My Deepest, Darkest (Probably Unfounded) Fear

Recently my daughter and I were discussing mortality. Okay, so it's not your typical father/daughter pow-wow, but our conversations rarely are. (Plus, in keeping with my highest standard of honest journalistic integrity, beers may have been involved. Perhaps lots of beers. But let's stop this digressing already!)

I said, "You know, funerals are awful. I loathe them."

"Dad, I don't think anyone loves 'em. It's not like people are doing cartwheels graveside," she replied.

"I know, but... I just hate how expensive they are. I mean, it's bad enough people are grieving their loved ones, but then to have some vulture of a funeral director glad hand you and talk you through his various kazillion dollar packages, and then sock you with a $15,000 bill during your time of grief is really kinda despicable. And why? To put your remains in the ground. It's all kinda ridiculous. I sure wouldn't want to leave you that kinda financial burden."

"That's why I want to donate my body to help people," she said. "But...I want my parts to go to as many people as possible. To help as many people as I can."

"Yeah, I've also thought about donating my body to science, but..." I paused, deep in morbid, half-drunk reflection. "It's also my deepest fear."

"What? What,what,what?"

"You know... I don't want to be on display naked in a glass cage and have some intern roll me out into a packed medical school classroom and have a professor point at me with his teaching stick and say, 'Class, this is a naked dead fat man. Don't turn into this!' And my eyes would be all bug-eyed and glassy and frozen open because it's my final thought before I kick the bucket!"

"Yeah, I don't really think that's how that would go down, but--"

"And then...and then...gasps and cries of revulsion would wave around the classroom and one student would even pass out!"

"Dad, I really, really don't think that--"

"Then they'd roll me back out until the next class. Nightmarish!"

"Hmm."

We discussed other ways to go. My wife had once suggested using her remains as compost or something to help plants grow. Which is an interesting idea even though I'm not sure I'd want to eat the resulting vegetable or whatever. Then she had once toyed with the notion of having her remains shot into space. Which is kinda cool, where no (wo)man has gone before and all that, but if a lousy burial is so expensive, Elon Musk is probably the only guy who can afford to blast his ashes into space.

I suppose cremation might be a relatively cheaper option, but I dunno. Having your body incinerated is still cringey to me, even though I'd have long left the building, so to speak.

Mummification might be kinda cool, but um...is it even legal? Furthermore, I've seen way too many mummy movies. It's bad enough I'm going to be on display, let alone slumping around in some pyramid wearing tattered cloths.

Cryonics might be kinda neat because I'd be frozen next to Walt Disney's head and Elvis Presley. But again, it's a rich dead man's game.

A tree burial is sorta nice. But really, once you're buried inside a tree, it's the same as being buried underground, but maybe a little scarier. And if you think a funeral director is outrageously overpricing his work, wait until an arborist gets involved!

There's aquamation where your body is "bathed" until it breaks down. I wonder how long that would take. Furthermore, who's gonna volunteer their bathtub? "I don't know," my daughter would say, "but Dad's been in the bathtub for about three months now and doesn't seem to be in any hurry to go down the drain."

Dissolution has gotta be the Mafia's favorite way to dispose of a body by dumping it into strong chemicals and turning it into soup. Expediency is key here, which is nice. But then again, I can't see Johnny Law looking kindly on someone melting down Grandpa in a barrel in the backyard.

I found about a dozen other ways to sail away, each more gruesome than the other. And expensive. No, I'm beginning to think my display case idea would be the cheapest and least burdensome for my loved ones. Unless, of course, they end up in that particular classroom.

Next week...puppies! (I kid, I kid...) And Happy Halloween, boo!

But I'm not kidding about the many creative ways of body disposal to be found at the Dandy Drop Inn where it's elevated to an art form. C'mon over and check in! Just make sure you'll be able to check out, if you know what I mean. That's the fun to be had in Dread and Breakfast! Make your vacation (and burial) plans now!

 

How Does "Woke Math" Add Up?

Okay, this is getting ridiculous.

I know a lot of people in our country are afraid of anything "woke." (For those of you who've been locked in a kidnapper's basement for the last several years, "woke" is defined as an alert to injustice in society, particularly racism. I don't know why this concept scares those on the far, far--so far, they may as well be in space--right contingent, but it does. Seems like a fine concept to me, but I'm digressing.)

But how in the world can something like math be considered "woke?" Honestly, all through school, I thought math sucked, but not because it presented a threat to society. No, it merely presented a threat to my graduating school.

In fact, math is right up there with toenails as being the least politicized thing I can think of. (At first, I compared it to "buttons," but then I remembered the Amish aren't allowed to use buttons on their clothing because they're pacifists and the military loves their buttons. So, hence, buttons are woke! You read it here first!) (Triple digression time! I just read that Taylor Swift got a pedicure and painted her toenails red, white and blue to tell people to vote. So...my argument for toenails not being politicized just went out the window, too. Dammit!)

So that just leaves math as being the only thing not politicized on earth these days. Except the far right fringe wants to take that away, too.

Back to the beginning...how can math be woke? Apparently, it's all tied into critical race theory, particularly as it's taught in schools. This so-called "theory" has been kicking around for some time, but now is being tossed around like sticks of gum. Once again, the far right fringe feels threatened by it, as they believe it will further divide and pit people of color against the privileged white folks (yeah, right...like the white supremacists aren't doing a good enough job of their own on that front). The far left feel it's a way of understanding how racism has shaped public policy. I dunno...I kinda think it's a good thing to try and learn from our past mistakes and not sweep them under the rug. You know, learn from the past so as not repeat it? Whoops! Too late for that!

"Good ol'" Ron DeSantis down in Florida is leading the "let's clean up the woke math book problem." This year, the state rejected 54 of 132 proposed math books because DeSantis and crew claimed they promoted math problems that featured racial prejudice. (And everyone knows that in the "New Amurica," racial prejudice is only cool if it comes from white supremacists. Like the banning of these books.) From what I could tell, the math problems in question performed a multi-function task: they applied real world problems and situations such as racism charts amongst age groups to further educate and prepare children for the world they'd be facing. Oh yeah...and they taught math, too. Clearly, these math problems were tailored to children of color, which if it helps them learn, how can it be a bad thing? Kinda important, I think.

But DeSantis and klan crew doesn't see it that way. Apparently, only "white math" should be taught.

Now, if the problematic books featured a problem like "If six Ku Klux Klan members are riding by horseback to a Trump rally ten miles to the North at 20 miles an hour, and the Proud Boys are riding in a pick 'em up truck at 80 miles per hour starting at 60 miles South, who would arrive at the Trump rally first?" I might be shocked. Nah. I'd probably frame the book.

I don't know. It just seems perverse that politicians are going after school math books now. Shouldn't they be doing something more time-worthy, like helping their constituents instead of creativing more divisiveness and problems than are necessary?

Leave my math alone! (Don't get me wrong, math, I still hate you. We broke up a long time ago. But, you don't deserve this.)

Speaking of school problems, poor Tex McKenna has got a ton of 'em in high school: bullying, fledgling love, clueless adults, homework, um...a serial killer and the fact he's just learned he's a witch. But, whew...woke math doesn't seem to be an issue here! Read all about it in Tex, the Witch Boy, available here!

 

The Best Weapon For a Serial Killer

You know it takes a very peculiar couple to argue the merits of what would make a serial killer's most optimal weapon.

Go on, take me and my wife. (I dare you.)

There we were, recently lounging on our "love seat (a very peculiar name in itself because of the mayhem we view on TV while lovingly lounging on it)," and a hooded killer was going after people with a hook during one of our "stories."

"I dunno, honey," I said, while affecting a very authoritative voice while stroking my beard, "if I were a serial killer, I wouldn't think a hook would be the most effective choice."

"Au contraire," she says, with much more authority than I could muster. "With a hook you could swing down, up, stick it straight in, and give it an extra twist, thus making it the perfect serial killer weapon."

"But...but...you would have to have much power behind your upward swing, not to mention the downward motion, to be able to get the hook into the body. Remember, it's called a 'hook' for a reason. See my point?" (And yes, the pun was intended.)

"Nope. I'm sticking with a hook. You can do much more damage, especially with a finishing twist."

"But it wouldn't go in straight, I tell ya! A knife would go in straight! You could slip it right inside the rib-cage, whereas a hook would be bouncing off of bones left and right, thus rendering the would-be killer off balance!"

"It's the hook for me, all the way."

We discussed the finer points of a serial killer's arsenal into the night, with neither of us conceding to the other (you know...like modern "politics!")

By the way, it turns out that on this particular program, both of our arguments were moot, because the killer double-dipped, tipping his hook with poison, but that's besides the point.

So, what's it gonna be, folks? Chime in on the great debate! Hook or knife as your preferred serial killer weapon? Later, we can have a fun contest to see how many government watch lists we land on!

Speaking of all things "peculiar," thing don't get much more peculiar than they do in Peculiar County. My book details a young teen tomboy girl coming of age in a small Kansas town in the '60's. A young girl's life is plenty peculiar in itself, but when you factor in a ghost in a corn-field, a mysterious murderer, a slew of creepy witches, the haunted funeral home she resides in, and a mysterious creature that takes flight in the night, well, yes indeedy, things get mighty peculiar. This October, drop in on Peculiar County for some Halloween fun!

 

Nobody told me P.T. stands for Personal Torture

Since the pandemic began, I've put on weight. So much that my body has been complaining about it and my back is flat-out screaming in pain, "No more!" It hurts when I bend over and really puts the kibosh on my doing house work. Mowing the yard is a joke. Every week the neighbors gather on lawn chairs to watch my torturous ordeal. What used to take under an hour now takes double the time, mostly just having to rest my back every couple of rows.

Alright, so I'm working on my end by dieting. But it's still not enough.

My wife says, "You need to go to P.T."

"But...but...whyyyyyyyy?"

"Because I'm tired of hearing you whine about your back."

"But...but...honeyyyyyyy, I don't whiiiiiiiiiiiine!"

Well, against my better judgement, I signed up. Oh, but first I did my best to avoid it.

Begrudgingly, I told my doctor my wife wants me to go to physical therapy.

The doctor said, "Your wife's right. It should help you."

"But I don't have the right clothes for it," I whined lamely (Writer's note: I know that last bit is shoddy writing, but I couldn't resist the gag.).

"What do you mean you don't have the clothes? You got sweat pants?"

"No," I replied.

"Well, go to Walmart. They have sweat pants. You got any shorts?"

"No. Well, not any good ones."

"This isn't a fashion show," said the doctor with a sigh. "Go to Walmart."

I also "accidentally" missed all of the physical therapist's phone calls. But they proved relentless. After their final threatening text that they'd tell my doctor if I didn't call them back, I caved.

I just got back from my first P.T. event. No one told me that the "P.T." stands for "personal torture."

Earlier, my wife told me, "Just relax and enjoy it."

Enjoy what? The therapist was one of those guys with muscles on top of muscles and the legs of a satyr.  And here I am, all flabby and pasty in my Walmart shorts. The guy flips me onto a table and pokes and prods and pulls and pushes until not only my back is screaming, my entire body is groaning, practically asking, "Why me?"

I'm exercising muscles that have long atrophied, muscles I've never knew existed before. He seems hell-bent on strengthening my butt muscles and I giggle over how many times he says "butt." (In times of extreme duress, I have to find humor in the unlikeliest places.) When he starts working on my spine--"loosening me up" he calls it; more like breaking my back--I'm watching the seconds on the clock tick by, one agonizing second at a time.

Finally, when the blue-haired squad arrives as the next round of victims, I practically collapse and kiss the carpet, knowing my hour of torture is about over.

Too bad I gotta go back in a couple more days. Twice a week! And I have to pay an outrageous amount to be pummeled. Seems that they have that last part backward. How can something that's supposed to be good for you be so damned painful?

P.T. isn't for everyone. Nor for the weak of heart (I kinda wonder how the blue-haired, little ol' ladies make out under torture. Maybe they just go to ogle ol' Satyr legs.). In fact, I'm all for banishing physical therapy under violation of the Geneva Convention.

I should've never, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever gone to Walmart. That's my takeaway from this.

While on the topic of torture, have you heard about the secret society of like-minded individuals? You haven't? What's wrong with you? The secret society of like-minded individuals is comprised of serial killers who've signed contracts with a shady, secretive organization called Like-Minded Individuals, Inc. for protection, new identities, and list of prospects so the members are freed up to do what they do best: kill. And these are the "good guys." It's complicated. Read all about it in the first book of the trilogy, Secret Society.

 

Anger Mismanagement! Dammit!

I like to think of myself as an easy-going guy who has a handle on anger. Except when it comes to driving, of course. There's nothing like getting behind the wheel of a 4,000 pound death machine to fire up the ol' anger senses when someone else out there on the road has the gall to do something stupid or rude.

(Okay, so maybe there are a few other issues that trigger anger in me: 1) Today's politics. When I hear someone extolling the virtues of Trump, I start to see orange, the color of hate. And Donny Trump. 2) Alcohol.  3) Political talk plus alcohol.  Hmmm. Maybe I'm not such an easy-going guy after all. But never mind that, dammit! Let me get back to the point before I get mad! DAMMIT!)

I don't know what it is about automobiles and anger. Maybe it's the anonymity of it all, enabling the driver to turn into a red-hot, road-raging maniac, a sort of secret identity unleashed only on wheels. I mean, once these guys get to work, I can't very well see them flipping off their coworkers and calling them choice curse words because they don't like their tie or whatever. No, once they step out of the car, a sense of civility overcomes them once again. But look out for Mr. Road Rage on the way home!

I once witnessed the beginning of a high-speed car chase because one guy cut it too close by whipping his car in front of the other. Horns blasted, then tires squealed as they sped down the highway, driving at crazy speeds, swerving in and out of lanes, and endangering everyone else out there. (To this day I've wondered how it possibly could have ended. Every scenario I envisioned didn't end with one of the two "learning his lesson.")

Yep. Automobiles are the great carrier of anger, empowering the driver to act like a jackass.

But that's not quite it. Even when I'm a passenger in an auto, I get angry at stupid people.

Case in point: Last weekend, my wife was driving and I was riding shotgun (only wish I had a shotgun with me! Dammit!). We were driving down the street and some idiot pulls right out into the intersection and stops, half of his car just asking for a good t-boning. My wife decides to "make a point" and blatantly stops and then swerves around the car. Then they honk, a long, blaring blast. Like we're the idiot drivers. I would've let it go, but once I looked at them (a typically crass, ruddy-faced Midwestern couple of yahoos), they were both just hysterically laughing at their grand jest of laying on the horn at us.

My civility flew out the window. On auto-pilot, both of my middle fingers went up purely on knee-jerk instinct. Adrenaline pumped. My anger senses were tingling and I was shaking. But my wife got even angrier at me. This time she stopped her car in the middle of the street to give me a thorough tongue-lashing.

She was right, of course. Unlike my ruder, wilder, younger days, I generally try to keep my middle finger down, particularly in today's volatile and violent mind-set. I don't particularly fancy the notion of getting shot over some moron's stupid traffic faux pas. But my responsive behavior felt like pure unleashed animalistic instinctual rage. Couldn't be helped.

Which kinda scares me. What if everyone responded this way, all of the time? (Wait...didn't we used to have a president like this?) No more civility. Just a bunch of road-raging, finger-flipping, invective-spewing neanderthals battling it out for dominance.

Maybe everyone should be schooled in how to cope with anger management. I'm reminded of a story my daughter told me about an acquaintance of hers. She told my daughter how a doctor suggested she take an anger management class and it was making her angry just talking about it! When my daughter suggested to her friend that maybe she should take an anger management class, she grew even angrier. (Apparently, her boyfriend quietly suggested, "Wouldn't that be nice?" I'm fairly sure he was sleeping on the sofa after that comment.)

Anyway, based on the not-so-great political debate and divisiveness of America these days, it looks like my vision of angry, shouting people becoming the norm has come true. I mean, if the (ex) president of the United States acts this way, then by all means, why shouldn't his followers?

So, people... Boom! I just solved the world's problems. Stop getting angry. See? Wasn't that simple? Much easier and cheaper than some stupid anger management class, right? What? You don't agree? What the hell do you mean, dammit? Don't make me come over there! I mean it! I'm not kidding around! DAMMIT! Here I come! No more Mr. Nice Guy! You won't like me when I'm angry! That did it!...

Whoa, whoa, whoa. I need to get a handle on my inner beast. For that matter, so does poor Shawn Biltmore. Except his inner beast is real. A werewolf. Which puts him in the perfect position for career advancement in his drudgy, corporate job. If only he could quit killing off his coworkers... Yep! That's right! I'm talking about Corporate Wolf! 

 

Getting Sick in Public!

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What did the doctor say?"

"That I have acid reflux."

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

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

"Right. Spit-up."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Worst City Planner in the Country

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

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

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

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

Jerks.

But I digress.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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