So, by extension, it would seem only natural that I decided to have a one-man Olympic event in my front yard for all the neighbors to witness.

I had just come off a long weekend of baby-sitting my daughter's bratty dogs (an Olympian event of endurance in itself). Tired, wearing dirty clothes, and arms loaded with a suitcase and a refrigerated bag containing numerous beers, I wearily climbed the front five stairs to gain entrance to my much-missed house.

Except my arthritic knees had a different plan. As if in slow motion, I reached the top of the stoop, wavered backwards, and gravity took me backward down the stairs and onto the sidewalk.

My first thought was hmmm, this must be how Simone Biles feels while flying through the air. My next thought was Oh my God, I'm gonna die on the sidewalk. Finally, I pondered the nature of my unusual and extraordinary decision to forego clean underwear that morning because I wanted to get home as quickly as possible. Then I heard my mom saying, always wear clean underwear in case you get in an accident.

All of these thoughts transpired as I flew backward and through the air in a matter of seconds. I wish I could say I planted my landing beautifully like Simone Biles, but alas, the judges would've penalized me big-time for my crash landing. I banged onto the sidewalk and bounced into the yard.

Mercifully, my elbow took the brunt of the crash, saving my head from a concussion or worse. Dazed, with cartoon birdies dive-bombing around my head, I looked around. Scattered throughout the yard were numerous beer cans and dirty clothes, shrapnel from my ammunition-loaded bags. 

Mortified, I sat up, thinking Wow, it's good to be alive. I'm really thankful that no neighbors witnessed--

"Hey, Stu, are you alright?"

Crap. One of the young neighbors across the street had come running out, having witnessed my Olympic trial through his window. 

Incredibly humiliated, I continued to sit in the yard in dirty underwear, waiting for the neighbor to go away. But he didn't.

"Ah, what's up, Joel?" I said in a nonchalant manner. 

"I was just looking out the window and saw your fall. Are you alright?"

"Yeah. My arthritis just got to me and gravity did the rest." I considered asking him how he would've rated my landing.

"But you're okay?" He looked about the yard in bemusement at all my beer cans and dirty clothes scattered throughout.

"Just a bruised ego, that's all," I answered, still sitting there like I had planned it that way. 

But that wasn't the only thing that was bruised. My back, legs, knees, shoulders, and elbow hurt like mad for two or three days after that. But at least I finally got to experience life as an Olympic champion. (With dirty underwear.)

Speaking of greatness, meet Zach Caulfield, a champion "male entertainment dancer (aka, a stripper)." Go on, just ask him. The problem is Zach constantly stumbles across dead bodies and more often than not, gets blamed for the murder. It falls upon his weary, much put-upon, usually pregnant sleuth sister to find the guilty party to save her idiot brother's hide from jail. Read the wacky antics and mystery and adventure in the Zach and Zora comic mystery series!

The Crazy, Cuckoo Case of the Calamitous, Covert Cotton Ball Cup

(Or..."I Love Alliteration!")

So, there I was in the bathroom (if you're having your morning breakfast with coffee, I'd suggest you wait until you finish before you read this very important post...).

Back to the bathroom... 

The day started like any other, the sun roasting the mean city's sidewalks like eggs on a hot griddle. I was kicking back free style in my man cave (or what passes as my man cave, the john), attending to business, any ordinary day, when she walked in. The dame could've stopped traffic on an ice-covered freeway during rush hour. She had more curves than the crookedest street in Francisco.

The dame was my wife.

"What're you doin' here?" I asked the dame. "Can't you see I'm doing man's work? This ain't no place for a dame. Now, beat it, scram." I sprayed a can of Lysol, hoping she'd get my drift.

"Why are you being so weird?" she said.

I finished my business, getting rid of last night's whiskey. I wanted to shave, but couldn't, not with some dame hanging onto me. "You need an armed escort, lady? You heard me, beat feet!"

Things happened fast. We jockeyed for space, arms flailing around one another for towels and soap and toilet paper and make-up, a vertical game of Twister. Suddenly, my elbow smacked the cotton ball cup sitting on the back of my white throne. I watched as the cup shattered like a puzzle and the white balls snowed down upon the tiled floor.

"Now look what you did," she shouted, her lips drawn back in a ferocious, feral, yet enticing sneer. "Be careful!"

"It takes two to tango, baby, see? You can't lay that calamity on my broad shoulders alone."

"Quit being weird! And pick up your cotton balls!"

"Lissen up, toots, and lissen good, before I take you over my knee and give it to ya! They ain't my cotton balls, see, you're the one who brought them in here."

"Uh, no I didn't. You did! And speak normally!"

"You're not hangin' that rap on me, sister. I ain't standin' for it one iota, not for one second. I'm a man and men don't have no use for cotton balls just like men have no use for nipples!"

She glowered at me like Johnny Law grillin' me under the hot lamps. Only thing missing was a phone book and rubber hose. Finally, illumination blinked behind the dame's headlights. Her full lips formed a perfect "O," the kind I could get lost in for days.

"Ohhhhh," she said, "Mom must've put the cup there the last time she was here."

"Well," I said, tilting my hat back so the dame could get a good view of the victory in my peepers, "this looks like another--"

"Stop it."

"...another case wrapped up by me. Now I could use a good, stiff--"

"Cut it out!"

"...drink to wash the dirtiness outta my gritty street life and detec--"

"I'm going to work." And just like that, she was gone. She blew into my man cave like a whirling dervish and vanished like some kind of hallucinatory siren from the depths, her hold on me still strong, until I began to doubt if she'd been real or just a lingering fever dream from my two-day hangover.

Until she got home from work and wanted to know why I hadn't picked up the cotton balls.

--From the case files of Stu West, P.I.

Wow! Pow! Swak! If you want more hard-boiled thrills, chills, and blood spills (none of that sissy cotton ball stuff), check out my Killers Incorporated trilogy, a darkly comical thriller series about serial killers and conspiracies, not for the faint-hearted! 

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!

The Girding of the Loins

I girded my loins (and what does that even mean? Hang on a minute while I ask my research assistant, Ms. Google... Ah! It means "to prepare to do something dangerous or difficult." Going back further, apparently it is of biblical origin: in the ancient Orient, long, loose garments had to be hitched up to avoid tripping. Furthermore, in the Bible, a "loin" is a part of the body that needs to be covered with clothing. So...I suppose it means covering up your privates? I'm still unclear.  Apologies for digressing all over the place...)

So...where was I? Okay, there I was girding my loins, waiting for my wife to come home. It was going to be grueling as I had a terrible, deep, dark confession regarding something I had done that day. So I girded. Girded my loins like the wind.

The girding came to an abrupt stop as I heard her car pull into the driveway. My loins shriveled up, all of the pre-girding in the world just flown out the window. 

The door opened and any thoughts of more power girding went the way of disco.

"Hi honey," I blurted out in a rush as she stepped inside. "How was your day? I have a deep, dark confession to make!"

She went through her routine of putting things down, saying hello to the dogs, and then she approached me.

Dread written all over her face, she asked, "What'd you do?"

"Um...you know that stupid game I play on my phone? You know, where I accidentally keep killing the King? 'Royal Match?' That one?"

"What'd you do?"

"I...ah...that is...um,,, now don't hate me and it really wasn't my fault. It was almost an accident. Yeah! Kinda an accident! So, you see...I've been stuck on the same level for about five days with no way out and...um...you see...I-paid-$2.99-for-some-extra-coins-to-get-outta-that-level!"

She gasped, a long wheeze drawn out for comical effect. I thought, hey, if she's going for comedy, I'm in the clear! For you see, we've had an unspoken pact between us that we would never pay for games. In fact, we never understood those who do throw their money away on games. But...hardcore addiction is a terrible thing.

"That's something we don't do," she said. "Shame on you! Bad Stuart, bad!"

So, like a dog with his tail between his legs, I whimpered some more lame excuses, and quickly retreated to the dog house where I had been banished.

But I'd learned my lesson... Although, come to think of it...I'm kinda stuck again in the game, so...where's that credit card?

Speaking of boneheaded moves, have you heard about Zach, the bone-headed stripper (sorry...make that "male entertainment dancer") who continues to stumble across dead bodies? Yeah, and it's always up to his beleaguered, short-tempered, usually pregnant sleuth sister Zora to bail him out of trouble by finding the real murderer! The fun starts in Bad Day in a Banana Hammock available here and continues on in two more books. (And hopefully, soon a fourth book if I ever get off my duff and finish it!).

The Two Types of Gym Coaches

You know, I still have nightmares about being back in Junior High gym class. (This along with forgetting about a college class until the last day and walking in bare feet into the world's filthiest bathroom are my other reoccurring dreams from Hell.)

It was back in Junior High that I discovered that gym "teachers" were sadists. We had two and they alternated dishing out torture. Of course being overweight made me an even larger target (I suppose the pun is intended. Sigh.). 

But these two guys were beasts. For any given reason, they enjoyed making us run around in endless circles in what they gleefully called "the world's smallest indoor track." When one of us didn't chime right up for roll call it was push-ups and laps. And while we sweated and panted and gasped for dear life, they stood on the side giggling and grinning like sadistic mad men.

It didn't stop there. They loved pitting us tiny and meek and weak seventh graders ("sevvies" as we were disdainfully referred to) against the ginormous ninth graders (who to me looked like animals; some of them had beards, for God's sake! in the dastardly exercise in sadism called "dodge ball." It didn't take me long to figure out how to get out of the game with very few injuries; when an errant ball flew over my head, I'd reach up and "accidentally" touch it. Then I'd yell, "I'm out, coach!" I pity my fellow soldiers-in-arms who never learned this valuable survival technique.

The worst thing these two monsters had us do was the outdoor twenty minute run. In blistering heat. For crying out loud, I couldn't go five minutes without stopping to catch my breath. And they'd get pissed at those of us who walked (while stepping around those students hurling or laying in the grass holding their sides in pain).

Which led to a visit to their office because I walked at least half of the course. Now, I knew what went on in their office. They actually had a paddle and whupped boys who they considered "bad" on the arse.  Don't know how they got away with this back in the seventies, but they did it all the time. 

Coach Supple (we'll call him that, because...well, that was his name) had taken his usual stance, leaning over the shower stall wall and ogling all of the boys (I know, right?), when he shouted, "West! In our office. NOW!"

I said, "Ummmm...can I get dressed?"

"No! I gave you a command! Get in there now!"

Humiliated, embarrassed, dripping wet and starkers naked, I slapped feet into their office of doom, cupping my junk while standing in front of the two grinning mad men. Then they commenced to break me down psychologically by calling me names and screaming at me. 

I very much wanted to avoid the paddle of pain, particularly as I didn't even have on shorts to protect my arse, so I broke into tears, hoping to tug at their heart strings. Foolish me, I should've know they didn't have any. But my ploy worked, they were disgusted by me, threw a towel my way, and told me "clean yourself up and get out of here!"

Fun!

And that's why I avoided my one year of mandatory gym in high school until my senior year. Big mistake as I was the only senior in the class. But I put it off for two years because I really didn't want to suffer through more sadistic gym teachers.

It was tough and due to all of the exercise, I managed to drop one hundred pounds for the first time. And surprise of all surprises, this gym teacher was a nice guy.

For instance, when I aced a written test about the rules of sports, he called me out by name to brag me up. Even better was the day we had to run and jump outdoor hurdles. Now, I don't jump. Not very graceful, I envisioned myself tripping over every one and plummeting to the concrete, tearing my knees open and bleeding a bloody river. All to the lovely sound of humiliating freshmen laughter.

But to my astonishment, Coach Geiss (again, his real name. Hey, I don't mind calling out the good and bad guys in this post!) considered me when it came to my turn. After a minute, he said, "West, you look a little pale. Why don't you go lay down on the bench in the locker room."

Incredibly grateful, I couldn't help but smile as I pretended to be feeling sick and walked past the coach. Who gave me a quick pat on the back. He may as well have winked at me, too.

So, eat it, Coaches Corder and Supple, you mean, sadistic, violent jack-asses who appeared to enjoy watching boys shower! Coach Geiss showed how to do it with grace and humanity.

Whew. Glad to get that off my chest.

While I've got sadism on the brain, meet Leon Garber, protagonist of my darkly comic thriller trilogy, Killers Incorporated. Leon's a successful accountant, handsome, appears to have it all. He's also a serial killer. But hang on! He's the good guy! Some of the other serial killers he comes across...not so much, giving my junior high gym coaches a run for their sadistic money. Heads are chopped, dropped and swapped in the first book, Secret Society, and that's just the beginning! Check 'em out here!

Sleep Apnea-Nation

I put it off as long as I could, really I did. First, my sadistic dentist had proclaimed me as having sleep apnea after I took some lousy, at-home test. (I thought "how in the hell can my dentist accuse me of having sleep apnea when the lousy, dad-gum test kept me awake all night?") But she hollered, "J'accuse! You have zee sleep apnea!") 

She wanted to fit me for this two-piece device that would jut out my lower jaw, which sounded tantamount to torture. So I kinda said, "Uh, yeah, no thanks. If I couldn't sleep with the test, how in the world do you expect me to catch some z's feeling like a faulty, high-wired cyborg?"

Time went on. And my wife started telling me I've stopped breathing in my sleep at times.

To which I shunted it off again. Now, you gotta understand where I'm coming from. I always kinda thought "Poo poo, sleep apnea is one of those made-up things that the entire medical community is using as a go-too tool to sell CPAP machines."  Kinda like how I viewed "restless leg syndrome," which I attributed to anxiety or too many Red Bulls. So...I likewise thought if I could lose some weight, then that'll solve my so-called sleep apnea problem. Ta-daaaaaaaaaa and BOOM!

Plus I didn't want to end up with one of those damn machines strapped onto my face like an Alien face-hugger.

But my wife persisted. And after a couple of friends told me that they loved their CPAP machines and it helped them get great sleep, I began to break my iron will on the topic. (Okay, it's maybe more like a "tin will.") I gave in.

After over a month of not hearing from the CPAP people, I contacted my doctor who kicked their butts into gear and scheduled a meeting. At the CPAP meeting, there was another cranky guy (I think everyone who gets a CPAP is a high-ranking member of the Cranky Guy Club.) who had no interest in social niceties, but made sure he let us know that he was getting a CPAP under duress by his insurance, so he could eventually get some sorta surgery. Waaaaay beyond my paygrade to comprehend.

So the CPAP woman (we'll call her "Ms. CPAP") displayed a slew of mannequin heads with devious-looking devices strapped onto their Styrofoam faces. I went in thinking I could get away with just the simple little nostril clips, but when I tried it, it was like standing in the dead center of a hurricane with wind blasting me at full gale.

So Ms. CPAP brought out a "face-hugger." After a ton of adjustments and lessons and instructions and eye-rolls, I didn't really get the hang of it. I just wanted to get the hell outta there.

With CPAP in hand, we drove home. All day long, I was full of trepidation about the torturous night of insomnia that lay ahead. Once nighttime fell, I spent too long reading on the porcelain throne, postponing my inevitable destiny of doomed anti-sleep.

At long last, it was time. Filled with dread, I crawled into bed, strapped the monstrosity over my head and around my mouth and nose. And hit the "on" button...

I lay back and thought, "Hey, this isn't so bad! It's not like the massive wind tunnel I experienced this morning in training. Why...I could get used to this...I could....I....zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz..."

The next morning, refreshed and vibrant, I found out why it had been so easy. Apparently, I had never turned it on.

One month later, I'm still trying to get used to it. The humidity element feels like it's going to drown me at times. Once it quit working and I issue you a challenge--just try and get a human on the phone at CPAP headquarters (go on, try it, I dare you! I've got a Kenny G song forever seared into my brain as a result of being on hold for half a day.). And to my ears, every night I sound like an annoying, asthmatic Darth Vader on steroids.

But...everyone keeps telling me it's good for me. And everybody can't be wrong.  Right?  RIGHT???

While we're on the topic of making fateful decisions, check out my book Godland. We have an embittered farmer, a New York corporate raider, two teenage high school girls, and a failed small business owner. What do they have in common? I'm afraid you'll have to read to find out the shocks and twists as past and present collide, and secrets are revealed as these disparate people gather at a desolate Kansas farm for a hellish night not everyone will survive. Plus they've all made some bad decisions (see how I finally tied it into my post?) Visit lovely Godland here!