The Day the Earth Swallowed Me

Just another ordinary day. No, scratch that. Unlike our horrible Winter, it was an unnaturally beautiful February day. No snow, no ice, no winds, no tornados...just the temperature hanging out in the terrific upper '60's. And it felt great.

So Spring Fever beckoned me to sit out on the deck and watch my dogs do their business (an old guy hobby I've developed; you've gotta take your fun where you can find it.).

Now, our senior (mostly blind) dog was lagging behind as usual. So, I ventured out into the yard to gather him up and carry him inside.

With dog in arms, my arthritis dwindling due to the warm temperature, everything was going extremely well!

Naturally that's when Mother Nature decided to play a nasty trick on me. Halfway through the yard, the deck and back door into the house well within sight, BLAMMO!

The hell?...

I'm not sure what happened to our dog, but my entire right leg had fallen through the earth. Incredulous, stunned, I was stuck in the earth, my leg dangling below me into a hellish crater.

My first thought was This can't be happening. My second thought: My God, what kind of huge-ass creature burrowed this cave beneath six inches of top soil and is it going to eat my leg off? Finally, my most realistic thought occurred: I've stumbled into The Mole People's den!

Panicked, I began to yell and holler for my wife who was working upstairs. And it was the first time I ever cursed our house for having great sound insulation.

Stuck in the earth, no one to hear my cries for help before the Mole People devoured me, I weighed my options. My phone wasn't with me, so that was out of the question (never again will I belittle kids for having their phone glued to their hands). And as in the James Franco film where he cut off his arm to survive, that option seemed unlikely as I had no cutting utensil and my teeth couldn't reach my thigh.

If only one of our neighbors would look out the window, they would see me with the earth enveloping the entirety of my right leg and my left leg buckled beneath me in an agonizing contortionist's squat. No time for embarrassment!

The dogs were no help. The two younger ones just stood on the deck, wagging their tails while watching me squirm in pain. (I think they thought I was "taking care of my business.") Finally, the older, near-blind dog walked up toward me and I tried to shoo him away. If he fell into the hole, I wasn't sure we could fish him out as the cave felt like it went all the way to China (like in those informationally accurate cartoons I learned geography from).

I was on my own. With a great Herculean surge of energy, I unfolded my bent leg. Using my arms, I pushed through the surrounding mud (created by a foot of recently melted snow) until I got a good grip on the ground and pulled my leg out of the hole. It was still intact! Clearly, the Mole People were still slumbering.

But I couldn't get up. My arthritis was on fire, aggravated by my plummet into the earth, my knees, back and toes screaming for relief. Plus I had nothing to leverage my way up to standing.

Survival instinct kicked in. Using mostly my arms I pulled myself-- half-slithering, half-crawling--through wet grass, mud and dog poop. Lots and lots and LOTS of dog poop. Finally, I reached the deck where I was able to hoist myself up on my battered legs.

That was when my wife finally came to the rescue. She came into the kitchen and stopped at the open back door when she saw me.

Painted all the pretty (and smelly) earth-tones of mud and doggy-poo, I must've been quite the sight.

"Oh my..." she said, her eyes widening. "What happened?"

I explained. Carefully, she went out to the new hole in the yard, put her phone inside and took pictures. A vast cave just like I had thought, but that wasn't the weirdest part.

"Whoa," she exclaimed. "There's a concrete wall down there!"

I hobbled my way toward the excavation point, careful to stand as far back as I could. I couldn't see the wall, but her picture showed me the proof.

That's when my thoughts swam from woe-is-me tragedy to big-bucks-bonanza for us!

Obviously, we'd discovered Al Capone's TRUE vault, full of stacks and stacks of cash and Jimmy Hoffa's body! Eat it, Geraldo!

Then my wife sorta brought me back down to earth. "I don't know who to call in this situation."

"The press! Our financial guy! Everyone who's ever hacked us off, so we can rub our new riches in their--"

"I'll call our insurance agent," she said, ever the voice of reason.

The insurance agent told us to call the city. The city guy came out and said, "Not our problem. It's an old septic tank. Maybe an old cellar."

Boom. Fizzle, fizzle, fizzle... All of my dreams of fabulous monetary wealth went up as fast as my leg went down into the earth.

But...who do you call to restore the earth? I'm sorry, Mother Nature! Don't take it out on us! We recycle and do what we can to preserve our earth. Blame it on the Maga's! Make THEM fall through their yards! 

While I'm whining about lost opportunities, I may as well plug a book. Hey, it's Tex, the Witch Boy! My very first book and still one of my wife's favorites. It's got suspense, mystery, murder, witchcraft (natch), humor, pathos, romance, ghosts, supernatural shenanigans, a serial killer, and I do believe there's even a kitchen sink in there somewhere. But quit reading the hype, and go buy the dang thing already!

Total Duck-Up!

There's a relatively new start-up tech company in the San Francisco Bay area called "Stripe." They're apparently huge and growing at a rapid pace, claiming Amazon as one of their customers. I guess they're kinda a big deal.

But...but...recently they laid off 3.5% of their work-force. If you're a Stripe customer, this is reason enough to worry about who you've entrusted your tech needs to, never a comforting sign.

It gets even better: in the termination email, Stripe laid off the people with a picture of a cartoon duck.

Ta-daaaaahhhhh! What a "duck-up."

If I were Amazon, I'd be shopping around for a more competent tech company. (I mean, you're Amazon, for Gawd's sake! It's not like you wouldn't have companies frothing at the mouth to jump on your evil corporate giant shirttails.) 

"Tech" is supposed to be Stripe's area of expertise. Yet, they couldn't lay off employees via email without a cartoon duck accidentally slipping into the happy tidings of joy. (And what exactly does "US-non-California duck" mean? This taken from the actual duck that waddled its way into the layoff missives? Is this part of Trump's evil agenda to rid the US of all immigrants? And is this his new mascot? It'll probably be saying "You're fired...from the US!" soon.)

What's next? Police officers and doctors handing out business cards displaying a cartoon puppy with huge eyes saying, "Sorry your loved one died. Let's 'paws' to remember them. How 'bout a hug?"

Or maybe morticians will sit grieving loved ones down in front of a wacky cartoon with a dunderhead continuing to die in terrible accidents, with his ghost slipping out of the body, a huge smile pasted on his face, happily proclaiming his catch-phrase, "It ain't over yet, folks!" as he excitedly speeds Heaven-ward.

This is just...it's quackers is what it is!

No explanation came from the head honchos of Stripe. Just the usual cookie-cutter, boiler plate, "bla, bla, bla apologies to everyone who's been effected by this and bla, bla, bla." 

I'm sure this made all of the duck receivers feel loads better.

I won't even mention that in the same termination emails (a very chicken--{not "ducky" in the least}--way to lay people off, BTW), the wrong final work dates were given. Okay, I did mention it. But bad Stripe! Bad!

How does this happen? It's like Colonel Sanders suddenly forgetting how to make fried chicken, so will only serve liver and onions from now on. Tech is what Stripe is known for. Do better!

Speaking of "quacking up," meet Derek, a mild-mannered Midwesterner just trying to make ends meet and live a comfortable life in suburbia, USA. But something's bothering Derek. Something's not right with the new neighbors. And...is there something else residing in he and his wife's house? Something not living, yet not dead? Or could Derek be having another mental break like he'd had years ago? Find out the answers in my (hopefully) chilling ghost story, Neighborhood Watch. (Good luck finding it, though, it's currently between publishers. C'mon already, somebody snatch it up again!)

Dick Swing, Auto Mechanic

Okay, before everyone with prurient tastes believes this to be a post tailor-made for them, you'll be better off reading Penthouse forum letters (is that still a thing?). No, this is a tale of holiday joy! Kinda. Sorta. Nah, I lied...

Before the holidays, I had purchased a Christmas-themed blu ray featuring the atrocious 60's Christmas kiddie film, Santa Claus Conquers the Martians (I DON'T want to talk about it!). But the true reason I made this unholy purchase was the holiday-oriented ephemera including trailers, drive-in ads, short films, cartoons, and celebrity "buy war bonds" plugs.

The really, really weird part was the local cinema sponsor listings. You know, things like "Balllyhoo Theatre encourages you to buy your fine suits from Ed Gein, Tailor," and "After the show, eat at Sloppy Joe's Diner where it don't matter how dirty the plates is, it's the food what counts."

Well. I made the last two up, but you get the drift. But the one (this one factual) that really made our jaws drop was..."Stop by your local automobile mechanic, Dick Swing."

Gee. Mr. Swing either had a very, very traumatic childhood or enjoyed a very active sexual life. Maybe both.

Can you imagine going through life with a name like "Dick Swing?" Even though this was back in the 50's, I imagine his customers were giggling when he handed out his business cards. In fact, cavemen would've probably found vast amusement in this guy's name and grunted themselves silly.

Did poor Dick not have any friends? "Uh, listen...Dick...have you ever considered using your full-length...um, let me rephrase that...your real name, Richard, instead of Dick? For professional purposes?"

"Why...no. Why would I?" replied the oblivious Dick Swing.

At the DMV, they'd call his name out: "Swing? Dick SWING?"

Laughter would roll through the crowd like a sporting event wave. The guy at the desk would shake his head and say, "C'mon...are you puttin' one over on me, pal? What's your real name?"

And how did he introduce himself to women? "Hey, baby, I'm Dick Swing, master of tools. Come down to my garage and I'll look under your hood and--"

SMAK!

Or maybe he took the sophisticated James Bond  approach: "Swing. Dick Swing. I like it stirred not shaken."

SWAK!

Poor Dick must've been slapped so many times and never knew why.

These are the things that keep me up at night. (And sorry, sorry, sorry for this week's post. Yes, it's come down to "Dick jokes." Dick Swing, that is. SMACK!)

Speaking of juvenile humor, things don't get much more fifth grade level than my Zach and Zora comical mystery series about a dunderheaded male stripper and his poor suffering sleuth sister. Read all the books, laugh at the ridiculous characters and situations, thrill at the suspense and mystery, then pay penance for reading them with your local priest or pastor later. Check 'em out here!

War On the Catholics

When I was in sixth or seventh grade, my family made the move to a new neighborhood, mere blocks away and across a major traffic-way from our old residence. I never could figure out the reason for the move, but years later I figured out it was to replace our two story with a ranch to better accommodate my wheelchair-bound dad.

But the reason--at the time--for the move became even more puzzling when my parents kept grousing and grumbling about "all those Catholics in the neighborhood." Another thing I didn't quite understand. I mean, what did they expect with a Catholic grade school and high school right behind us?

But as young witless children do, we blindly followed in our parents' big, couldn't-ever-be-wrong footsteps.

Now the Catholic kids in the 'hood didn't accept my younger brother and I either. They'd taunt us and bully us and call us names. And as the school was just one block behind us, they used our fenced-in yard as a short-cut going to and fro school. This drove my parents batty. Me, I was just afraid they'd do something to our senior dog in the backyard. But Rocky never came to any harm from those nasty Catholic kids, even though my parents were still up and arms about their trespassing.

After we'd had some time to adjust to the new "normal," my brother and I decided to fight back. In Winter, we'd throw snowballs at the passing Catholics, hoping to knock some Protestant sense into their heads.  Battles were waged in the 'hood, but the battle was never won or determined. Yes, just like all "holy wars." (It didn't help that one time, someone "farmed" our front yard with their car, leaving several grass worn tire tracks; undoubtedly Catholics were the culprits.)

I was beginning to think my parents didn't like anyone in the neighborhood. The old man and woman next door were very nice, I thought, and told my dad so.

He replied, "Yes, he's nice. But he's Catholic!"

As I started to grow older, I began to question this silly blind hatred. Finally, I asked Dad, "Why do you not like Catholics?"

"Because they worship Mary," he exclaimed loudly, like I was an idiot for not knowing that. "Mercy!" (My parents' favorite exclamation back in the day.)

This didn't jive well with my limited understanding of religion. Having been brought up in various protestant churches (kicking and screaming on Sundays, I might add, hoping--nearly praying--that my parents would oversleep, because it was a colossal and boring drag), it was always my understanding that Jesus' teachings ruled over everything.

And didn't he teach love and acceptance for everyone?  I mean, Catholics believed in Jesus and God, too, right? It made no sense to my (snowball-addled) young, forming mind.

The war continued for years, finally dying out to maturity (or rather other pursuits that took precedence over fighting neighborhood kids, such as girls, cars, and beer). An unlikely peace pact was made between us and the Catholics and while I don't ever recall any true "friendships" being forged, acquaintances were made and waves even shared at times. Yet the older generation kept firm in their grumbling, blinders-on, nonsensical dislike for anyone who didn't buy into their one TRUE religious belief. It was beyond silly.

Years later, after I'd divorced my first wife (who was Catholic, natch; you can just imagine how that went over with my parents), I took it upon myself to educate myself on Catholicism. After all, when we were married in the Catholic Church, I had signed an agreement vowing that I'd raise my daughter as Catholic.

It was very uncomfortable in the Catechumenal class, but the kindly nun who ran it was very welcoming and accommodating to me. And it was extremely eye-opening.

Once the "controversy" surrounding Mary came up, I sat forward, intent on finally understanding the big HooHah.

Apparently, my parents weren't the only ones who griped about the Catholics' "worship" of Mary. Kindly Sister Old Lady patiently explained that many Protestants had this negative view. "We don't worship Mary," she explained. "We hold her in high reverence. She was the mother of Jesus, after all. We think that's kinda a big deal."

After considering asking Kindly Sister Old Lady to phone my parents and explain this to them, I jettisoned the idea. They'd never learn.

But if all combatting participants would just wise up and listen to their more open-minded younger generations (I'm looking at you, too, Republicans and Democrats), I hope I see in my lifetime a move forward as a more united planet. It shouldn't matter what our beliefs (or non-beliefs) are or even if you accept the Bible's interpretation of Jesus; it's the lesson imbued that we should all strive for: acceptance, tolerance and kindness. Kumbaya and all that stuff!

Whew. Off my soapbox...

But while we're on the topic of "wars," there's an entirely different kind of war going on in Kansas one fateful Halloween night; a bitter old woman has declared war on three trick-or-treaters from Hell! It all leads to....murderrrrrr. This is just one of the darkly comical tales of horror in my short story collection Twisted Tales From Tornado Alley. Check it out here!