The End of the World is Here (for only $99)!

Okay, the last thing anyone wants to read is more of my railing against our so-called "politics" in America. Everyone's sick of it, my wife's sick of it, you guys are sick of it, and I'm beyond sick of it. But this...THIS...transcends even the dumbest politics going on right now. It transcends the stupidest, dumbest, most idiotic, childish scenario I could even begin to imagine (and that's saying a lot).

Congrats, Donny, you corrupt orange con man, you! You've broken me! (But thanks for the laughs; I haven't yet quit giggling.)

Trump, up to his Barnum and Bailey blusteryessness, teased on his ludicrous (and failing!) app about a "Major Announcement" within the next couple days. Everywhere in MAGA-land (a wonderful, magical, place where people's votes don't matter and nothing does except for the Great Pumpkin, benevolent and beloved dictator of all who poops unicorns and puppies), the few remaining loyal were on the edge of their seats, awaiting the mega-MAGA-Major Announcement, sure to right all that's wrong in America. Would it be an announcement of future policy, promising change and revision and locking away Democrats? Would he proclaim Marjorie Taylor Greene or Kari Lake (two fine, fine politicians) as his running mate? Maybe he would nominate (Kan)Ye as ambassador to Israel?

Then...the Major Announcement happened! Trump's releasing a set of his collectible trading card NFTs at a mere $99 bucks a pop! Score! "Perfect for Christmas" as the Orange one proclaimed during his Major Announcement!

I nearly tinkled a bit in my pants.

This...THIS...coming from a former president (I refuse to believe people would put this clown in office again).  What a rook. It's a rook, I tell ya. Oh, sure, the faithful MAGA folks will be lining up to buy these "collectible" cards, shoveling yet more cash into the Don's pockets. And what do they get for it? Not even a physical card they can hold and show off and shellac with plastic and sweat and love and hang on the Christmas tree. Nope. They get a hundred dollar JPEG.

Maybe Donny's biggest grift yet. I'd be a little bit impressed with the sheer audacity of it all, if I didn't think the guy sucked so hard.

Don said these cards would surely sell out...FAST! Hm. You don't suppose there's a limited run on these, do you? Gosh-a-roonie, I'd better get in line fast for these limited, hundred buck digital images, because once they're gone, they're gone FOREVER. There'd be no way they could ever make more of these once-in-a-lifetime collector's items!

It just gets better and better... Donny claims these cards showcase his life and history. I mean, who among us didn't thrill when he came down from Krypton, spraying laser vision all over the libs? Or when he was a cowpoke on the Yellowstone ranch? Who could forget when he landed on Mars and tossed out paper towels to the aliens? Just like real life. Only better!

Okay, before I lied. A hundred bucks doesn't just get you a digital image (collect and trade 'em all!). It also enters you into the Grand Sweepstakes where you could have dinner with the Mandarin Candidate! Wow! Sign me up! (Note: the fine print says you have to pay for your own travel, lodging, and even dinner. Don can't be bothered to buy your Big Mac.)

Me? I'm tempted. I'd love to have lunch with the Trumpster Dumpster. It probably wouldn't last longer than two minutes before Don would sling his shrimp cocktail at me and upend the table and storm out while his secret service men swarmed me. I'd probably only get in one question before it would come to a crashing halt. I'm torn between "So as a repeat rapist, did you ever consider you could be on the receiving end when you go to prison?" or "I'm a huge MAGA supporter. That stands for 'Make Abortion Great Again,' right? Is that because of all the abortions you've paid for?" or "When you were always picked last in gym class, did you whine and cry and lie that it was corrupt? Or did you dodge gym (like the draft) with a letter from Daddy, excusing you because of your baby hands?" or "Hey, could I get a peek under your comb-over? I'd really like to see the "666" mark." or "Why does a billionaire have to constantly grift his followers?"

But I refuse to give this dick any money. Don't do it! He's stolen from America, spat on our country, embarrassed us world-wide, and made a mockery of democracy. He's dangerous. Worse, he's dumb. And if this latest card scheme (his "Trump Card," so to speak) doesn't smack of desperation, then nothing ever will. C'mon...wanting to really, really stay out of prison is no reason to run for president.

Stop the grift!

And on that note, happy holidays everyone! (Please stuff my stockings with Donald Trump NFT Trading Cards! I'm really trying to locate the rare one where he battles dinosaurs with nothing but a loin cloth and a Big Mac.)

Maple Avenue Freeze-Out!

Two nights before Christmas in Kansas and I'm sitting here writing this post bundled up like Ralphie's brother in the film, A Christmas Story. 

It's nine degrees below zero outside. Snow is on the ground and isn't going anywhere. The windchill is negative 27 or some other ungodly number. The coldest night we've experienced in years. And our furnace decided to conk out this afternoon.

Merrrrrrry Christmas! 

At least to our HVAC guy who will be collecting a huge, Christmas bonus check ("Why, thank you guys! It's a Christmas miracle! For only $399.99 extra, I can vacuum your coils. No extra charge over the initial $399.99. My treat!") 

Whenever or if he should decide to come out, that is. They're pretty busy right now.

I should've heeded my earlier Christmas haunting. Several hours ago, I had gone into the basement (can't remember why) and swore I heard the furnace singing various Christmas carols via an angelic choir. I thought..."Whoa...time to start drinking," and wrote it off to my typical nuttiness.

Word to the wise: ALWAYS heed your Christmas hauntings.

After some consideration, I told my wife, "Baby, it's cold inside."

She poo-poohed me, didn't believe me, knowing that I run a lot colder than her as usual, just par for the course.

So I stole a peek at the thermostat. Good Lawd, it read 64 degrees! And it had been set at 70. Something was up. Definitely NOT the temperature.

"Honey, we got a problem," I bellowed like a dying dinosaur during the Ice Age.

In the basement, we approached the furnace, pressed buttons, pushed gadgets, twisted knobs, fiddled with ding-dongs, and prayed a little bit we wouldn't blow ourselves up. Finally my wife said, "Huh. I think we have a problem."

Time for a brewski. Snikt!...Tsssss...

The call was in. The soonest the HVAC tyrants could get somebody out here was tomorrow morning. No particular time, natch. "But...but...," I whined, "we have like a bi-annual subscription with them to check our junk out. We're preferred customers!"

The answer to that was...too bad. With space heaters blasting, the thermostat now read 58 degrees in the house.

Alcohol is my friend.

"That'll just make you colder," said my common-sense wife.

No fan of common sense, I devised a plan (okay, my wife mostly devised it, but I was there!). Not only did we worry about our own freezability, but we had two dogs that I didn't care to see turned into pupsicles. Hell, they didn't even want to go out this morning (or all day). Can't blame them.

We pinpointed the warmest room in the house (and by that, I mean now reading a comfy 54 degrees), "Tom." (We named our two spare bedrooms "Tom" and "Jerry," much easier to remember than calling them by the pesky directions they face.) The plan was set and now onto the execution.

Alas, the damn futon never wants to work right, usually ending up in the two halves coming apart. Worse than any piece of furniture you might (un)assemble from Ikea. Finally, after many curse words and much back-ache and the ultimate worst possible fate (*gasp*), referring to the manual, we put it back together again.

(TO BE READ LIKE AN AIRPLANE PILOT): "Ahhhhh, now we're sitting at a cool 52 degrees....Uhhhhhh, you might want to consider bundling up, it's ahhhhhh gonna drop to the single digits in your room....ummmmmm...your stewardess is coming by with the cocktail cart, so please be sure and...errrrrrrr...tip."

Pass the wine.

Our electric blanket was stripped from our bed upstairs and moved down to "Tom." Another electric blanket was put on the floor, dog beds atop it.

At 50 degrees, I swear I can see my breath. Merrrrrrrry Christmas!

My wife says, "Get over it. Pretend it's like winter camping."

This...

This was the craziest thing I'd heard in a while. Anyone who knows me totally understands I don't camp. Especially in the Winter. I'm not insane. My idea of camping is a cabin (not too far from a bar and convenience store and pizza delivery) with WiFi and a hot tub.

Where the hell's that bottle of wine? Merci Chrimmy.

In the pursuit of true journalism, never leaving my dedicated readers in the lurch, I'm now sitting in a frigid living room (temperature now in the 40's), delivering the truth with frozen, unfeeling fingers and a head full of alcohol.

Mister Chriminee everbuddy!

My Romancing History in Cars

You can tell a lot about people through their driving history. For instance, in my 45 years of driving, I've had six--count 'em-- six cars! I'm a firm believer in the "Drive 'em Until They Drop" theory.

My younger brother, on the other hand, has probably had 45 vehicles in his 47 year driving history. How did my younger bro have two years up on me in driving, I hear you asking? For whatever reason, my parents let him get his driving permit when he was 14, using the excuse that my dad was in a wheelchair. Although Dad was, I think that was just an excuse for a 14 year old to drive to school every day, even though we lived two blocks from school! Bragging rights I was never afforded (although I knew better than to drive at that young age). Anyway, he's had every type of vehicle from gas-guzzling, monster pick-em-up trucks to motorcycles to sports cars to stuff-the-family-into HUV's.

Then there's my daughter. After 12 years of driving, she's already surpassed my record of six vehicles (mostly because of her fondness for blowing up her cars).

But that's me digressing like the wind. When I started thinking about my run of cars (only six, keep in mind!), I realized how they all coincided with various degrees of romance through the years, a lotta bad, some good, the last one great.

My first car--and still my favorite--was a yellow, black-topped '67 Mustang. She (sexist!) was a beauty, a real classic. Until some dopey, possibly doped, long-haired, barefoot kid ran into four stalled cars on a busy street with his junker, my 'Stang accordioned in the middle. We jumped, flew, got bashed up, until the cracking metal and smoke ceased.

Heartbroken over the fact that it was probably totaled, I began the long walk home until my parents found me (and consequently grew enraged at me, even though the accident hadn't been my fault; that lay on Dopey McDoperson).

Surprisingly good news! A garage my dad found said they could fix it. Which coincided with my very first high school date (okay, it wasn't a "real" date; I was just a placeholder for my friend, entertaining his girlfriend until he got back in town). But I was so excited, I neglected to inspect the body work and drove my faithful Mustang out of the garage and straight to pick up my buddy's girlfriend. Hopes were doused when my friend's GF ridiculed the now white hood, with the rest of the car being yellow. It also felt scary to drive since the accident, feeling like it could fall apart in the street.

Time to go to college! And with it, a brand new (to me, at least; I've never bought a "new" car) ride, a Toyota Celica. The Celica was a good, reliable car, but when it broke down, it totally broke my wallet, even though I managed to steam up the windows quite a few times, if you know what I mean and I think you do. But I had it for years, long enough to woo my first wife in it, and woo we did, the Celica and I.

Then...sudden, surprising, shocking divorce! And I was stuck with a rusted Celica, not the most appealing car to the ladies. ("Hey baby, wanna come check out my Celica?")

So, my dad took it upon himself to find me a new car (I think he took pity on me for the divorce; or he just liked haggling with dealers, a "hobby" I've never understood anyone enjoying.). He even concocted an elaborate scheme to get my dangerously oil-leaking car out to the dealer (I had to keep pulling over and putting oil into it on the way) before it burned up so we could trade. We barely made it and to my nervous disbelief, the car dealer didn't even have anyone look at the leaking hunka' junk.

I came back with a blue Oldsmobile. Again, not the most sexy car, but hey, at least it wasn't held together by rust.

But it did break down a lot. Fun little side note: one time while the Olds was in the shop, my mom loaned me her second car, a BMW, to tool around in. Women were drawn to that like flies to an outhouse. They'd give me Love Eyes at the gas station. When I finally grew bold enough to chat them up, they got turned off when I told them I worked as a graphic artist, clearly expecting me to be bringing home the big bucks.

Over the years, the Olds took me on a lot of dates, some successful, others not. Most not. Which prompted my one sad, middle-aged-crisis purchase, a Chrysler LeBaron Convertible. Very cool! Well...not exactly cool in the Summer. But definitely cool, freezing cold in the Winter. 

Which was when I met my second wife, during the coldest part of an unseasonably frigid Winter. On dates, we bundled up in layers, looking like the Michelin Man and Woman. I finally sprang for a mini-heater that plugged into the cigarette lighter, for all the good it did.

Eventually, we married, and one of the first things my wife did was go car shopping for me (probably because she was tired of freezing). Thus came the Toyota Camry. A very solid car, good for many years during our very solid marriage.

But, it too, eventually went the way of the dinosaur. With a heavy heart (my only vehicle not affiliated with a tragic time in my love life), I remember saying a fond, nearly tearful, farewell to it in the parking lot of CarMax (where we expected to get $200, but crazily got a couple grand).

Which leads me to my current ride, a Highlander. I love the car (my wife insists on calling it a "truck," but I would never be caught driving a truck, for crying out loud! How uncouth!). Oh sure, it had some growing pains. When we purchased the sweet ride, we made the mistake of taking it to our mechanic AFTER we brought it home. The mechanic looked it over with a fine-toothed comb, ready to give it a thumbs up, until he remembered hearing something about that model's engine block cracking in half. Kinda a big deal. Sure enough, he saw enough evidence that made him suggest we get it fixed. I still love it; it's a great car (ummmm, except for the engine).

There you have it. My six automobiles, all connected to a different romantic time in my life. Kinda like my stints in prison (wait...did I just say that out loud?).

Speaking of romance, pity poor Shawn Biltmore, who is caught between two beautiful women. Why pity him what others would envy? Because it'll be very hard for Shawn to romance any woman when he's a part-time werewolf. Not to mention the fact that there's another werewolf eating his coworkers. Or could it be Shawn doing the dinners and blacking it out? Only Shawn's autobiography,

Corporate Wolf, holds the shocking answer!

 

Drunk Angry Dad Convention

Or...back to school to my alma mater, The University of Kansas.

OR...better yet, "I went back to my old college for a day and all I have to show for it is an eight minute head massage from a drunk coed."

Well, THAT was interesting. Amazingly, my two nieces decided they wanted not only their dad to go to "Father's Day" at K.U., but they thought it'd be fun if I went along too. I jumped at the chance, having not been back in close to 40 years or so. (Oddly enough, my nieces thought it'd be funny to have us two old guys in tow. Back in the day, I would've been mortified to have my parents go to one of the campus bars with me. "Mercy, look at how she's dressed" or "I don't want to go into one of those stinky joints where they serve swill" or "Huh. Disgusting" would've been the conversation. Fun!)

Instead, the four of us set out for day drinking galore!

We started out in downtown Lawrence, where things had changed quite a bit. Back in the 1920's or whatever when I was a student, I don't think there was a single coffee shop in town. Now it was half coffee houses and half bars. The first bar we ended up at (can't recall the name, but it was a new{ish} one) was fairly unmemorable, except for the ages of the patrons.

"I can't believe all of these students are 21," I said.

"They're not," said my younger niece. "They've all got fake I.D.'s" Then she whipped hers out and explained how she got it. You send your picture to a Chinese outfit, then they create one for you that's scannable and the whole nine yards. I couldn't believe how simple it was. Back in the days of dinosaurs, when driver's licenses were nothing but paper, I remember sloppily doctoring one by whiting out a birth year and painstakingly typing in an earlier birth year. The results were pretty bad, but managed to fool the vision impaired, cranky old woman at "The Ice House," a Grandma and Grandpa convenience store that served beer, fish bait, and guns. (Note: The Surgeon General has recommended to never, ever indulge in all three things at once.)

Onto the next bar for brew and burgers, The Free State Brewing Company, which had actually just opened by the time I had graduated back before we had moving vehicles. The beers were great, although it took about an hour and a half to get food, probably because I appeared to go "Dahmer" on the waitress when I couldn't articulate that I wanted my bill to be separate, jibber-jabbering nothing but gibberish. I chalk it up to potent beers.

It was then I began to notice the various dads. Most of them were well-behaved, but behind the jolly facade, I detected some trouble brewing, with vacant stares giving away to sneers at the youth surrounding them. We'll get back to these guys in a minute.

The next bar I was excited about, Louise's. I kinda, sorta, vaguely remember the weeknights I haunted the skeevy dive with the sticky floor, one of the few bars in town to serve the Native-American populace (there was a Native-American college in town as well), most of the time found passed out on the bar counter and left alone to sleep it off. My youngest niece was afraid to enter because apparently Louise's had the worst reputation in town for confiscating fake I.D.'s. (She decided not to risk it and not drink.) 

Nostalgia can only take you so far. It was crashingly dull and dark, the only highlight being this spooky old guy who offered us his table.

We bolted and headed straight for The Hawk, the one bar I spent most of my college education in. (A little background: The Hawk was a haven for G.D.I.'s {"Goddamn Individuals"} and felt like home to my buddies. Thursday's Dime Draw Night probably helped. It was never glamorous, but tons of fun, cheap, and usually great fun. OUR place. Except for the unfortunate night when my brother joined us from rival K-State, and ran into some seething, red-faced, drunk short guy {It's ALWAYS the short guys} who accused him of knocking over his girlfriend. I entered the fray and said he did no such thing. Then Shorty McShortShort turned his ire on me and started shoving me. "Then YOU knocked her over!" he spat. The next thing I knew the bouncers pounced on me and physically threw me out onto the sidewalk. I landed on my chin and had to go get late night stitches. Ahhh, memories. When my mom had to take me up over the Summer to pay the ER bill, some nurse wrote that I'd been fighting. Fun ensued with Mom, but I'm getting digression all over the joint.)

Anyway, with great excitement we entered the den of G.D.I.'s. Only to discover the tide had turned and most of the students in there were of the Greek persuasion. Blasphemy! Then they charged a cover charge. Strike two! They'd never done that before. The place was absolutely packed, shoulder to shoulder, nothing new there. They'd even taken out the middle row of booths to cram more underage students inside, surely already breaking all kinds of fire codes. When I finally got up to the bar, I ordered a beer based on the taps on the wall.

"A draft of Space Camper, please," I ordered.

The guy smirks and says, "Yeah, nothing's on draft. The taps are just for show."

"What? That's crazy! Back in my day--"

The bartender moved on to someone less brain-addled.

We lucked out (I guess) and snagged one of the few tables. Here's where all of the Drunk Angry Dads collectively met, most of them without their offspring. We had overweight dads stuffed into too tight K.U. Jayhawk sweatshirts like sausages. One looked like Colonel Sanders (minus the chicken, hold the teenager). 

He was cagey, but my niece finally captured Colonel Sanders on film (hiding behind Paul Shaeffer), proof positive he's not dead.

 

Another guy stalked back and forth in a long leather duster and sporting an equally long, coiffed mane of hair, appearing like a deranged Fabio. (We suspected this guy didn't have a teen in school, but was taking his lunch break from the car wash to check out the coeds.) A group of short (uh-oh!) middle aged men with steel-colored hair gathered at the center of the bar, nostrils inflared while gulping their expensive drinks. 

What did they have in common, I hear you asking (but not really, but it gives me a chance to segue into my answer anyway)? They were all very, very drunk and very, very angry, sneering at everyone within drinking distance. I kept trying to avoid eye contact (my two goals for the day were to A) not to get into a fight or get thrown out of a bar, because bouncers love to do that to me for some reason and B) not to get Covid. The possibilities of failing in both goals were growing more likely as the bar filled to impossibly crowded, drunken mob standards.). I also failed in avoiding eye contact with all of the drunken, angry dads, because they were kinda fascinating.

Eventually, we moved to the back of the bar, where my youngest niece knew the employee (it's amazing how many bartenders she knew throughout town). He gave us some "hot Hawk scoop." The Hawk doesn't even pay their employees in cash, just discounted and free drinks. And if you want to pay an extra twenty-five bucks you can avoid standing in the long line (like it's a hot New York nightclub or something). Add to this, the five dollar beers and my beloved Hawk had turned into a racket.

"You're paying for The Hawk experience,"  the brain-washed employee explained.

WHAT experience? Then I began to put it together what the "experience" we were paying for was: the wonderful aroma of vinegar that the employees poured over the frequent vomit; the grotesque bathrooms that hadn't been cleaned since I was a student; the too crowded, can't move, claustrophobic experience. 

Then my niece's friend explained that the worst behaved people that weekend were the dads, confirming my theory. He said they had to throw out a lot of them for being drunk and belligerent and looking for fights. Absolutely pissed off that their youthful, glory days were behind them and despising the youth around them.

It was time to move on. My nieces were hyped to get to "Bullwinkle's," a bar one block down the 'hood. Now, honestly, I couldn't see why the excitement, because when I was a student, it was considered a gay bar, but I'd never had that confirmed. But what the hey, I was game for anything, especially since I was loaded up with beer, and I imagine the drunken, angry dads wouldn't be caught dead in a place like that.

Boy, was I wrong. Bullwinkle's had turned into another redone, outdoor and indoor bar, packed to the rafters with all of the missing, drunken offspring students (the old guys were stalking The Hawk after they dropped the kiddies off at Bullwinkle's, I guess). Again, my niece knew the huge twin "Throwin' Samoan" bouncers, who gave me the stink-eye when I squeezed past them (is it just my face, maybe my breath, something else that makes bouncers target me?).

We finally pushed our way outside, where we had a slight bit more breathing room. Suddenly this fast-talking, bespectacled, hyped up hotshot came up to us yelling, "Did we win? Did we win? Did we win?" (K.U. was playing Oklahoma at football several streets over). He starts insinuating himself into our lives in a sinister manner, exchanging names, fist bumps, and his life story. Turns out he's not even a student, considered himself very old (must've actually been 21! Imagine!), was there on a work break, and wanted to meet us out later that night. All this time, I see his partner-in-crime (a quiet, grinning, ginger-haired elf wearing a ridiculous beanie) lurking in the background, just waiting for...something. He never said a word, but he really didn't have to since his partner talked enough for five people. My brother and I later figured out they were a serial killer duo: the gregarious guy lured the victim in with his fast-talking ways, while the elf would jump out and bludgeon the victim, undoubtedly with one of Santa's toys. Mercifully they moved on.

Suddenly--most unexpectedly--the K.U. Jayhawks beat the formidable Oklahoma State. Which just riled up the drunken underage students and dads even more. Over the loudspeakers, Queen's "We Are the Champions" blared. I'm just people-watching when suddenly this very young, very drunk, and very short (it's always the short ones) coed grabs my hand and starts swinging my hand, and belting out the lyrics up into my face.

Now. I've always felt uncomfortable for people who are being sung to in movie musicals. I mean, how are they supposed to react? In the films, they usually just smile and stare at the singer. I couldn't do that. Uncomfortable doesn't quite capture it. That's how I felt then. But bolstered by beer, I sang along with her. Finally, FINALLY, the power ballad ends and I reclaim my hand.

And then things got even worse. She asked if I shaved my head or if was naturally like that. I said I shaved it.

"Can I touch your head?" she asks.

"Um...well...I guess...or whatever..."

The next thing I know, she's not only touching it, but she's massaging it while moaning and continually saying, "it's soooooo smooth." Meanwhile my brother and his daughters (and their friends who we'd stumbled onto) are enjoying the show, laughing, and taking photos.

At long last (dear Gawd, at long last after a very long eight minutes) she tires of my head and says, "Okay, go back to whatever it was you were doing" or something like that and I presume goes off to find another dad.

I'd had enough. After five bars, numerous over-priced beers, and a plethora of drunk, angry dads, it was time to call my return to college done and pretty. But, man, did my scalp feel good!

Speaking of peculiar happenings and a peculiar young woman, come visit scenic Peculiar County, a place so peculiar, the inhabitants include twin sister witch librarians, a dead hanging judge, a one-armed phone operator, a gargoyle guardian, a mysterious killer, and ghosts, both of the dog and human variety. That's Peculiar County, a really cool place to visit, but don't set up residency there. The fine travel brochure can be procured here.

A.I. Nightmare Generator

"Huh. What won't they think of next?" This quote comes from my beloved, late mother and I think it's rather apt regarding what I'll be discussing. (My mom stated this a lot, actually, and although I never did find out who the ubiquitous "They" were {undoubtedly some secret deep state cabal}, as a naive child, I came to understand that "They" secretly ran the world, creating new inventions just to stymie people. But I digress.)

My pal, Gary (he of the infamous, self-indulgent "Brotherton" fame), recently hit me up regarding the new artificial intelligence image generators you can use on the interwebs. He said all you do is type in some crazy scenario and seconds later, you have an image at your disposal!

"Huh," I said. "What won't they think of next?" But I started pondering the ramifications of this new invention. Truly, it could revolutionize the world (while also maybe putting artists and photographers out of business). Just think of all the possibilities! If you're a self-publishing author, you could create your own book cover. And I can start making personalized photos for my blog posts without getting sued! How about students who can create custom-made illustrations for reports and papers and what-not! Consider all of the windows it would toss wide open in the fields of medicine and science and...and...and...

So obviously Gary and I decided to use this incredible new creation to try and freak each other out. Oh, sure, it started innocently enough with what Gary proposed as "Brotherton...the Game." He would send me some generator created pics and I would have to guess which Brotherton scenario it was. (The pic at top is supposed to be Dom Deluise and James Coco as twin bad-ass mafia enforcers.) Case in point...

Well, clearly this is "Gene Rayburn and Jack Palance as thawed neanderthal brothers who do odd jobs for rocks." Duh. (Yes, I know. There are still some flaws in the program in that the cavemen celebs look kinda funny and don't really look like who they're supposed to be, but COOL!)

Then things started going off the deep end and straying away from Brotherton as you can see...

This is supposed to be Shelly Winters dancing in a bikini with pygmies at church. Okay, there is no bikini (to which we're probably all grateful), and the "pygmies" look like Barney Rubble and Fred Flintstone without pants. Hang on...things get much worse...

 Obviously this is Dolph Sweet, Brian Dennehy, Kenneth McMillan, and Charles Durning are door to door quadruplet masseuses. Although it sorta looks like Jackie Gleason as "Gleasonstein's Monster" third from left. And to make more body horror, the guy on the far right has three legs, two bodies, one head. The way I like it.

I double dog defy you to guess what this pic is supposed to be. You got it? Good job! That's right, it's a 70's rock album cover featuring Buddy Hackett and Ernest Borgnine in a sauna filled with snakes! Very Cronenbergian. This AI image generator appears to thrive on body horror. Brrrrr. Nightmarish indeed.

Because I liked the imagery of Buddy and Ernest in a sauna filled with snakes so much, I decided to run the description again. Lookie what I created:

Not really clear on where Lucille Ball and Shelly Winter's love child came from, but here you go! You're welcome!

Next...

This one's easy. It's a 60's superhero comic book panel with Charles Nelson Reilly clipping his toenails. I believe I had a nightmare about this and subconsciously recalled it. Or I'm just super weird.

Get out the rice because here comes the bride...

By cracky, you guys are good! You guessed it right! It's Jim Nabors in a wedding dress marrying Rock Hudson! (C'mon, you guys know your dad or grandpa told you about this secret ceremony.)

Finally, we have...

A Picasso painting of Gary Busey on a Moped! Wow! So much fun! So many nightmares! So much time wasting!

This is just a smattering of what I've been up to this week. As you can see...we're using this stunning new technology to help mankind build to a stronger future. Or more than likely, we've just got a lot of time to kill.

Speaking of killing, there's a whole lot of it going on in my darkly comic serial killer trilogy, Killers Incorporated. Grab the first book, Secret Society, here to find out why killer with a moral code, Leon Garber, is now being hunted by his former employer, the nefarious Like-Minded Individuals, Inc. (Huh... What won't they think of next?) 

 

 

Yanker Blanky, It's a Freezy

Lately, my wife has been mad at me for taking the blankets off her in the night.

She said, "You are a yanker! You're constantly yanking the blankets off me! We have a bedspread with about two feet overhang, yet you keep yanking it off me through the night, leaving me with virtually nothing! Yank, yank, yank! And the yanking produces a cold breeze every time you yank."

I thought about this. And marveled at the possible record she set for using the word "yank" in a single diatribe.

So, of course I had to try and defend myself. "I don't yank." Even then, I knew it was a very lame rebuttal, but I never like to back down from a challenge. (And being called a "yanker" just somehow seems kinda obscene.)

"Do too! Yanker!"

"You make it sound like all I do is yank! That I'm a first-class yanker! I do not yank, yank, yank!"

"Hah! Every time you turn over, you yank the covers with you and wrap yourself up like a burrito! If the shoe fits...yanker!"

Okay, clearly I was losing this battle (as usual). Ever able to think fast on my feet, I attempted a new tactic. "Hey...last night why did you keep shoving the heavy bedspread over onto me? I was smoldering!"

It didn't work.

But I started to wonder about this. Why--after many years of not yanking--have I suddenly started to yank? 

Professor Google wasn't much help, but did provide me with an interesting study. The Best Mattress Brand conducted a recent study of over 2,000 people. The findings found that habitual cover stealers who grew up with a bedtime companion (we're talking dolls, blankies, teddy bears, or pets) were more likely to yank the covers off a partner than those who slept solo as children.

Huh. Weird. The results showed that about 75% of the respondents fit this model. Of course, it didn't explain why. But I'm here to give you my theories...

(Dons professorial garb...) If you held onto something as a child while going to sleep, you're still doing it, i.e., clutching the blankets. I grew up with a rag-tag teddy bear named "T. T. George (I know, I was a weird kid.)," holding onto him at night for dear life. He protected me from the monsters under the bed and the bullies in the school hallways. Now, the bedspread has become my surrogate teddy bear.

But...that theory doesn't explain why I didn't "yank" the covers for many, many years, but have just now developed this habit. Perhaps it's the frightening state of affairs of the world we live in. Much, much, much worse now than it's ever been. And ever since my wife chastised me about not paying attention to the news, I've become a "Doom Scroller." Which freaks the eff outta me. So I'm covering up from all the bad stuff in the world right now by yanking the blanky.

So, class...it's my wife's fault. So THERE.

While we're on the topic of spooky things lurking beneath beds and elsewhere, you'll find a plethora of eerie, creepy, scary monsters (both of human and supernatural form) in my short story collection, Twisted Tales from Tornado Alley. You know...just like the title of this blog! Synchronicity! Or vanity, maybe. YOU be the judge. Doesn't matter as long as you go here to check it out.

 

"World's Dirtiest Man Dies!"

Well, hell yes, I'm gonna be interested in a news article with a headline like that! My wife found the article and we read it. But, alas, it seemed to bring up more questions than it did answers.

First of all, a little background about the "world's dirtiest man." Amou Haji, from Iran, refused to use soap and water for over half a century(!) because he thought it'd make him sick. His favorite meal was porcupine (yum!), rotten meat (scrumptious!), and he drank rancid water. He split his time between living in a hole in the ground and a brick shack built by his concerned neighbors. Years of living in filth left his skin covered in pus and soot. Finally, he was fond of smoking and just couldn't get enough cigarettes apparently since he enjoyed smoking four at once! (Kids, don't try this at home.) When asked about his odd lifestyle choices, he explained that it was due to "emotional setbacks" when he was younger.

Here's the kicker: At long last, he grew sick and tired of neighbors badgering him to take a bath so gave into peer pressure a couple of months ago, took a bath, and promptly died! At the age of 94! Yow! The guy must've been doing something right. I suppose my takeaway is don't bathe and be sure and smoke. A lot.

Hmm. Let's take all this in for a moment...

But let's get back to my nagging questions... First of all, for the luvva God, WHY?

I mean, did Amou set out to break a world record? Sure, he said he had "emotional setbacks (code-speak for "damaged goods")," but really, I'd like to know his motivation. Half a century ago, did he wake up, flip through his dog-eared copy of Ripley's Believe it or Not, and say, "Hey, I betcha I can beat the current champ for being the world's dirtiest man! Here I go! Wheeee!"

Furthermore, who's the judge? Who'd want to be? What's the qualitative data to be scientifically collected, compared and analyzed?  "Let's see here," says Judge Harry Squalls of the United Filth Bureau, "according to the Body-Odor-Meter, Amou is pulling in a rank rating of 179% compared to Bob down in Tulsa's lackluster showing of 132%. And his pus level is off the charts! Ladies and gentlemen, we have a new champion!"

Who coined him "the world's dirtiest man?" The article claims the catch-all "media" did. But...can they be certain? Have they looked in lately on Bob down in Tulsa? Also, the news article noted that there had been reports of an Indian man who hadn't washed or brushed his teeth in 35 years! (I'm smelling a sit-com--and I do mean "smelling"--about two very different men who become roommates based on their similar lack of hygiene. Call it...wait for it..."The ODDor Couple.")

While it's a very nice thing for Amou's neighbors to build him a shack, my suspicious, cynical nature makes me go "Hmmmmm. What were they really after?" I have a theory: Amou's hole in the ground was upwind to where the neighbors lived. Better to invest in a brick shack to enclose his odor within. And I imagined when it came time to tell Amou what they'd done for him, they drew straws, and the unlucky winner had to use a megaphone at a distance to relay the good news. (Which makes me wonder how Amou would've made out on "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy.")

I said to my wife, "Well...Amou must've been doing something right, because he lived to be 94! Maybe there's something to be said for being too clean."

She responded, "Now, that's true! If you clean and scrub too much, you're likely to get rid of helpful bacteria on the skin."

So...now I gotta worry about being too clean. Thanks a lot, Amou. You've just given me a new phobia.

So, the story raised more questions then it did in supplying information. I have a feeling we've only just scratched the surface of Amou's odd story and it would make a delightful fun film for the entire family. Filmed in "Odorama!"

Speaking of world records, meet Zach, the world's greatest male entertainment dancer (code-speak for "stripper"). At least in his own lil' delusional mind. That's the least of Zach's problems, though. He wakes up in a strange bed with no clothes and no memory. Next to a dead, naked man! Natch, Zach's horrified. Not so much about the dead body, but rather he's got a strong ladies man reputation to uphold. Time to call in his ever-suffering, often-pregnant, highly irritable detective sister, Zora. And the wacky, suspenseful antics are off! This is all just in the first couple of pages of my comical murder mystery, Bad Day in a Banana Hammock, the first in a series of books. Check it out! 

Diva Civil War Reenactors

Well. It appears there's a new threat to our country, our way of life, and the basic tenet of democracy upon which our country was built. What? No, I'm not talking about the gung-ho craziness and racism of the far, far out there MAGA extremists (although, hmm, it certainly does pertain to them as well). Nope, the new threat is...diva Civil War reenactors.

Let me explain. Then YOU make up your mind about the immediate danger of these "deep state" bad actors.

My daughter lives in a small town in Kansas, known for being John Brown's stomping grounds. (Now if you don't know who John Brown was, look him up. I'm not your Mr. Google. But I will say although the results he sought in ending slavery were admirable, he chose a bloody path getting there!) Every year the town throws a Pride festival honoring their history. It's a big to-do, complete with civil war reenactments, and the whole nine yards. This year my daughter volunteered. Not to get shot by a grey coat, mind you, but to push kettle corn or something or whatever.

The guy who puts the festival on had a hush-hush chat with his volunteers. "And whatever you do," he said, "don't insult the reenactors. Try and make them happy. Don't cross them. They're a bunch of divas."

Whaaaaaaat?

First of all, how can anyone whose claim to fame as being a civil war reenactor have earned the right to be a diva? You, sir, are not Cher. You're an adult man who plays dress-up and bang-bang with toy guns and I imagine you speak in a fake Southern dialect that comes across more like Foghorn Leghorn chewing out his nephew chicken. ("I say, I say, son, you bother me.")

The festival manager elaborated further. "These guys do this all over the country. And they always stay in character."

Pretty much what I expected. But I still don't get their snooty, diva-like entitlement. I mean, are they gonna blast a poor festival worker full of buckshot for offering them a modern amenity such as a diet soda? And from what this festival guy said, it seems like they feel like they're stars. At least in their own eyes. And maybe their mothers'. I imagine they practice quite a bit in their mothers' basements.

So the first day of the festival goes off without a hitch. When it ended for the day, the reenactors pooh-poohed hotel accommodations. "No suh! How dare you, suh? Our founding forefathahs never indulged in the luxuries of modern hotels! What's good enough for them is good enough for us, by Ulysses S. Grant's beard!"

So that night they bunked down in John Brown Park. Then a Midwest wind storm whipped across the grounds taking many of their tents with it.  (I kinda think it was the civil war ghosts telling them what they thought of their little play-acting, but I'm gettin' kinda digressy.)

What did the Civil War reenactors do? They hissed, spat, threw a hissy fit and a half. Then they packed up their toys and went home, leaving the festival manager and workers at a loss. Everyone was coming to see the reenactors, then left disappointed when told at the gate there were none. A total bust.

Wow. Even Cher would carry on a show if her tour bus were whipped off by a tornado. "Diva" doesn't even begin to describe their poor behavior. These clowns didn't uphold their end of the bargain. I'm not sure how litigious people were during the Civil War, but I doubt a defense of "Suh, you offend me! Back in the day, people didn't sue one anothah! I do declare!" would hold up in today's courts.

Oh, well. Back to their mothers' basements they go, where they'll be safe from such awful elements as the wind (which I'm pretty sure their founding forefathers dealt with on a daily basis.).

Speaking of delusional adults, Zach isn't a Civil War reenactor, but that might be a step up from what he does for a living. You see, he's a "male entertainment dancer (NEVER a stripper)," in his own mind the world's best gift to the stage. Except for his uncanny knack for constantly falling over dead bodies, always in the wrong place at the wrong time. And it's always up to his long-suffering, usually pregnant detective sister, Zora, to bail him out of trouble. There are three books in the Zach and Zora comical mystery series (so far?), so you may as well start with the first, Bad Day in a Banana Hammock. Get to reading, suh!

 

Hey! Vote Next Tuesday!

I know, I know, you're probably sick of all the so-called "political" endorsements, advertisements, and all-around despicable behavior from all of our "law-makers" by now. I know I am. And you're probably also thinking "why should I vote, when these idiots running are cretins who care nothing about their constituents and only care about power, power, power?" Why...thank you, sir, you took the words right out of my mouth! And you may be feeling helpless, figuring your lone vote won't matter in the big picture, and why not just remain on the sofa this coming November 8th for all the good your voting would do.

Wake up, Mr. and Mrs. America! Time to get up off that sofa!

Why should you vote this upcoming midterm election day? Because as bad as things are now, they could become much worse.

I mean, really... The last thing our country needs are these incredibly blunt and obvious election deniers and liars running our country. Running it directly into the ground, six feet under, and sticking a stake into the heart of democracy to top it off.

Yay, politicians!

Good Gawd, there's even talk about Marjorie Taylor Greene running as Trump's vice-president in 2024. This is the crazy lady who blamed Jewish people for setting off space lasers to burn our forests. You really want THAT for your vice president? 

But what else could I expect from Trump with all of his antisemitic rhetoric? He's become so emboldened that he doesn't even try to hide his racism and hatred for anyone not rich, male and white any longer, making his ties to racist hate groups upfront and obvious. And, hey, let's not forget all of the legal troubles the Orange One is facing, including rape allegations, tax evasion, espionage, and conspiracy to overthrow the government. (C'mon, even you hardcore Trump thumpers might have to be questioning his "morals" at this point, right? RIGHT?)

Hooray!

Trump's been running around the country, holding KKK "political" rallies, handing out his endorsements like candy (and not the good kind of candy, either. More like the creepy old neighborhood lady who always hands out one piece of candy corn at Halloween.). And what are Trump's prerequisites for a candidate to earn his hallowed orange endorsement? Simple! You're golden (or orange) as long as you agree with his Big Lie about his winning the election! That's it! That's why Herschel Walker and Kari Lake are there! (Because everyone knows that a football player and a weather lady are stellar political candidates.)

So, yeah, I get it. I'm burned out from all of the terrible, childish behavior and lies from both sides of the political spectrum, too. And I'm not a fan of inflation either. But just remember...as terrible as things have been over the last six years, things will definitely get much worse if all the crazies get into office. Our country will become built on hate and violence and racism and lies and abuse of power rather than democratic ideals. 

I don't want to see our country go that way. So, please, get out and vote on November 8th!

Alright, alright, alright, I'm getting off my soap-box now. Or I would, but I'm so pissed off, I kicked it into splinters.