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.