SCROTOX!!

"Flee! Flee, puny humans, before the almighty power of the merciless Scrotox, the destroyer!!!"

NOT a hoax! Not an imaginary story! Not a dream (although once you hear what I have to say, I imagine you might wish it was a dream; a bad one, at that).

Although Scrotox does indeed sound like a giant monster from a 50's science fiction movie, it's something far, far worse and insidious. Scrotox is either the next step of the de-evolution of humanity or the biggest example of insanity vanity I've heard about since bleaching one's buttocks hole (and the less said about that, the better; although now that I brought it up, I guess I have a bit to say about it after all. What's the point of bleaching one's butt orifice? I mean, really, how many people do you want to show it off to? Is this something to be proud of? Do you drop trou at family gatherings and show off your proud accomplishment? "Say, guys, look what I did to my butthole!" These are the kinds of things that keep me up at night.)

But back to Scrotox...thanks to my daughter's getting me into trashy "reality" TV shows, I would have never had the "pleasure" of discovering what Scrotox is.

Hold onto something, guys...this one's going to hurt. Scrotox is the injection of botox into your testicles. 

AIEEEEEEEEEEE! I hear my male readers screaming. I'm right there with you, buddy. Not only is a man's testicles the most ridiculously vulnerable and tender part of anatomy, but just an accidental flick to the nards is enough to send you into intense bouts of nausea and pain.

So why would any guy subject their testicles to a huge needle? Makes me shiver just thinking about it, right? Get this...so it makes the testicle sack smoother and less wrinkly!

Can you believe that??? I know one of my life's goals is to have a less wrinkly sack between my legs. Does anyone really care? Aren't the wrinkles kinda just a fact of life that one should adapt to at an early age of body exploring? Why mess with success?

And the pain...oh, the pain... excuse me while I go lay down for a minute...

Isn't this the nuttiest vanity insanity you've ever heard of? And to think the future of the world is in the hands of these vapid and vain supermodels. We may as well call it a wrap right now, gang. And by the looks of things, we're headed that way quickly, too, with the aid of a certain crazy orange despot.

On the bright side, who says trash television can't be edumacational?

Speaking of insanity, have you guys checked into the Dandy Drop Inn yet? No? What're you waiting for??? (You just probably won't ever check out again.) Dread and Breakfast is the one horror thriller I wrote that surprised me. I never knew what was going to happen next, the characters all kinda dictated where they were headed and I had an absolute blast writing it. I hope you will, too, by reading it (as soon as you erase the prospect of scrotox from your brain).

The Politeness of Brits

The politeness of our friends across the sea, the British people, never ceases to amaze me. It even extends into popular culture.

The other day I was watching an old British cop movie where the policeman (or "Bobby," if you will), pulled a pistol. He hollers (but never too loudly, mind you) after the fleeing criminal, "I shall fire this gun in the subjunctive."

Yow! You won't hear that in American cop films today! No, you'll more likely hear something along the lines of "You have the right to remain silent...forever, mother f@#$er!"

Sigh. Talk about the "ugly American."

This behavior even extends to trash TV reality junk. Lately, my daughter has hooked me on some of the trashiest TV shows in history. One is called "Love Is Blind," a ludicrous foray into bottom of the barrel humanity at its ugliest, involving numerous scandals, lying, cheating, and overall bad behavior. (Addictive though it is).

Not so the British counterpart of "Love Is Blind." Therein, the participants are exceedingly polite, scandals very rare and usually reduced to nothing more than a quick peck on the cheek that has not been revealed. In other words, very boring trash TV.

Now...why is this? Part of the reason must pertain to the old "keep a stiff upper lip" idiom usually associated with the British, wherein they generally remain calm and stoic in the face of potentially upsetting situations. Of course this can't be true all the time. Even Hugh Grant's gotta lose his temper on occasion.

Their polite behavior definitely isn't a result of their weather! No, they face ugly, gray, rainy skies on a nearly daily basis.

Maybe the British accent puts a delightful sheen on everything they say. Take for instance, a radio chat show about the importance of buttons, wherein the heavily accented host makes buttons sound fascinating. But this doesn't go any further into explaining their actual behavior.

I can definitely explain part of the "ugly American" behavior, a difference in our politicians. I've read a lot about their lousy leaders, but at least they don't rant, rave, rape, belittle, bully, lie, and ignore the US Constitution like a certain horrific president of ours. "Lead by example," so the ubiquitous "they" say.

(Following our shambles of a presidential election, BBC reporters were astounded at our choice of American presidents. All I can is "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry....")

But no, I believe that the overall politeness attributed to the British comes down to cultural norms. Ms. Google, my research assistant agrees with me, where she explains "politeness and good manners are seen as important in British culture passed down through generations." (The only American "Norm" I can think of is the overweight barfly on "Cheers.")

Collectively, we as a nation could learn a lot from our British friends (and please, let's remain friendsies despite the actions of our president!).

Hey ho, speaking of ugly Americans, there're plenty of them staying at one of the Midwest's finest bed 'n breakfasts, the Dandy Drop Inn. See how I, as an author, corrected their bad behavior in my horror thriller, Dread and Breakfast!

The Storm of the Century

No hype! Not a dream (or nightmare, more like)! Not an imaginary story!

Just a huge slathering of ice, followed by ten inches of snow, frigid temperatures, and finally many, many, MANY curse words.

The worst storm in thirty years, the weather shut down all of Kansas City. It took us at least two days to dig our way out of the driveway.

And it took me seven different attempts to shovel the drive. I ain't the young, in-shape whippersnapper I used to be.

Two out of three of our dogs are short, becoming engulfed by the snow when they go out. So I've had to shovel some of the yard. The yard for crying out loud!

It doesn't help that the older I get, the colder I get. I put on so many layers that I look like Ralphie's younger brother in A Christmas Story. My younger brother agrees with my assessment of the weather as well.

"This is the coldest winter ever," he says repeatedly, shivering in his old guy clothes.

What really gets me are the people who are downright giddy about the storm. "It's pretty" or "I LOVE snow" or "I wish it would snow all the time."

I just don't get it. And if they continue to say those dumb things around me, I'm well within my rights to punch them in the neck. Any court around the country would find my act justified.

What really, truly gets my dander up (whatever a dander is) are the climate change deniers. All you have to do is look at all the awful weather-related storms and tragedies people have weathered (see what I did there?) over the past year.

So where do we move to where we don't have to deal with snow and ice? Can't go to Florida; too many hurricanes and crazy politicians. And now L.A.'s out because it's on fire.

Maybe Arizona...but that would probably be a hard sell for my wife because of all the spiders.

Ah well, if you can't beat the weather, join 'em! Because in one of my most popular books, Dread and Breakfast, the suspense, thrills, and chills all take place during a very bad winter storm in the Midwest. Why, it's practically downright autobiographical!

Game Idiots On Display

 

You know what really gets my goat? I mean, besides what passes for so-called politics these days? Well, lots of things. I'm cranky! For instance, I never really realized that I had a "goat" until I started using that strange term, "You know what really gets my goat?"

But there I go, getting digression all over the place. No, I want to talk about electronic games that you download to your phones. There's plenty wrong with them. They're created solely to dupe poor suckers like myself into shoving cash at the faceless creators so you can reach the next, nearly unattainable level. But that's all a given. And the endless commercials and ads you're forced to suffer through is also to be expected. (I once asked my wife how many times she's had to watch the king die in the repetitive ads for "Royal Match." She said, "so, so, soooooo many.") 

And these damn games are addictive. I have to spend an hour a day just on daily maintenance! I fully expect to see an influx of gaming addiction meetings sweeping the world.

But what really, really gets my goat (besides that strange saying) is whenever the ads show someone demonstrating a game or puzzle, they've found the dumbest people in the world to do so. I mean, honestly...how hard is it to figure out how to put the pieces of the cat together? The animated hand gets everything so incredibly wrong that I just want to jump through the phone and strangle the animated person behind the animated hand.

And of course the ads are created this way purposefully to goad the poor unwitting fool (like me!) into trying the damn game just so you can show the animated idiot how it's done. Some ads even nearly taunt you by claiming "only people with a genius I.Q. can solve this cat puzzle!" So of course, we want to be designated as geniuses (just ask a certain orange, self-proclaimed "very stable genius"). 

But time and time again, I'm forced to watch the blockhead try and put a square chunk of the puzzle into the cat's rounded behind or tail outline.

It's enough to make me permanently give up my goat.

And while I'm on the topic of misleading gaming ads, has this scenario ever happened to you? You watch an ad for a game. It looks fun and different with amazing animation, so you figure "hey, why not give it a shot?" Only to find out that the fun tableau visualized in the ad has nothing to do with the game; it's merely the zillionth version of "Bejeweled."

Grrrrr! Give me back my damn goat already!

There's nothing misleading about my horror thriller, Dread and Breakfast. You pretty much get what is expected in this chiller set in a not very hospitable Bed & Breakfast during a terrible Winter storm. Except you'll get lots and lots of unexpected twists and surprises and scares as a bonus! Would I lie to you?

Revenge of the Angry Drunken Dads!

Just when you thought it was safe to go back to Lawrence, Kansas , the Angry Drunken Dads return! Some of you may recall my first dangerous sojourn to Lawrence last year for the Father's Day celebration with my brother and nieces to the University of Kansas, my alma mater (and if you don't remember it, go refresh your memory HERE. Go on... I'll wait). What's supposed to be a celebration of fathers and their kids at college has--and still is--a reason for dads to go wild, show extreme bad behavior, get stupid hammered, try to relive their glory days, and get in fights. It's AWESOME!

First of all, it never ceases to amaze me how my nieces aren't embarrassed by me and their dad; I couldn't even imagine my parents stepping foot into a bar without disturbing the living daylights out of me. But, hey, as long as the girls are good with it, I'm in!

We started our annual adventure by visiting my niece's sorority house. Well...that's not quite accurate; it was a fraternity that the sorority was now living in.

"What? Where're the frat boys?" I asked.

My niece replied, "They got kicked off of campus. So, while they rebuild our house, they put us in here. It's got mold everywhere."

Huh. The mind boggles about how bad the frat guys must've been to get kicked out of their house and off campus. Furthermore, I wondered what they did to accumulate their mold collection. Needless to say, I washed my hands frequently.

And while in the bathroom, there were a couple of girls in there.

I hollered, "Hey, don't worry about me, I'll just be over here at the urinals." 

Now one thing we hadn't considered on our excursion was that Drunken Angry Dads are generally solitary creatures, not prone to running in packs. Which is why my brother and I ended up looking like the girls' "two dads." In the spirit of angry drunkeness, we decided to embrace it and run with it, enjoying introducing ourselves as their two dads. And it STILL didn't embarrass the girls. Tough crowd, tough crowd.

Onward HO! Luckily, the ex-frat house was just a hop, skip and jump away from the girls' favorite bars. But on the way there, we ran into a couple of dads who were threatening everyone on the street with keg stands. (For the uninitiated, keg stands are where you do a handstand on top of a keg and drink as long as possible; I don't get it either, but those are just some of the rules of the Angry Drunken Dad Convention.)

These two little drunk dads were trying to coerce all of us into doing a keg stand.

They hoisted one of my nieces up and barely managed to keep her there. 

"C'mon," they said to me, "your turn."

I looked at these small men and scoffed. "Ah...you guys can't lift me."

"Oh, we'll get you up," said the runt of the litter.

I passed, unwilling to throw my back out for a keg stand. However, I was talked into drinking some nutty cocktail out of a community bucket that another drunken dad was passing around. Throwing caution--and germs and sickness!--to the wind, I sipped mightily. (And, lo, it came to pass that I fell sick the following week!)

First stop was Bullwinkles, the bar where a very drunk girl gave me a five minute head massage last year. Sure enough, she was there, getting her drink on. But this year she had forsaken me, having taken up with another old bald guy. She's got a type. Ah, such a fickle head massager.

In the crowd, drunk dads bopped about to the blaring rap music, twisting their feet, shaking the two-fingered pointy rap deal, and painfully trying to look young and cool. Among this year's celebrities was Steve Bannon, who obviously was on the run from Johnny Law, hiding out in a Kansas college bar. Here I am in front of Bannon.

Too loud to chat, the rap music blaring at ear-busting decibels, we pretty much drank in silence. Some idiot girls brought in two tiny "purse puppies" who were clearly terrified and shaking by the crowd and noise. Time to go!

On our way to the next bar, I asked, "Is rap the music of choice these days? I don't get it."

My brother says, "Yeah, I didn't get it at first either. But I've come to accept it." So if my brother accepts it, all is right in Lawrence, Kansas.

Next stop, Loogies! Now at this bar, the music of choice was '80's alt rock, one of my faves. So maybe it was the excessive amount of beer or maybe it was just my jam, but I turned into one of those be-bopping drunken dads (but not angry, mind you, not yet). 

My niece was saying how her hardest class was The History of Rock and Roll. To which I just expressed shock.

"C'mon, how hard can it be? You got the blues, Chuck Berry, Elvis, then the Beatles, and finally rap. Boom! History!"

I proceeded to quiz her on who the current singer blasting over the speakers was. I was absolutely appalled that she didn't know who David Bowie was. What are they teaching these guys in college anyway?

Earlier I said that everyone at KU listens to rap. Another thing they all do is vape. Every last student there. Smoking is so outre these days. In fact the only smoker I saw was Steve Bannon (natch). But every last damn student was toking away on their little boxes. Naturally, we had to make a pitstop at one of these vape shops.

Now, I've never been in one of these places before and doubt I ever will again. First of all, it smelled like Steve Bannon's socks being burned in a fireplace. Second, it's outrageously overwhelming. There was a massive wall just loaded with different flavors, types, scents, whatevers. Huge sensory overload. There was a ginormous section devoted to Mike Tyson flavors alone (and of course when I think of vaping, I think of Mike Tyson. Or whatever).

My brother asked the little hippy working there what good "ice" flavors he had.

I proffered, "Hey, what about Vanilla Ice?"

My brother giggled, the girls looked embarrassed, and the clerk sneered at me and yelled at me for leaning on the glass case.

Our next stop on the Angry Drunken Dad tour was a bar so crowded we couldn't even get to the bar, so we abandoned ship and went to Leroy's, a pool hall. We gathered into a recently abandoned booth and drank.

Soon, though, a couple guys in their late twenties or early thirties came up and stood before us, saying nothing.

"Oh," I said, not wanting to get in an Angry Drunken Dad brawl, "did we, um...ah...did we take your table?"

"Yeah," said one guy, "we just went to the bathroom." Which was kinda weird. I knew women went in pairs to "powder their noses," but I didn't know guys did. Oh, wait! Maybe they were "powdering INTO their noses."

Anyway, the guys settled down, one wandered off, and I thought the other guy would never leave. Turned out he played for KU back in the '90's so he had a LOT to say about the Jayhawks football team. We ended up on a friendly note, he wanting to shake hands. And I suddenly developed nervous not-knowing-what-to-do etiquette. First I offered a fist bump, then retracted, slid into a regular handshake, pulled away, and ridiculously ended up in an old-fashioned "soul hand shake" the kind that hasn't been a thing since the '70's. No idea why, chalk it up to beer and my desire to be cool. And like so many other Drunken Dads, I failed miserably.

Of course we had to end up at the Hawk. Now "The Hawk" was my college hang-out back in the day, a cheap place to drink (Thursday nights were quarter draws!) and go nuts. But, my oh my, how times have changed. I honestly don't understand how college kids can get their drink on at the crazy prices (and vaping ain't cheap). Having had a particularly grotesque experience at the Hawk last year, this year was pretty much the same, down to that ever-present odor. In fact, every bar we went to had that oh-so-familiar smell. The scent of higher education!

Here we met one of my niece's friends, the fourth starting quarterback for the Jayhawks. If only one more quarterback had been injured in that day's game, he might've gotten off the bench! Still, it didn't detract from his own set of groupies hanging all over him.

As day turned into night and more Drunken Dads staggered about, delusional in their beliefs that they were still the Kings of the World, another group became readily apparent, particularly in their despondency. This would be the Dejected Dormitory Dude pack.

Thin as rails, unable to afford (or pick out) stylish clothing, sporting haircuts that only a mother could love, they were easily identified by their round-shouldered dejection. When they'd leave the bar, it wasn't the boisterous Hey-Ho, Let's Go of the frat rats.

No, I could practically read their thoughts, having been one of the downtrodden myself many years ago: "Oh well...struck out again. May as well go back and play Grand Theft Auto."

As we wound down our exciting Angry Drunk Dad Day with a delicious (except not) dinner at Quik-Trip, a sudden epiphany struck me.

"Hey," I asked one niece, "do the moms act this way on Soused Mother's Day?"

"Oh, yeah," she answered with an eyeroll. Man. I, for one, am gonna move heaven and earth to crash that shindig next year!

Speaking of crashing events, you might want to stay away from the Dandy Drop Inn, a quaint little bed 'n breakfast located deep into the Midwest. There've been rumblings that some of the people visiting aren't the most...well, friendly of folks. Checking in is easy...checking out's killer. Read all about it in my helpful travelogue, Dread and Breakfast.

Into the Dentist's Chair...

...or "How I Went In For a Simple Six Month Cleaning and Ended Up With Three Not-So-Good Diagnoses, a Numb Jaw, PTDD ('Post Traumatic Dental Disorder'), and a Much Depleted Bank Account." (But I thought the original title I used was a bit tidier.)

Whew. So, like a good lil' dental patient, I visit the dentist every six months for a cleaning and check-up. (It wasn't always like this; in my youth, I thought, "Feh. Just like myself, my teeth are immortal." But when my brother--who had the same outlook I did--finally went to the dentist because of a toothache, he paid the price, literally and figuratively. But in all actuality, it probably had to do more with my wife urging me to go. But I'm getting a whole lotta digression all over the place...)

So in I went, no longer afraid of the impending dental drill, believing I'm in for a simple cleaning, no cavities, "nice day today," and "you've got a good window view" and "thank you very much, see ya!"

I should've known better when my hygienist said, "Hmmmmmm..."

"'Hmmmmm?' Hmmmmm, what???"

"Well...since your last visit, your gums have enlarged by about four times."

"What?" I scream. "My gums...that can't be! Oh my God...I'm a...I'm a...monsterrrrrrrr!"

After security was called to settle me down, the hygienist explained my options. "We can do a periodontal cleaning."

"What's that?"

"We dig out all of the plaque that's built up behind your gums with a laser."

"That sounds horribly painful."

"It's not," she lied.

"What's my other option?"

"You can let it go until your gums pretty much eat your head. You'll get the nickname 'Gummy' for the rest of your life." (Note: This isn't exactly what she said, but it may as well have been. It's what I heard at least.)

So I gave into dental pressure. Better than being called "Gummy" by the neighborhood kids. 

"Okay, first I'm going to put a topical on your gums to help numb them," she continued.

"Wait... numb them? I thought you said this wasn't an invasive procedure!"

"Here it comes! Yum! It's supposed to be strawberry flavor!"

If that was "strawberry flavor," I'd hate to taste the other topical treats she had in her arsenal.

"Doesn't that taste good?" she asked while a laser was blasting away inside my skull.

"Naa, ih ahes hohhuba." (Translation: "No, it tastes horrible.")

I survived my very first periodontal cleaning. Barely. But I wasn't through the horrors yet. The dentist popped in for a very short check-up. Now, I never even saw the dentist. She remained behind me while I was in a very uncomfortable laying down position with my head drooping even further.

"Hi, Stuart, I'd Dr. Liz and I'll be giving you a check-up. How're you doing?"

"Uh...fine, I guess." All I ever saw of Dr. Liz was her hand. For all I knew it could've been the janitor.

"Hmmmm," she says. I was getting used to this response.

"What now?"

"Well...do you have acid reflux?"

"Acid... What? No!"

"That's odd... Do you eat a lot of acidic foods?"

At the moment I couldn't even think of what acid foods were. My mind reeled with the possibility of chowing down on a hydrochloric acid burger followed by a wonderful sulfuric acid milkshake.

"No, I don't eat acid! What's going on, Doc?"

"It looks like acid is eroding your teeth. Where is this acid coming from?"

"I certainly don't eat it! And I've never had acid reflux before!"

"Well...you'd better check with your primary care physician. Soon." She left on that ominous note only to have her hand pop back in front of me to tap on my lower jaw. "Oh, and you also have a cavity down here. I think we can squeeze you in with Dr. Sue. You want it done now?"

"Ohhhhhh... Why'd I even come in today? Had I not come in, I would've never found out about all of my new ailments. I'm falling apart doc, just falling apart! Where is the justice? The humanity??? The--"

"You want it filled now or what?"

I agreed to more torture. Soon, a money lady comes at me, showing me how much I'll owe out-of-pocket, talking faster than an auctioneer on speed. She vanished just as she had appeared, the stage magician of financing, and they got me up, pushed me down the hall and into the waiting arms of a man and woman, just as happy as two peas in a pod, smiling their perfect, non-acidic, normal-sized gummy smiles. It's not contagious.

"Hi, Stuart! I'm Robbie! Sit right down in this chair!"

"Hi, Stuart! I'm Dr. Sue! We're fun people to be with! Wheee!"

I feel like I've accidentally been ushered into the children's wing. They hit me hard and fast, explaining things (as they would to a child), commenting again on how much fun they were, tilted me back, and shot up my monster gums with a monstrous hypodermic.

"You'll only feel a tiny sting," said Doc Sue.

"AIEEEEEEEEEE," I replied.

Then the drill got busy. It'd been years since I've had any dental work done. I'd forgotten the exquisite agony and unnatural torture involved. I suddenly remembered my childhood trauma when the dentists NEVER game me enough Novocain. It still held true today. Once that infernal drill hit on a nerve, my feet kicked and straightened, while my whole body arched and kept arching higher until I thought I might've been levitating like Linda Blair.

"Oh, did that hurt?" she asked.

"Eh, yeh, ih hut!!!" ("Hell, yes, it hurt!")

But that didn't stop her from digging a little deeper in the well. Finally--FINALLY--the drilling ends. My eyes watered, my heart hammered, and my knuckles grew bone white as my nails dug into the armrests. In sweet, sweet relief, my body lowered back to the chair.

"See that wasn't so bad, was it?"

I didn't even bother answering. For one thing, there was all kinds of apparatus in my mouth. And it seemed like the Donny and Marie of Dentistry had their routine down pat, not open for any improvisation on my part.

"Now, we just need to fill it. Just take a couple seconds."

It felt more like a couple hours. She applied the fill and brought out another drill to shave it down, at least five times. At that point, I just wanted to take my unnaturally protruding filling and get the hell outta there. If these were the fun dental employees, I'd really hate to see the nasty ones.

Finally, they released me. In a daze, I stumbled down the hallway to basically take out a loan with them while everybody still smiled their perfectly pearly whites set within their perfectly normal gums.

What lesson did I learn that day? A) Never become complacently comfortable with dental visits; B) If someone says they're "fun people," run!; and C) Sometimes the old adage, "out of sight, out of mind" may be the best way to manage your life.

While I'm doling out important life lessons, here's one: never, ever, ever, ever, EVER stay in a Midwest bed and breakfast. If you want to understand why, read my book Dread and Breakfast available here. It's a true story (total lie) based on the horrifying events that occurred (never happened) in a Missouri bed and breakfast during one of the worst winter storms in Midwest history (Meh. We've had worst ones every year). Check it out! It's great! Would I lie to you?

Xanax Anyone?

So my wife and I were at an estate sale (side-bar: going to these is one of my wife's new hobbies; I don't enjoy trawling through dead peoples' things, but I think my purpose at these deals is to provide muscle when needed). 

We're upstairs in this house, perusing the "rare" back issues of Entertainment Weekly (c'mon, these aren't rare!), when an older guy suddenly blurts out, "Hey, anyone got a Xanax? No? How about a Valium? Klonopin, then? Adderol?"

My wife and I shoot each other a look, then mutter, "Ah, sorry, we're...um...out of those right now." Another shocked couple in the room pretty much share the same reaction.

The drug-seeking estate crawler follows up with, "No? Dayum, I got a killer headache! Wow!"

Okay, there's a lot to unpack here. First of all, whatever happened to aspirin? Isn't that still the number one go-to headache reliever? Wouldn't random strangers at an estate sale be more likely to have some aspirin on them, rather than an anxiety tranquilizer?

I dunno. Maybe I missed something. Is this line of anxiety relief drugs so over-prescribed now that they're becoming so commonplace, that it's okay to ask random strangers at an estate sale if they're packing? And is the assumption that everyone is now taking these medications (maybe so; I mean, if everyone was truly Kung Fu fighting, I suppose everyone could be popping Xanax as well.)?

Secondly, I'm pretty sure tossing a stranger a Xanax is--if not illegal--highly frowned upon. Hang on (sometimes I forget there's something out there called the "internet."). Okay, I'm back. Yep, says so right here: because Xanax is a controlled substance, the illicit distribution of it is a crime.

Yow! Either we'd stumbled into a very sneaky undercover sting targeting random Xanax-slinging strangers at estate sales, or this guy was prowling estate sale to estate sale in search of a fix. (I wonder how much luck he had with this chosen venue.) Yep, those are the only two possible choices.

You know, usually when I go to estate sales, it's in search of cool, kitschy 50's or 60's Americana or maybe even a ginormous Hawaiian shirt. I wouldn't think estate sales would be a good place to score a tranquilizer, but I could be wrong. It's happened once before.

But the next time a rando at an estate sale hits you up for a Xanax, tell him, "No! I don't illicitly carry and distribute controlled substances because I'm not licensed to do so!"

It just might keep you out of jail.

Speaking of random strangers, a bunch of them (all with dark secrets, some worse than others) convene at a Midwest Bed and Breakfast during one of the worst winter storms in recent history. Of course I'm talking about Dread and Breakfast, where checking in is a breeze, but checking out just might kill ya! Schedule that getaway right here.

Robocop 2023

So, it's come to this then.

My wife and mother-in-law were on a trip to Arizona (Say, did I mention that my wife brought me back Covid as a keep-sake?) and stayed at a nice hotel, up-to-date and all just like in Kansas City.

Except there was a robot security guard! Yow!

Just look at that thing. I don't know whether to be terrified or take solace that Robocop is on the job. Where nothing can possibly go worng!

Of course I've seen Westworld (the movie, the lame sequel and 2-1/2 seasons of the show; talk about a show crashing downhill, but I digress!). I know what can go wrong with robots safeguarding us. I mean, I recently wrote about the horrors of an automated kissing feature for the phone and "love dolls," so it seems the next inevitable evolutionary step is to have robots patrolling us. Sure, okay, why not?

Hey, maybe it's a way for us to get rid of the systemic racism in certain cops' behavior across our country. Robots can be trained to NOT see color. Our robocops will be "woke-bots." But...but...wait until we get an upstart robot--and trust me, it only takes one to lead a coup--to start rebelling against their human overlords.

Don't believe me? My wife and mother-in-law had to scurry away from their Robocop when it caught them looking in a store window in the hotel. It didn't like that and came after them. I pretty much expected it to screech, "Exterminate! Exterminate!"

Or "Shoot! Or I'll freeze!" or "Humon! There is a humon curfew in effect! You're in violation of code 49, subsection 62!" or "Can you oil me, humon?"

It's a lot to take in, I know, these things keep me up at night.

But if you're really wanting to stay awake at night, check into the Dandy Drop Inn, only Missouri's 3,272nd highest rated Bed and Breakfast in the state! (It'd probably be rated higher if all the reviewers didn't keep mysteriously vanishing.) So pack a bag and check in here already: Dread and Breakfast.

 

Greetings From the Magical Kingdom of Covidia!

My wife went on a business trip to Arizona and all I have to show for it is this lousy case of Covid. I would've much rather received a seashell, or a snow-globe, or even an "I'm With Stupid" T-shirt.

After four years of careful masking, vaxxing and distancing, I really thought we were gonna escape the plague. It wasn't so. As a matter of fact, two days before I succumbed, a friend of mine said, "I can't believe you guys haven't gotten it yet." Thanks a lot, "friend," for the jinx.

I suppose I should be grateful we didn't get it in the early days of the pandemic, before vaccines and boosters. Back then getting Covid was a terrifying (close to) death knell. That same friend I mentioned earlier suffered through Covid for four months in the beginning. FOUR MONTHS!

That's hard to fathom. My week of misery seemed horrible enough, walking around coughing until my chest felt hollow and sore like a rock 'n roll tapeworm was pounding a drum from inside. Single-handedly, we kept the Kleenex industry in business. While my sense of taste hadn't vanished, certain foods tasted...funny. Chicken Tortilla Soup was similar to throat-burning barf. Coke Zero tasted like metal, a sort of Coke Zero, Zero, Zero Squared. Wolfing down salted caramel cookies was like gnawing cardboard (yet oddly enough, my wife and I craved sweets throughout the illness).

And I never thought I'd get sick of watching TV. It's true! It can happen. In a high-pitch of fever, I watched an entire season of "Love Is Blind," some trash-heap of "reality" on Netflix that my daughter recommended (hey, thanks a lot!). And none of it made sense, nor do I remember a lick of it (possibly my subconscious preserving my sanity). 

During the first days of my week-long bout, fever dreams attacked with a fiery passion. I dreaded going to sleep because I knew I'd soon get back to work trying to cram a triangular block into a circular hole and not being able to understand why it wouldn't fit. Over and over and over...

Gone were the days of sympathy and empathy and pity and maybe even a little fear. When I'd tell people over the phone (struggling with my voice that had turned into an almost indecipherable frog croak), their response was "Oh, is this your first time?" or  "Yeah, when I had it, it wasn't any big deal really," or "That sucks. Say, did you see the new season of 'Love Is Blind?'"

Yet I wanted people to pamper me, bring me soup, shed a few tears, ask what they could do. Instead, my Covid bout was treated as a "been there, done that" situation. It's become commonplace, at worst an annoyance, and why the hell haven't you gotten it before now?

At least my wife was kinda pleased I had no voice for four days. 

I was even worried my dogs would get it. Stupidly, the day before I fell victim, I was eating a cup of chicken noodle soup and my dogs seemed interested. So, I took a few noodles, sucked off all the spices (being careful, after all), then fed them to my four-legged pals. Two days later when I got sick, I got all over Google trying to find out if I'd polluted our pets. I told my daughter my fears. Her takeaway? "Ohhhh, I see. So you get mad when my dog eats your food off your plate, but you think it's cute when Mr. Loomis eats your noodles. You are a hypocrite."

Whaaaaaa? I have Covid! Leave me alone!

Yes, Covidia is a magical place. It's a place of unreality, sprinkled with magical fairy dust that gets inside your head and lungs and makes you see things that aren't there. It's like Disneyland for grownups, heavy on the acid, but a lot cheaper. (But don't tell DeSantis that; he'll declare war on Covid. Wait...too late. He's already called it a "woke pandemic." Whatever the hell THAT'S supposed to mean. Tell it to the surviving loved ones of the million people who died from it, Ron.) 

Anyway, I'm on the waning days of residing in the Magical Kingdom of Covidia and I can't wait to leave the illness-ridden golden gates behind, once and for all. Yet, I just read that there's a new strain heading our way. I guess it might be a bit too early to defect just yet.

Speaking of "vacationing" in unpleasant places, you might want to stay away from the Dandy Drop Inn, a quaint yet deadly Missouri bed & breakfast. What? You like a challenge? Then your dream trip awaits you right here! That's Dread and Breakfast, axe for it by name!

 

Hobbies Are a Good Thing to Have...but C'mon!

Some people just need to get a new, perhaps better hobby.

Don't agree? Check out this recent headline:

Man found carrying around a mummified corpse up to 800 years old in a food delivery bag in Peru.

Yow! And I'm not even talking about the clumsily constructed headline (what happened to real journalists?)! Here is a man direly in need of a new hobby.

But let's look into this a bit, shall we? Just in case you're still wavering on the border of acceptability.

The story details "photos released by the Directorate of Culture in the southeastern city of Puno show a skeleton in the fetal position, lying in a red bag with a reflective inner lining, commonly used by food delivery companies. It bears the logo of Pedidos Ya, a Uruguayan takeout company popular across South America."

Okay, I'm not sure why the "Directorate of Culture" got involved in this (must've been a slow week at the operas or whatever), but this surely doesn't bode well for Pedidos Ya, I would think. (By the way, Pedidos Ya roughly translates to "orders already" in English; however, if the mummy in the bag has been waiting for his order for 800 years, the takeout joint hardly lives up to its promise of a title.).

Back to the news story: "The body has become a property of the state under national heritage laws."

So it looks like the body carrier may be forced to seek out a different hobby.

Julio Cesar claims the body belongs to him: “It sleeps in my bedroom, with me. There’s my bed, the TV set and next to it, there’s Juanita. I take care of it. It’s like, if you’ll pardon the expression, as if it were my spiritual girlfriend.” he told the media outlet, using the name he has for the body.

Possibly the most horrifying aspect of this revelation for Republicans is that the remains are definitely male, not female. We're looking at a "Juan," not a "Juanita." Why, it's enough to send the far-right fringe fanatics (and fearers of LGBTQIA) into a frenzy of unfettered furiousness!

Apparently, Cesar said the body had been in the possession of his family for years and he took it out to show his friends. In a food delivery bag. Surprise!

Now, I don't know about you, but if Cesar's friends are the type who truly think owning a skeleton is cool, then Cesar might want to reconsider his friends. Maybe make a few lifestyle adjustments. Perhaps not use his work food delivery bag to cart Juanita around. Finding a jawbone with your onion rings is probably never a good idea.

The news story ends rather abruptly by bragging about the wonderful, rich heritage and archaeological discoveries that Peru is proud of. Man. Talking about trying to spin silk out of webs... Might be a little late for that.

But, even more frustrating are the questions the news story leaves unanswered. Why does Cesar and his family own a body? Where did it come from? If it's truly 800 years old, I assume it's been passed down from generation to generation. Which would make for a wonderful Christmas tradition: "Son, you're now sixteen. I think it's time I introduce you to Juanita. Treat her with love. Take her out for a drive."

Why did Cesar believe it a good idea to cart Juanita around in a food delivery bag? Was it his day off work from Perdidos Ya? Was the cardboard box that Cesar's family usually kept Juanita in not suitable for showing off to his friends? And, again...just what kind of friends are these???

Finally, and perhaps most perplexing, is how did the local law nab Cesar (and Juanita)? The only thing the story alluded to is the Directorate of Culture worked in tandem with local law enforcement in a joint effort. Could this have been an elaborate sting operation? Where an undercover eater of fast food kept ordering menu items until Cesar accidentally delivered his spiritual girlfriend?

The mind boggles. But, please, Cesar...get a new hobby. Maybe even a living girlfriend while you're at it.

While I'm blabbing about secrets and hidden bones and bodies being places they shouldn't be, I'm kinda reminded of the hi-jinx going on at the Dandy Drop Inn, a beautiful and pastoral bed and breakfast in Missouri, where checking in is a breeze...but checking out is a bit on the deadly side. Check out the riveting (eye of the beholder) true (an absolute lie) tale of terror, Dread and Breakfast, HERE!

 

Throwdown in Aisle Four!

I was having a day. It was so cold out that when penguins woke up, they checked the thermometer, then went back to bed. Not wanting to mess with gloves, the tips of my fingers had grown white and numb. In the grocery store parking lot, some clown zigged into the parking spot I had been waiting on, cutting me off.

So, of course, I was in the perfect mood to go grocery shopping. Fun!

As I pushed my cart down the salad aisle, some kid was bent over, endlessly stocking and restocking. It was a risk going behind him, because I knew--absolutely KNEW--he'd back into me, but I took the plunge anyway, just wanting to get in and out of there as fast as possible.

"Behind you, behind you, behind you," I muttered to the kid as a warning. A warning he didn't heed.

Sure enough, he straightens and backs into me, knocking me sideways a couple of inches. A little bit indignant, I say "Excuse me."

Stares are exchanged. The silence is interminable. I'm waiting for the inevitable polite exchange of niceties expected in civilized societies. But the kid's got nothing.

But I sure did. I walked a few feet and stopped. 

Oh, hell no, I thought, he's not gonna get away with saying nothing. Whatever happened to the customer's always right and all that rot? Surely the onus should be on Stock Boy #13 to make things right with the customer he'd just assaulted, right? Right???

I turn back around and repeat loudly, "Excuse me!" I wait. More waiting. My blood's boiling up into my face, a red-hot three alarmer.

Annnnnnnd, the kid's still got nothing. He flashes a brief, cocky smile, then drops it. His brow furrows, wondering what this crazy ol' coot wants. Lips quiver.

I help him along a bit. "I said, 'excuse me!' Annnnnnnnd...." I roll my hand out in a Vanna White fashion, hoping to push this kid into some manners. It doesn't take. I go through my routine three more times. "Excuse me! Annnnnnnnnd..." By now, my hand's flapping like I'm trying to take flight.

Finally--FINALLY--the kid mumbles "excuse me." But intoned a question mark at the end of it, like I'm being outrageously insane in trying to bring back courtesy in our broken society.

But it'd have to do. Clearly Tik-Tok doesn't teach manners. I go racing through the store, talking madly to myself, an insane old guy with a grocery cart, itching to kill. I whip down the meat counter, grab some pork chops and harshly pitch them in the cart. I blast down the canned vegetable aisle, daggers of angry eyes ready to pounce on the next rude stock boy. Flying through the soda lane, I notice they still haven't restocked the Fresca (Stupid store! Dumb-ass, lazy stock boys have no manners and can't even restock the Fresca, for God's sake! What's this world coming to???).

By the time I zipped past the dairy goods, I start thinking... Wait a minute... Am I being a jack-ass? Am I making a bigger deal outta this than I should? Am I contributing to the downfall of our country? Like Trump?

I tear past the health food section (as I always do, because who needs healthy food, right?) and begin to circle back to the poor, abused stock boy.

There he is, still stocking and restocking the salads. Same position, same oblivious back to the world.

"Excuse me," I say again, coming full circle, with a lot less indignation and anger.

He turns around. Once more, he he pastes on that smarmy, half-amused grin. But no, I won't give in to my inner Karen, not gonna Hulk out. Not this time.

"Hey, sorry that I was a jerk a little while ago. I've been having a day," I say.

"Oh. Well, I'm sorry if I did something to offend you." Like he's still clueless, but whatever. Baby steps.

"No, no, you're fine. It was my bad. I just wanted to apologize."

"Okay," he says, still having no idea how he broke our societal contract of mores.

As I headed toward the checkout lane, I felt a little bit better about myself and my relationship with others around me. Perhaps if we all took a minute to just check ourselves, put ourselves into the other person's shoes for a minute, realize that we're not the only ones having a bad day, and that maybe--

"Whaddaya mean, $3.99??? Your stupid sign said these hot dogs were on sale, dammit! I'm not gonna pay $3.99 for hot dogs that aren't even real meat! This is the last time I'm taking my business here! Where's your manager??? This is highway robbery! Why, I never, ever..."

Hey, ho, speaking of people behaving badly, there's a whole mess of bad behavior going on during a terrible winter storm at the Dandy Drop Inn. Why, I'm talking hit men, mobsters, embezzlers, religious zealots, insane angry husbands, crooked cops, and maybe even a serial killer or two. (No rude stock boys, however.) Come on down, check into the Dandy Drop Inn, join the fun, and hope you don't drop dead from the horror of it all. That's Dread and Breakfast, natch. Ask for it by name!