The Wise Guy of the Round Table

 

Several weeks ago, I managed to get (most of) "the band" back together. Just as we had done over 40 years ago, laughs were spilled, beers were drunk, and stories were told. It seemed like not much had changed in all of those decades. Except, of course, there were quite a few more pounds and quite fewer hairs. And a lot of the stories dealt with all of our aches, pains, and operations. Kinda like battle wounds.

After my brother came back from the bathroom, he shook our friend's hand next to him.

He said, "my hand's not wet from washing it."

After much giggling and groaning, he further elaborated, "I don't bother washing my hands after going to the bathroom. Why bother? Your hands just get dirty again opening the bathroom door."

"That's very sound advice," I opined.

"You can learn a lot from me," he replied.

What an extremely wise man.

While on the topic of wise guys, meet Charlie Broadmoor, a struggling stand-up comic, who wishes for more of an audience. Unfortunately, a demon is in his audience one night. One who Charlie mercilessly teases about his comb-over. Things quickly go downhill from there. Read all about it in my darkly comic horror tale,

Demon With A Comb-Over.

BANNED!

I suppose it's my fault really. No one to blame but myself. To fully comprehend the following tragic tale of insanity, jump with me, if you will, into the wayback machine...

When my daughter was younger, she liked to sing. She appeared to know practically every song in the world and I'm not really sure how she learned them as I brought her up on a steady diet of alternative rock. But soon enough, my wife and I enrolled her into singing lessons. (Strike number one: Encouragement!)

Then I created an even bigger mistake. I introduced her to musicals. First, I showed her some of my favorites such as West Side Story. Appearing to really enjoy it, I sought out all of the musicals for her I could find.

And woe unto us for the day she discovered the musical, Rent. First, we watched it several times. Then she showed it to all of her friends. I grew so sick of watching--and especially hearing--Rent, that I considered hiding the DVD. But that didn't stop my daughter. She bought the soundtrack and sang along at the top of her voice in her bedroom and worst of all, the shower.

Her showers were always hour-long affairs, but they weren't quiet ones. Every night we listened to the same  musical selections from Rent. No choice. No escape.

"I'm going to go AOOOOOOOOOOOOut tonight!" issued from the shower over and over and over again, finally stamping all over my nightmares.

Enough was enough and I threw down the Mean Parent gauntlet. "Hey!" I said. "From this day on, I'm officially banning show tunes from being sung in this house!"

Of course the rule didn't stick. But to this day, if I even see the title Rent, I grow sweaty and fearful and nauseous. Let this tragic tale serve as a warning to parents everywhere. Ban show tunes before it's too late!

This has been a Public Service Announcement from the Agitated Father Coalition.

Speaking of teens in trouble, it doesn't get much worse for high schooler Tex McKenna. He's bullied, struggles with the principal, is discovering love for the first time, and suddenly has a target on his back from a potential serial killer. Complicating matters is he has just discovered he's a witch. Check out Tex and friends adventures and mystery in my Tex, the Witch Boy trilogy here!

Castration Fascination!

 

Ouch!

Recently I was visiting my daughter. The conversation turned to her new(ish) nephew.

"You wanna know why my nephew couldn't get castrated when he was born?" she asked.

I looked at her boyfriend who looked at me. 

"Castrated?" said the incredulous boyfriend. "Um...I think you mean 'circumcised.'"

As we all had a good laugh, my knees clenched together as tight as my teeth and I crossed my legs. In protective mode. The mere thought of castration gives me the heebie-jeebies.

But apparently we weren't quite done with the topic. My daughter's boyfriend (who grew up on a farm) started explaining the elaborate process of how they castrated their cows. The details don't matter (and I don't care to dwell on the topic too long), but it had to do with this really strong band they put around the cows testicles cutting off the circulation so they could lop. CHOP!

And OUCH again.

Still stubbornly staying on this very cringe-inducing topic, it turns out the BF had eaten "Rocky Mountain Oysters" before. Ugh. I'm usually pretty daring when it comes to food experimentation but eating a goat's "jewels" is above my pay-grade.

Then I started wondering why in the world would my daughter's BF's family want to castrate their cows. I mean, doesn't it make sense that the more cows you have, the more meat and milk you can hawk?

Apparently, I was wrong (something that NEVER, EVER happens; just ask my wife). Castrating male cows improves meat quality, making it more tender through "marbling," a fancy-schmancy term for fatty deposits. Wow. That was all the science I needed to know about that. But can you imagine the indignity of first having your jewels lopped off so you can be eaten later? As I write this, I'm locking my knees together more securely than Trump's classified files (wait...).

Which brings me to pity the poor plight of the eunuchs, those castrated men from the past (not so golden) olden days. Curious (yet extremely uncomfortable, mind you), I researched why in the world they'd do this to any man. Some of the reasons were punishment for crimes. Okay, fair enough, I think the act of "chemically castrating" some rapists may still be going on.

Historically, eunuchs were thought to make better royal servants with their sexual inhibitions curbed. Religious motives? Yikes! Some guys did it to themselves, thinking it aligned with their faith. Somehow I missed that lesson in Bible school.

Finally, here's the craziest reason of all: castrating men was thought to make better opera singers in the Baroque period, keeping their voices high-pitched. AIEEEEEEE! I'd shriek in a high-pitched tone too, if some kooky opera buff came at me with a pair of hedge trimmers.

Okay, I think I've milked this topic enough, ball-ieve it or not. If you'd like to know more, the BALL's in your court. (I'll be here all weekend. Ba-da-bing!)

Since I'm in a particularly juvenile mood, I may as well hawk my king of juvenile comedies, the Zach and Zora murder mystery series, guaranteed to be the only books you'll ever read about a dumb male stripper (but, PLEASE, call him a "male entertainment dancer") and his more often than not pregnant sleuth sister.  No shame in writing them, no shame in reading.

The Royalty of Weird

The other day I asked my wife if she could do my laundry. (Now before all the feminists get in an uproar, my wife kindly volunteered to take this task over from me because my knees went the way of disco and she doesn't want me crashing down the basement stairs.)

I said, "Thanks, honey. Could you start with my unspeakables?"

"Okay," she replied, "but it's 'unmentionables,' not 'unspeakables'."

"Have you seen my underwear?"

Pause. Blink. Finally, she hit me back with her most often used retort. "You're weird."

To which I responded, "Yeah? Well, you married weird."

BOOM! Mic drop. Even she had no witty comeback for that one.

Now. Let's get something straight. There's nothing wrong with being weird. I pride myself on being weird. It's far, far, far better than being "normal" or even worse, boring.

And it's worked out well for many people. There's Weird Al...and...um...Gary Busey...ah...Donny Trump?

Okay, so I can't use celebrities as a shining example of the success of being weird.

My wife won't admit it, but I think she's good with weird, too.

We're the royal King and Queen of Weird, our kingdom is Weirdopia. And I love my weird queen.

Speaking of all things weird, here's a strange little weird book of mine: Chili Run. It's kinda a lark, a comedic crime thriller based on a dream I had about being forced to run through downtown Kansas City in my tighty whities (or is it "tidy whities"? That's one controversy I've never resolved.). It's complicated. The hijinks ensue right here!