Nakedopolis!

Growing up, my parents filled my little vulnerable head with lots of nonsense: "Sex is a sin (as if; and this was the closest they ever came to talking about sex. No further explanation given.)," "Drinking beer is disgusting and bad (CRAZY talk!)," "masturbation is dirty and a sin (Nooooo! Not my hobby!)" and their crazy interpretations of the Bible. And the Bible is already kinda strange, especially to a young impressionable kid.

"Mommy, where are the dinosaurs?" I asked.

"God created them too," she answered.

"Huh. But they're not in the Bible! And what about cavemen?"

"Mommy's busy right now."

But nothing was more confusing than their interpretation of the story of Adam and Eve.

"But Mommy...why was it a sin for Eve to eat an apple?"

"Because she disobeyed God." 

"But why was it a sin?"

"Because if she hadn't eaten the apple, we'd all be walking around naked today, the way God intended us to do."

YOW! My little brain blew up over that. In my mind, Eve helped us to dodge a huuuuuuge bullet. I wanted to tell my mom that I'm glad for what Eve did, but that probably wouldn't have gone over well.

I started to think about a naked world and it terrified and grossed me out. I couldn't imagine kissing Grandma when she was naked. And what about the naked restaurant server who's hanging out (literally) with his junk at our eye level. Worst of all would be Winter. And walking over all of that rough terrain.

And how about school? I imagine the boys would constantly walk around with their books in front of them, trying to hide their state of arousal when the cheerleaders strolled by. Yikes!

No thank you and thank you Eve. I for one am glad for the original sin! (And come on! Our current "president" commits worse sins on a daily basis!)

So God told Adam and Eve not to eat the forbidden fruit and they did anyway. Then He/She shamed them into clothing.

And because of them eating an apple, we're all sinners. I think. (Or maybe that's all the sex, beer, and masturbation rearing their ugly heads. I still don't quite get it.)

Then I started wondering what's the takeaway from the story of Adam and Eve. That women are inherently evil, luring men into lust and eating fruit?

That's probably in Trump's footnotes in his very special $300 Trump Bible.

Last weekend, at a bar, I brought all of this up to a very knowledgeable Bible "scholar" friend (while drinking sinful beer, natch).

He went on at great length talking about it, but the most interesting thing he said was God lied, Adam lied, and of course the evil Eve lied. "The only one who didn't lie was the serpent," he finished.

I suppose I better bone up on my Bible understanding. (Now where did I put my Trump bible? I think I left it upstairs next to my Trump cologne, Trump wristwatch, Trump virtual trading cards, and...)

Speaking of liars and sinners, check out my darkly comical horror novel, Demon With a Comb-Over (my titular demon on the cover sure resembles a certain president, right?). The book's full of demons, jerky angels, Satan, a couple trips to Hell, and stand-up comedy. Fun for the whole family! You can get it here!

Chatty Cathy

While I was waiting in one of the hospital beds for my second cataract surgery, an older woman was escorted by me and deposited in the bed next to me.

"I have Crohn's disease, don't you know," she started. "My mother had it and now I have it. It makes me sick sometimes."

"Hmmmm," said the clearly uninterested nurse.

"Yes, it's true." Totally unable (or unwilling) to read the room, she continued on relating her complete family history. "Now my father never had it and my sister doesn't have it, isn't that funny?"

"Huh."

"But my sister has GERD. Do you know what that is? Well, it's when stomach acid comes back up. I don't have GERD but I have Crohn's disease. Did I tell you that? Yes, I was diagnosed with it back in..."

The nurse politely excused herself and ran for cover. However, the anestheologist soon became her second victim.

"I have Crohn's disease, don't you know? It was diagnosed back in the 90's and it causes me to--"

"Do you smoke?" The anestheologist was not nearly as patient as the nurse had been, abruptly cutting off the old woman's reciting of her medical history.

But she remained hellbent on being heard. "No, I've never smoked. It's kind of disgusting if you ask me. My dad, he smoked. And that's what got him in the end, the cancer. But I've never had any desire or interest to--"

"That's interesting," replied the anestheologist. "Excuse me."

She rushed off but my bed neighbor was not discouraged as she latched onto another poor passing unsuspecting nurse.

And the hell began all over again. "I have Crohn's disease, don't you know? And my mother had it but my--"

The nurses all had a hasty escape plan, but alas, I was bed-ridden and helpless. I wished fervently for the drugs to kick in and put me to sleep. This was far worse than the unseen guy who sits down on a toilet stall next to you and wants to chat about the baseball game last night. Far, far worse.

Mercifully, after another half hour or so of her incessant rattling, I was wheeled away to surgery. With a smile on my face. Probably a first time for that reaction.

Early the next morning, I had a post-op visit scheduled with the doctor. My wife and I sat in the waiting room. The door opens and it's Chatty Cathy again! She sits across from us. And a fresh new hell opened up all over again.

"Did you have surgery yesterday, too?" she launched.

"Yes, I did. I--"

"What color are your eyes? I can't see from here. Did you have surgery for distance or close up? I had surgery to fix my close vision. Can you see better? I think I can. I have Crohn's disease, don't you know? Yes, it's true. My mother had it before me but my sister never had it. Isn't that funny? But she has GERD, do you know what that is? It's when your--"

"Stuart?" I nearly kissed the nurse as I escaped the nefarious clutches of Chatty Cathy. 

God must've been particularly unhappy with me those two days.

Speaking of which, check out my book Godland. It's a midwestern nightmare. Farm noir. Suspense and horror collide. You've been duly warned!

Church On The Road!

The other day my wife  and I were cruising down Shawnee Mission Parkway, a pretty busy strip in the KC metro area.

A van was in a hurry and rudely cut us off. On the van's paneling, a huge logo was emblazoned reading "Resurrection Remodeling!"

"So much for driving the way Jesus would," I said. "Wait...Jesus didn't drive, did he?"

Soon, another van zoomed up alongside Mr. Resurrection, this time the panel blared out "Almighty Guttering."

"Oh," I said, "there goes his partner!"

God is all around us. And He drives terribly!

I'll be here all week, ladies and gentlemen!

Impromptu High School Reunion

It all started with Doug. Doug was a fun guy who I had been close friends with off and on since grade school. Over the course of time, families and crap happens and old friendships kinda fall by the wayside.

So I was surprised to get a message on Facebook from Doug. "Hey, just a blast from the past," it read. I was shocked (because the last time I'd run into Doug and family was at a local eatery and the reception I got from them was sorta chilly), so of course the first thing I did before responding was to check it out and make sure it wasn't really some creepy middle-aged troll in his mom's basement.

It was really him! So after a few months of hemming and hawing around, we decided to meet at a local bar. "Blast from the past" didn't even begin to cover it. We reminisced about past good and bad times, much hilarity ensued, copious beers helped, and we ended up shouting "TEQUILA!" at frequent intervals.

About a month later, Doug invited me to join him at a neighborhood brewery. I soon found out he was sorta a "VIP" there, or more likely a "frequent flier." So we bellied up to the bar and beers were downed. Soon, Doug was waving at a woman at the end of the bar. 

She came over and it took a minute, but I recognized her as well. It was a girl we'd gone to grade school, middle school, and high school with. She had always been very friendly and likeable and (as both Doug and I had thought) innocent and angelic. Man, were we fooled.

I knew she didn't recognize me at first. So I jut out my hand and offered my name. Recognition flooded her and she launched into a solid and long hug. 

"Oh, I haven't seen you in forever!" she exclaimed, embracing me and patting my back like a TSA agent. And I had changed quite a bit in "forever."

"What I remember about you the most was your wavy red hair," she said.

"Yeah, um, it's been some years since I've had that. I remember playing against you in a chess tournament in sixth grade."

She said, "Did you beat me?"

"Yes," I replied, "but I think I cheated." (No "thinking" involved. I had her in check and didn't call it out. So when I took her king, she fought me a little on it until she kindly acquiesced.)

We talked about fellow class of 79 graduates and gossiped and then she regaled us with some wild stories. In sixth grade, she went to a sleepover and brought vodka! (In sixth grade, Doug and I didn't even know what drinking was.) Then she told us how she and another "angelic" good girl painted some bawdy slurs about our heinous vice principal on the school steps.

Wow! All these years, she and her sidekick had us fooled that they were sweet innocent girls who never got into any trouble.

Soon, another guy wandered up to our small group and said, "I just had to say hello before I go." Another class of 79 grad! Unbelievable (although I'm not too sure that the newcomer and I actually remembered one another). But more stories, more good and bad times, and lotsa tea was spilled.

Later I asked, "who else is gonna show up? Bob Bellman?" ("Bob Bellman"--NOT his real name--was the notorious high school bully who ran over my friend with his car. But you can read all about that in my book, Tex the Witch Boy.)

Doug and I outlasted the other two grads and drank the day away with the promise that we'd all get together again soon and invite even more graduates from the class of 79.

Now that I'm waxing all nostalgic and crap about the days of high school, now's as good a time as any to pimp out my book, Tex, the Witch Boy. It's a mystery, thriller, paranormal, comedy, romance tale largely detailing my traumatic days of high school. Read for yourself why our vice principal was so heinous RIGHT HERE!

Raccoon Rescue Team!

Honestly, my wife should be granted an Honorary Raccoon merit badge. As a child, she and her family rescued a raccoon that was stuck inside a tree.

Our next foray into raccoon rescue sadly had a grim outcome. A pregnant raccoon had fallen down our chimney. Now our chimney hasn't been functional in years, so basically it's just a hole in the middle of our house. For days, we couldn't figure out where the sudden influx of flies and horrible odor was coming from. Then we finally pulled the blocking board from the chimney and voila! Hello hotel!

When the animal guy came over to remove the remains (possibly the least romantic job in the world), even he was retching and gagging through his mask.

He said, "If I were you, I'd get that chimney capped." 

When we found out how much it would cost, we scoffed, said, "What're the chances another raccoon could fall down our chimney?" and went on our way.

Flash forward to the present. While our two nephews were visiting, we heard squealing sounds and finally tracked it down to the chimney. With horror, I said, "Not again."

The 3,000 pound piano had to be moved as it sat in front of the boarded up chimney (thank gawd rain had delayed the nephews' departure). Then our youngest nephew slipped his phone behind the board and took a picture.

"It's a raccoon," he said. "A little one. I'm not touching that thing."

The three of them concocted a plan. My wife found a big cardboard box and had it positioned over the board while our older nephew was to slide up the board leaving no choice but for the raccoon to leap into the box. And me? Hey, someone had to video the historic event (from a distance, natch).

"Now!"

The board slid up. The raccoon did nothing. The board slid back into place.

The raccoon rescue brain trust reconvened. "I think with these oven mitts, I can grab him and put him in the box," said my wife.

I took a few more cautionary steps backward.

On all fours, my wife scrambled after the raccoon, while it avoided her at all costs.

Finally, "Got him! He's in the box! He's in the box!"

I opened the back door to let my wife, the box, and the raccoon out.

In the yard, my wife put the box down on it's side with the top open.

"Be free, little one," I yelled with necessary dramatic flair. "Go on! Off you go!...Um...c'mon, get out of the damn box..."

Yet Rocky wouldn't leave the box (I had taken to calling him "Rocky.") My wife shook the box, then tilted it. Nothing. Rocky was clawing onto the box for dear life.

After a while, it was decided to leave the box open and let him come out on his own. Except he wouldn't.

Night fell. Still in the box.

"Honey," I said (talking to my wife and not Rocky), "we've got to do something. The dogs probably need to pee."

So my wife moved Rocky and his box to the side of the house where our fence would keep the dogs from getting him.

In the morning...success! Rocky had finally left us (and his box) in the middle of the night, moving on to forge his own path in the big world. They grow up so fast...sniff...

Alright, while I have critters on my mind, there's a whole menagerie of creepy-crawly critters to be found in my short story collection, Twisted Tales From Tornado Alley. I'm talking Bigfoot, giant bugs, and other various forms of varmints and monsters. Gotta catch 'em all! HERE!

Ooooooh, That Smell!

I'm not talking about that crappy arena rock song from Lynyrd Skynyrd (You old-timers remember them? From back in the  70's when all music was crappy?) when I say "Oooooooh, that smell!"

Nope, I'm talking about our oldest dog, Bijou. Monday morning I let her outside to do her stuff and when she gets back inside she pops up next to me on the love seat. And I get a good whiff of her.

"Good God!"

I've never smelled anything like it. But then that wasn't quite true. I knew the offending odor from somewhere before, but I couldn't quite place my finger on it. But my nose sure did. Like a nightmarish, musky, rotting smell, the odor permeated the room, the house, my shirt, and permanently scarred my olfactory system for life.

I stood up and ran from the room, hoping she'd follow me. She did. Then I jumped back into the TV room, shutting the dog gate behind me. Still that smell followed me around like a heat-seeking missile.

I couldn't escape it. Soon I resorted to kicking her out in the backyard (along with her little brother). I figured a good long stay outdoors might diminish the stink. After about at hour I went outside. Even in the open air, her odor assaulted me.

I noticed a side of her coat was rough, so she'd rolled in something, God only knows what. Sneakily, I approached her slowly with the hose. But once she saw the burbling water, she ran away. After playing tag for a while, I finally gave up.

Back inside, I finally came upon a solution. A solution that wise men resort to as their last ditch effort. I texted my wife. "When you get home, you need to give Bijou a bath. You'll see." (She excels at this job, something I'm not well-equipped for.)

So my wife threw her in the tub. After a while, I'm cooking dinner, and she calls out, "Wow. She still stinks. Back in the tub with her."

But she still reeked, even after her second bath. Just not as badly. All night long she kept "eye-begging" to hop up into my lap. Sadly, I dejected those puppy dog eyes.

That night, about 4:30 in the morning, I woke up with a real eureka moment. I finally recognized the odiferous odor: dead animal carcass.

Okay, now on the "Walking Dead," I understand the survivors' need to wear human entrails on their body to be able to move amongst the zombies, but why in the world would a dog think it a grand idea to roll around in a dead critters' remains? Claiming their territory? Geeze, next time just plant a flag or something.

Speaking of furry, smelly varmints, have you heard the one about the business corporation that has a werewolf amongst the employees? No? Well, then, by skippy, you've got to read my darkly comical, satirical, horror, mystery, thriller Corporate Wolf available right here!

Fun With Eye Surgery!

I swan (and you all KNOW how much I hate swanning), once you hit a certain age, it all goes careening quickly downhill from there. Take my latest checkup with my optometrist...please!

"Stuart, your cataracts have grown," said the doctor.

"Um...does this mean surgery?"

"I'm afraid it does."

Of COURSE it did. So off to an ophthalmologist I went, my wife riding shotgun. When the nurse tested my left eye, apparently I couldn't even read a six-inch tall single black letter. Which prompted my wife to laugh (tough crowd, tough crowd).

So Dr. Doogie Howser (I have shoes older than him) came in and told me he was going to hack off my cataracts.

"Wait...what? Wait!"

"I'll go in there and slice your cataract off and replace the cloudy filter on your eye with a new filter."

"AIEEEEEEEEEEEEE," I said.

The day of the procedure I wasn't allowed to eat or drink anything. Already it had started out miserably.

When I got to the surgical center, there were over a dozen people (all appearing disgruntled) in the tiny waiting room. Once they called me back, all sorts of fresh hell broke loose.

They handed me paper after paper (with the tiniest print ever; ironic, yes?) that I couldn't read and told me to sign them. Then the nurse put me through a barrage of questions. ("Name, date of birth, favorite boy band, etc."). Once they found a bed for me, they took me into a massive room with about twenty beds, with a variety of people laying on them, looking like some kind of war-time hospital room. There were moans and groans and snores. I very much wanted to get outta there.

A different nurse came in and went through all of the same damn questions again ("Stuart West, April 1961, Back Street Boys, etc.") and they began to put eye drops on me.

"To help numb your eye," said the nurse.

"Ahhh...please give me a lot of it," I said.

Then I noticed this old, shaky, bald, hunched over man wobbling around, clearly in worse shape than I was. I wondered why they let this clearly out-of-it patient roam freely through the room until he stopped by my bed and picked up a chart.

"Hi, Steve, I'm--"

"Stuart," I corrected even though he had no interest in getting my name right.

"I'm Mark, the anesthesia nurse."

Pause. Blink. Ponder. He waited for my response. I blurted out the first thing that came to mind. "Really?"

"Now this chart says you're...160 pounds and 5'6" tall..."

"Yeah, no. That's a mistake," I said. "A big mistake."

The wrinkles on Mark's head crinkled like ripples in a pond. "Hmmm. Now...which eye is being operated on?"

"My left one," I said.

"You left your eye where?"

"No. My left eye. Left!"

"You left your eye where?" Mark repeated before finally cracking a smile.

"Ohhhhhhhkay, I see what you did there, Mark. Eye humor." I so wanted to tell him that his joke wasn't funny nor did it even make sense, but I was kinda at everyone's mercy.

"Are you feeling pretty relaxed after the medicine we gave you?" he asked.

I shook my head. "I haven't had any medicine!"

"Hmmm." With that Mark waddled off to the guy next to me where he continued to harass the patient with his tired, same ol' schtick.

Soon they began to roll me into the surgical room, aka "The Polar Experience." Cold doesn't even begin to describe it.

"How're you doing, Stuart?" asked an unseen nurse.

"Kinda nervous. Um, could I get some medicine to relax me? Maybe? Please?"

The nurse laughed. Then strapped my head down to the point where I couldn't move. "Dr. Howser works under a microscope, so don't move a muscle," she directed.

Dr. Howser whizzed in (at least I assume it was him) and said, "Okay, we're going to start now. You won't feel a thing."

"Promise?"

The operation began. A series of bright lights blinded me (well...blinded me even more than I was) while a nurse kept squirting stuff into my eye. Soon I could see and feel something working around the perimeter of my eye. Cutting into it!

"Alright, we're halfway through. I cut out the cataract," said Dr. Howser.

"Great," I said, tied down and at a loss for words.

"We're in the home-stretch now." Soon enough it was done. They unwrapped me and put a plastic "shield" over the eye. 

"Wow," I said. "I can already tell that I can see better." I wasn't really sure if that was true or not, but I couldn't think of what else to say.

"Well..." said Dr. Howser. "That was a huge cataract."

They wheeled me back into the war room, where I immediately hopped out of bed, ready to get the hell out of there before they started hacking at my eye again.

The following week was recovery. And I had to wear the horrible eye shield every night while I slept. But I had got through it. Until in two more weeks when Dr. Howser will slice open my other eye.

AIEEEEEEEEE!

Speaking of things that make me scream, I have to make a blatant plug for my short story collection, Twisted Tales From Tornado Alley. It's full of horror, humor, and twists. But I'm especially proud of the final novella, "The Underdwellers." I believe it's the the scariest and most intense thing I've written. But don't take my word for it! Lay down some bucks and find out for yourself right here!