Terrorizing Kids for Fun!

Okay, I didn't really terrorize kids for fun. It was purely an accident.

A little back story... Next door, a really great young couple moved in. After attempting to muzzle one of our barking dogs in the back yard, I ran into them. They told me they were having a family gathering the following day due to a death in the family. 

I said, "That's a really nice idea. I'll try and keep the dogs inside and quiet."

A plan had been set.

So, that morning I took the dogs on two different walks, each more hellish than the last, to try and wear them out. Only one who got worn out was me, natch.

I kept them inside for as long as possible while the gathering next door raged.

After much whining and staring at the back door (and that was just me), I saw the neighbors had moved the party indoors. For the most part. Sure, there were two small girls throwing something back and forth, laughing and having a good ol' time, but that was it. Let them empty their bladders (the dogs, not the girls), toss a few cute barks the kids' way, then I'd bring 'em back inside. (Lord knows I tried to take them out on a leash in the front yard to bathroom them; of course I had no luck. But Mr. Loomis--who weighs all of twenty-one pounds--took three embarrassing poohs on our earlier walk. More than he weighed).

Sure enough, the other dog, Bijou, started barking her head off.

I rushed outside and said, "Hush, girl!"

The two girls stopped playing. Bijou quit barking. One girl gaped at me. I gaped back at her. The other girl looked at her playmate. Bijou stared at me, then back at the girls. Mr. Loomis was oblivious. I tried a creepy smile (the only kind I can muster when I force a smile). Both girls looked at me. Then they screamed and tore inside. 

I imagined them telling all the adults about the cranky, scary ol' man next door who told them to shut up.

Fun!

Honestly, I had good intentions. And, really, is this worse child abuse than subjecting your kid to the imminently creepy Elf-On-A-Shelf routine? Talk about lifetime scarring.

While I'm not terrifying kids, I do enjoy trying to scare adults. More fun! (Hmmm, I'm sensing a pattern here). Why not give my historical ghost spook-fest, Ghosts of Gannaway, a whirl? Based on true events (except, you know, for the horror and ghost stuff).

 

Alkatraz Packaging

Man, I do hate "Alkatraz Packaging."

You know what I'm talking about... The type of packaging that sadistic packagers gleefully construct so as to render it impossible to open (or reseal).

Take for instance the dreaded "clamshell" that a lot of smaller hand-held electronics come in. Made out of a plastic so durable and impossible to penetrate, you could use the same material for car tires. Even scissors can't open them.

One time I tried to force my way into such a package to retrieve a phone. Tearing the plastic was a waste of time. Scissors didn't succeed. Without resorting to explosives, I grabbed a sharp kitchen knife and went to work. My hand steadying the package slipped. Worse, the knife slipped into my hand. Blood sprayed. And within the impenetrable package, the phone mocked me.

You need a damn You Tube video on how to safely open these hazards of packaging.

And how about those infernal pump bottles, host to a ton of bathroom products like moisturizer? They're great...when they work. Usually, I follow the simple directions of turning the pump counter-clockwise and get nowhere. Just watching the dry pump twist round and round and round and round...

What do you do with it? It's kinda worthless. Once--and to my great shame--I took a bottle back because it wouldn't open.

The clerk squinted at me. "What's wrong with it?"

"Ah...manufacturer error," I said, hoping to mask my lack of packaging skills with corporate-speak.

"Whaddaya mean?"

"The...um...pump doesn't work."

"Whaddaya mean the pump doesn't work?" Puzzled, the clerk picked the bottle up and studied the problematic pump. "Looks fine to me."

"It doesn't work!"

"Sure it does. You do know how to use it, right?" He leaned over the counter and smirked.

"Never mind!" I grabbed the bottle and what was left of my pride and raced out of the store.

Packaging problems are everywhere. Oh, what about those damned packages that contain lunch meat or numerous other edibles? The packages that boast, "Easy Re-Seal!"

Yeah. Sure. Easy for those with patience and nimble fingers, maybe a safe-cracker, but definitely not me. Sure, they're good for diets because you can't ever get to the food, but that's about it.

First, I can never rip the teeny-tiny tab off where it menacingly states "Tear Here!" with a big red arrow pointing toward it. The rare times I've managed to pinch the tab, it never comes off in one strip. So I'm left staring at baloney that I can't get to, while my stomach growls.

Not having learned my lesson before, I usually go for scissors next. Naturally, I always cut it below the "E-Z Reseal" feature. 

I'm just not cut out for modern packaging. It imposes a serious safety risk on me, harder to figure out than Ikea furniture. Talk about the ultimate in planned obsolescence...by the time you finally figure out how to get to your booby-trapped prize without killing yourself, there're newer models on the market. 

Of course, I'm the guy who was banned from using plastic wrap because I can't tear it right and it usually ends up all over myself.

While we're yakking about impossible to figure out things, have you read my book, Corporate Wolf? Not only is it a horror-filled, black comedy, but there's a cracking murder mystery. Just who is the werewolf?

 

Who Slew T. T. George?

Let's study the scene of this most monstrous of crimes...

Yes, that's me as a kid. All slender and with hair and stuff. Next to me is prime suspect number one, my younger brother. He doesn't really look that way. Most of the time, anyway. It's just his way of trying to scare me, seeking kicks where we could get them while the adults ignored us. In my arms, from left to right, are Chimpy, T.T. George, and Tweaky.

Now, the late T.T. George was my prized teddy bear, the top banana in my menagerie of stuffed animals. I'm not sure where I came up with the name, T.T. George, but knowing what a precocious lil' tot I was, I'm sure I thought it was clever, urbane, and perhaps even a nod to one of my favorite actors at the time, Michael J. Pollard.

I was a weird kid.

"T.T." didn't even stand for anything. It was just what it was, a very zen-like teddy bear.

The late Mr. George had more lives than Trump has get outta jail cards. He'd been old when I got him (I believe already used from a garage sale, but I honestly don't remember) and my mom kept resurrecting him as his body fell apart. In his last incarnation, Mom had reupholstered him in corduroy, an odd choice, but hey, anything for Mr. George.

He had a long, good life until... Until several years ago, when I found him in my mom's basement...gulp...sob...beheaded! Even worse, his head was nowhere to be found. Creepy.

I'm verklempt right now. Hang on...I'll be all right...just give me a few...oh, the horror! The horror!

Anyway, flanking the headless body of T.T. George were prime suspects number two, Chimpy (my second-in-command and *usually* faithful sidekick to T.T.), and prime suspect number three, Tweaky (my brother's teddy bear pictured above in the football jersey; and by the way, Scott, someone who names his bear "Tweaky" has no right to make fun of the name of my late, great T.T. George! Ahem!). Suspiciously, Chimpy and Tweaky still had their heads.

I smelled foul play. The game was afoot!

I had my three suspects. Now I needed motive. Quickly, I ruled out Chimpy. Why would he have beheaded his best inanimate pal? Unless, of course, he held a long-time jealous grudge over my T.T. George preference. Still, it didn't fit with his solid, stellar, stuffed character.

Next, we had Tweaky. There had always been inter-family rivalry between the two bears. Still, I just couldn't pin the blame on him while looking in his cold, dead, brown marble eyes.

That left my brother, who surely in a fit of rage, beheaded T.T. George. I'm onto you, bro, sleep with one eye open!

(Then again, it could've been the ravages of time, but that would have made a much duller post).

While on the subject of cracking good murder mysteries, you won't find it in Bad Day in a Banana Hammock! But you will get low-brow larfs, high-brow thrills, and really odd characters doing very odd things!

 

Taking Number Two For Granted!

Everyone knows that I have no shame here at Twisted Tales from Tornado Alley. I tackle the gamut of topics ranging from sensitive to exploitative to controversial. This week is no different as I tackle the fine art of pooping.

First, a disclaimer: as I'm perpetually eight years old, I've always found the art of pooping to be hilarious, accompanied as it is by delightful sounds and choice odors.

But when does pooping become not so funny? When you're blocked from doing it, that's when.

No, no, I'm not talking about constipation. You kidding me? I'm as regular as a Trump lie.

I'm actually speaking of the boundaries put upon pooping by tragic household disasters.

Last Sunday, my wife awoke to the unpleasant sight of unspeakable things floating in the basement. The sewage line had backed up. Super! On a Sunday! Even superer! And we couldn't poop! The superest!

Disheartened, I knew right then that chili was off the menu.

So, I held on as long as I could, but come noon time, my bowels started bitching. My wife suggested running up to the local convenience store.

I said, "No way! Everyone who goes in there is sick!"

Finding the right, relaxing, quiet public pooping hole is a problem. I have shy bowels. I need to be alone to complete my task. After much agonizing internal debate, I ruled out numerous venues and settled on the grocery store. The john is located in the back, is big, and relatively clean. Most of the time.

Now pooping in public poses an even larger problem in this Covid scary world. Touching things I usually wouldn't  touch even in a pre-Covid world was bad enough. But wouldn't you know it...some guy decided to join me in the stall next door.

Uh-oh.

To make matters worse, my bowels locked up as I tried to figure out what the snuffling, shuffling mystery man looked like and why he had decided to torture me. And then his coughing began. Constantly. No doubt sick. Plus I'm damn sure he wasn't wearing a mask behind closed doors.

My best bet was to try and ride him out. Nobody likes to meet fellow poopers outside the stalls of shame. But he stayed the course, a true endurance breaker. Finally...finally...he flushed. But he wasn't done yet. It took him a shockingly long and horrible eleven minutes to dress. Had he stripped down naked? I heard clanks and yanks and mysterious clicks and lotsa rustling. Had he donned a suit of armor? Just what was he up to?

At long last, he leaft. And then the next guy took his place. Giving in to the inevitability of having disgruntled and full bowels, I flushed. Only to notice that the toilet was leaking water at my feet, thus soaking my shoes.

To this day forward, I vow to never take the privilege of pooping for granted again.

Speaking of crappy things, why not give my shameless comedy-mystery, Bad Day in a Banana Hammock a read? Read it proudly on public transportation and laugh your head off even if you don't find it funny. But I guarantee you the looks you get will be priceless.

 

The New Anti-Covid Garden Gnome

He's everywhere, this cute lil' gnome of a doctor who's constantly warning of the perils of Covid-19, more ubiquitous than that terrifying Elf On A Shelf creature!

This wasn't always the case. In the year 2020, the Fauci gnome made rare appearances. And usually when he did, he'd look like this...

This is no longer true these days! The Fauci gnome is turning up in all sorts of places, a sorta supernatural media blitz with sound-bites falling outta his wazoo. And these days, he looks like this...

And this...

And this...

 Instead of this...

 Who can blame him?

The Fauci gnome is quoted as saying that working with Biden as opposed to Trump over Covid is "liberating." That the President actually, you know, believes in science.

Talk about setting the bar low. Science is like air. We need it to live and it's how you explain living. Duh. But I don't really want to get going on the neanderthal-like Trump troll. That old horse has been beaten to death.

But I find the Fauci gnome's liberation kinda endearing. Early on he looked absolutely stunned that Biden would listen to him. I'm reminded of how excited one of my high school acquaintances was when he found out he could smoke in college hallways back in the day. Absolutely giddy.

Which is why the Fauci gnome no longer looks like this...

Speaking of all things magical, there's a lotta weird, unnatural events transpiring in the stories to be found in my collection, Twisted Tales from Tornado Alley. Here you'll find ghosts, the devil, an underground city, a lonely Bigfoot, and much, much more! Dark humor and horror for your unease!
 

 

 

Aquaman Vs. Submariner: The Ultimate Geek Question

In these truly weird and turbulent times, I think that one questions looms mightily over the heads of many people: Who would win in a fight: Aquaman or Sub-Mariner? Yessir, I tackle all the Big Issues here at Twisted Tales from Tornado Alley.

Back in my office days, a coworker and myself used to call the local comic book shop and seriously asked the clerk this very question. Three things can be garnered from this exchange: 1) We had a lotta spare time on the job; 2) Yes, I'll always be six at heart; and 3) We'd giggle for hours over how seriously the comic book clerk considered this question.

"Aquaman, clearly," he'd rattle on. "He's the king of the sea whereas Sub-Mariner is merely a prince, and bla, bla, bla..."

We put him on speaker phone and invited others to listen. Good times, good times...

Now, don't get me wrong; my CBQ ("Comic Book Quotient") is pretty high, too, but never have I ever taken such things seriously. It's scary.

But, it made me think. Why in the world hasn't Marvel made a Sub-Mariner movie yet? After all, he was one of Marvel's first superheroes, dating back to when they were called "Timely" in the '40's. Sub-Mariner, along with Captain America and the original Human Torch (an android), used to team up to kick the Axis' collective arses.

So why no Sub-Mariner Big-Time Movie Treatment? Nicholas Cage has probably already got a piece of the action as we speak and is trying on speedos. But the real reason there's no Sub-Mariner movie? I'll tell you why...because underwater superheroes and action are boring. Don't believe me? Try watching the excruciatingly dull Sean Connery Bond film, Thunderball. Watching grown men fight underwater is less than exciting, their movements slowed down by the water in a ballet of boredom. Also, check out DC's snoozy Aquaman film for further proof. The only laugh I got out of the film was when my daughter booed the screen once Aquaman donned his costume, thus covering up Jason Momoa's previously nekkid torso.

Furthermore, Sub-Mariner's just kinda dumb. Check this guy out...he's got teeny-tiny wings on his ankles. Whaaaaaaaat? He was born from a liaison between an American explorer (just what was he exploring?) and an Atlantis princess.  Okay, so we've got a human and an Atlantean. So where'd he get the footy wings? And just how well do they serve him underwater?

Aquaman's equally goofy. He was the offspring of a romance between a lighthouse keeper and a washed to shore secret Atlantis queen. The dad suspected something was up with his son when he found him playing underwater for an hour. Good parenting.

SO, we're circling around again to the important question: who would win in a fight between Aquaman and Sub-Mariner? I dunno, but it'd probably be a really boring fight. Oh sure, Aquaman can talk to sea varmints. It might be kinda cool to see him rally a bunch of seahorses to eat Submariner's ankle wings or something. But honestly, if these two grade Z superheroes want to knock each other senseless, have at it. Somewhere a comic book store clerk is sighing ecstatically.

Speaking of funny books, why not check out Bad Day in a Banana Hammock, the first in a series of comical mystery books featuring a very irritated, very pregnant sleuth and her knuckleheaded male stripper brother? There aren't any superheroes in speedos, but you do get a banana hammock in the deal. Such a bargain!

 

The Vaccination Quandary

Purely by luck, I got my first Covid vaccination shot last weekend! And I don't know how I feel about it!

Okay, let's back up a bit...

First of all, when I write about the vaccination quandary, it's probably not what you think. I'm definitely not an anti-vaxxer. I don't even understand those people, they don't speak my language. 

Okay, facts are facts and science is science (contrary to what the last political administration would have you believe): along with every vaccine, there will be allergic reactions. They're extremely rare, but there's always *that guy* who can't tolerate it. This is true with the flu shots as well. (At my last job, when they'd dole out flu shots, there was *that guy* who always said the flu shot made him sick; I think he just wanted the day off).

And, sure, there might be some unforeseen side-effects. Bound to happen once they rushed the vaccine out. But to me the odds are in the vaccine's favor.

Recently, I found myself in a really stupid position: arguing with an anti-vaxxer on Facebook (Einstein had it wrong; surely this is the definition of insanity). I said it's better to have, say, hair grow on your palms or grow a third eye than to die. The anti-vaxxer took me to task over this, called me dumb, said neither vaccines or masks work. (And she's calling me dumb! She went on to cry about how Kyle Rittenhouse should be freed, so I bailed, lucky to get out alive). 

Even if you don't believe in vaccines (and again...why? Because that mysterious magical voodoo called "science" says so? Or because our disgraced former numbskull-in-charge poo-poohed it? Don't make me come over there!), it's your duty as a fellow human being to help keep others safe as well. This common tenet of humanity shouldn't have to be explained. It transcends patriotism. It's about being a decent person. You know...the Golden Rule.

Yet, how many people have forgotten this. In this crazed era, everyone's hating everyone else, pointing fingers, Democrats blame Republicans and vice-versa to the point where we've got crazy factions branching out on both sides doing crazier things to out crazy each other. And to put a nice cherry on top of it, when all else fails, sue, sue, sue! It's insane (you know, like arguing with anti-vaxxers on Facebook)!

So everyone take a breath, relax. Take your damn vaccine when it's time.

Which brings me back full circle... Last Saturday, my wife volunteered to help vaccinate dental students in downtown Kansas City. It was also during a snow storm. So she let me know that they had extra vaccines since some students cancelled. 

Sold! And to quote former VP Mike Pence, "Being gay is a choice."  Wait! Sorry, sorry, sorry, wrong Pence quote! Here's the right one: "I didn't feel a thing."

At first I was giddy at receiving the vaccine. It was the beginning of the end of a year-long nightmare. But then--just like grief--various feelings ebbed and flowed. I started feeling guilty in that there are others who need the vaccine more than me, those people (like my daughter) who deal with people mask-to-mask on a daily basis. Then I started worrying about all of my unvaccinated loved ones. Then depression hit: the world didn't change. Nothing would magically right itself regarding social distancing, masking, taking precautions, simply being able to eat out in a restaurant. This was life as we knew it and we'd taken it for granted.

But, maybe, just maybe, we're getting a second chance. So, let's not blow it this time. 

While you're waiting for your vaccinations, how about taking your mind off it all for a bit with a little comedy and mystery? I'm talking Bad Day in a Banana Hammock, of course.  It'll fix you up real good.