The Fall, Crawl & Bawl Ball

And there she goes! For you old-timers, do you remember these commercials that used to show up late on syndicated TV channels? Of the old lady laying on the floor and reading (quite poorly) off of cue cards and blasely announcing, "Help. I've fallen and I can't get up." The commercials that had myself and other juvie high school guys laughing and imitating all the way out to our cars to skip class?

Well, sir, I laugh no more! Never having thought it could happen to me in those invulnerable care-free days of dumb youth, now in my sixties, I stand corrected!

First a little background for those who haven't been paying attention. Over the last couple of years, arthritis has slowly, painfully taken over my body from my toes to my pretty now worthless knees to my back, and finally my thumbs. It ain't pretty. But pride still has me going upstairs to our bedroom on the second floor, even though I pretty much have to scale the stairs on all fours like Spiderman climbing a building. It usually works until I get to the top when things get scary. On the top three steps, I stand, grasp the door jam and pull myself up to safety. It's always a challenge, but I've exceeded until now. At the same time my wife happened to be out-of-town, natch.

Midnight. Friday night. For once, alcohol wasn't involved (why, you ask? Because I'm adhering to "Dry February," the shortest month of the year, double-natch). All was well until the perilous top three steps. I had almost made it, one knee lifted. And that's when my traitorous, fickle arthritic, mid-air poised knee completely decided to buckle. When the knee came down, it folded, and I fell. Hard. Mercifully I didn't go backwards down the stairs, however the left side of my chest crunched down hard on the step. Immediately, I knew I'd either broken or bruised ribs. The pain didn't stop there. My knees took quite a banging, too, to the point where they were uncomfortably numb.

Hands shaking, knees wobbling, I tried to get back to my feet to no avail. Instead I crawled up the stairs and hauled myself to the floor where I turned over, breathing deeply on the safety of the floor. BIG-ass mistake!

It took me forever just to turn over on my stomach. I couldn't sit up. My ribs and stomach muscles pained me to much and gave no support. Getting my elbows up failed several times, my arm muscles newly weakened as well. Finally, I flipped over on my stomach. Where I crawled to our bed. Now our bed is extremely high off the floor because we have an entire storage unit beneath the bed that would be the envy of John Wayne Gacy. Having made it to the side of the bed, I managed to get to my knees and tried to hoist myself up to no avail. Time and time again when I managed to get one foot painfully off the floor beneath me, I'd try to rise up but my debilitated body and worthless knees weren't having it and tossed me back down again. Crawling around, my knees beginning to burn from the carpet and strain, I searched around trying to MacGyver some steps up to bed. Clothes didn't work, not solid enough. Books were a no go, too slippery. Nothing else in sight.

A lightbulb struck me in the head (and why not? Everything else had been struck and restruck again). I thought I'd crawl to the bathroom and hoist myself up onto the toilet since it was a lower target. If I could get into a sitting position, I should be able to climb up into a stance from there. On the way there, I unbuckled my jeans, pulled them down to my ankles, thinking that while in there I'd take care of business. BIG-ass mistake #2.

You guys ever tried to crawl bare-kneed on tile floor. Ouch! Using my head, the only part of my body not in excruciating pain, I grabbed a towel and put it beneath my knees. Too late, they already looked like hamburger. And it was useless anyway. The only part of my body that was barely working to give me leverage up were my arm muscles and they were woefully diminished by all my previous rescue efforts.

I crawled back to bed, tried again and again. Every time I thought I'd make it, my knee would toss me back down like Hulk Hogan on a mad bender.

Resigned to my fate, I decided to just sleep on the floor. That lasted about ten minutes. No pillow, no cover,  add horrible pain to the ribs, all seemed futile. Having rested my body I got up on my hands and knees and gave it one more shot. My shaking hands pressed onto the floor, slowly, painfully, shaking like I was in a California earthquake, I pulled my knee into position and rose. Closer, closer, almost there. When I felt myself nearly standing, I took no chances and dove for the bed. Success! Well partially. Half on the bed with just my feet dangling over, I rolled to my back, feet still dangling. I needed to kick off my jeans. One foot out. Onto the next. Gravity, deciding to have some laughs, took over and pushed me back down to the floor in another agonizing, defeating fall.

ARRGHHHH! I've fallen and I can't get up, indeed! For the second time, I tried to sleep on the floor. And that's when I realized the ultimate in body insults: on the way out of bed, apparently I had piddled in my boxers. Gross! And ew. 

Okay. No wife. No phone as I had left it downstairs. And who would I have called at 2:30 in the morning anyway? I was already humiliated enough as it was, but the fact I piddled my shorts made the deciding factor that I wouldn't call anyone now. Even if I could get to my phone. 

My knee towel was standing by, so I mopped up with that. Desperate I scoured the room for any last bright ideas. Inspiration struck. Around the corner there was one of many huge bookshelves. I had overloaded it and a shelf had broken. But there was another detachable empty shelf that I pulled out. A make-shift crutch to get off of one knee and onto my feet was the idea. I grabbed it, crawled back to the seemingly unachievable bed in front of me and propped the shelf beneath my right underarm. I pressed down. Agony arose throughout my body anew as I strained the last parts of my body that weren't damaged already. Wobbly. Little by little. Almost there! And...eureka! I was on my feet! A very early Christmas miracle! Not taking any chances I turned around, still hunched over on my too-short crutch and hopped backward into bed. Slowly, I was able to pull my legs and feet up behind me. The light still on, my socks still on, not about to get under covers at this point, I finally--at sweet long last--passed out.

The next morning (well, four hours later), I awoke to immense pain everywhere. I felt like a huge semi had run me over and decided that it was so much fun, it reversed for a second go. Muscles I never knew I had screamed in pain. I could hardly move. Even though it took me about an hour to pull on new jeans, I made it. I snagged my shoes, a shirt and socks, didn't bother with them yet and put them in my lap, and slid down the stairs. Finally able to stand at the bottom. (Why I didn't think to do that last night is beyond me. I could've slept in the guest bedroom. D'OH!)

I never knew the act of sitting down (more like plummeting down at this point) could hurt so much. Getting up was worse, to the point where I elicited little screams that I'm glad no one heard. I must've lost ten pounds the next couple of days because it hurt too much to go to the refrigerator. A great diet plan, but not for everyone. And going to the toilet? Forget about it! I would fall down on it from necessity, but getting up was a dreaded exercise in long-lasting effort and pain, my weakened and strained arms no longer giving support.

In fact, I had strained my entire body. Add some bruised ribs and my ever-present arthritis and I was a mess. Still am two weeks later. But slowly getting better. I haven't been out of the house until yesterday (missing some freakishly warm February days), but with the aid of a cane and my wife coming home (and I gotta admit, I kinda like her taking care of me), I'm now getting around.

So, little old lady "actor" who fell and couldn't get up again, I salute you. I apologize profusely from the tips of my sprained toes to my bruised ribs and sore shoulders for laughing at your "silly" predicament. Karma had fed me a heaping spoonful of falling down whup-ass.

I don't know if any of the characters in my books have gone through as much physical pain as I had, but the folks in Godland might come close. Plus their mental anguish and emotional pain more than make up for it. Sounds like a downer, right? Instead I hope it's an edge-of-the-seat suspense thriller with tons of twists to keep you guessing and flipping through the pages. A "farm noir," a genre I made up! An especially good read if you're laid up in bed with aches and pains! Get my essential pain reliever here, recommended by 1 out of 10 critics.

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).

Datesasters

Between my two marriages I went on quite a few dates that I refer to as "datesasters." Everyone's had 'em, an important part of education. (Now you youngsters must keep in mind that this was before online dating services became a thing, so we had to do it the old-fashioned way: through blind luck and lotsa courage.)

I'm still trying to forget one of my worst datesasters. It started off at the Kansas City Spirit Festival (an outdoor musical event) nicely enough. I can't remember who the band was (lotsa beers flowed), but my friends and I were sitting in the grass and before you know it I was dancing with a pretty girl (or so I thought at the time...remember, lots of beer). By the end of the show, I asked for her phone number and she gave it to me.

I waited the requisite three to five day period (you never want to appear too "hungry," although at the time I was practically starving)  and then called her. Thankfully her answering machine picked up and I left a detailed message and my phone number, thus putting the onus on her and sparing myself any possible one-on-one humiliation. Which as it turned out would've been preferred to our upcoming two dates. (My male work peer overheard me and said that was a wussy way out, to leave a number on her answering machine. Easy for him to say as he was married.)

She called back. The date was set! I told her I'd pick her up but she said she'd come by my house. (Warning sign number one. What was she hiding, I wondered.)

As I waited for her to come by, I couldn't help but wonder what she truly looked like without my beer-colored goggles. Color me shocked. At my door was a beautiful young Asian woman wearing nice clothes and cool high-top tennis shoes. Bonus points: she had giant 90's hair! (I've had several dates before where I met the women at bars, then set up a future date and when I saw them, I wanted out. Immediately. Guys, don't set up dates at bars when you're wearing those beer-colored goggles!)

But this time I was extremely pleased. I took her to a Cajun restaurant where all the men were sneaking looks at her while trying not to let their own wives/dates catch them. I felt like king of the world (eat it Dicaprio!) and wanted to show her off everywhere I could.

After a movie (Trainspotting at an art-house theatre, natch) which we both enjoyed, I took her home where I tried to kiss her. She backed off and said, "I never kiss on the first date." But then she was anxious to go on a second date.

And that's when it all went careening down to hell like a runaway bus driven by a blind man on an ice-covered hill.

When she showed up that next Saturday, the makeup was minimal, the clothes sorta "comfy" looking, and the Giant 90's hair was nowhere to be found. Don't get me wrong, she still looked pretty, but by the lack of effort she put into it this time, I could sense the honeymoon was already nearly over. (I know this sorta sounds sexist, ladies, but that's how we young guys thought in yesteryear).

Knowing that she liked live music, I decided to take her down to the River Market where there was a Zydeco Music Festival.

She says, "What's Zydeco?"

I explained it to her as best I could. "Hmmm," she said. "Sounds interesting."

On the way downtown, out of nowhere she suddenly blurts out, "I'm interested to see how sexually compatible we are."

YOW! I nearly swerved into another car. Was this the same girl who didn't kiss on the first date?  But once I got over my initial shock, I thought things had suddenly picked up.

And I was wrong. Once I bought tickets, drinks, and food, she said, "I hate this music. Can we go?"

"Um...sure." A mental image of the big bucks I'd just dropped flew away in seconds. We couldn't have been there for longer than ten minutes.

She said, "Let's go back to your house and watch a movie."

"Okay!" I floored the pedal and made it home in record time. She'd chosen La Femme Nikita (which I'd already seen, but I was game) and we piled onto the sofa.

Before I pushed "play," she turns to me and says, "I bet you're a Republican, aren't you?" in the most derisive of manner.

Loud warning bells went off. I heard a horrendous "AOOOGAH!" sound in my mind. And somewhere a cartoon trombone went "Wah, wah, wah, wahhhhhhhh."

I wasn't sure how to respond to her sudden judginess. As I tried to keep my temper in check, I said, "No, no I'm not. I'm very much a liberal Democrat. Why would you even assume that?"

I forgot her answer, but it didn't matter. I'd begun the check-out process. Check-out was completed with her next sudden judgy out-of-the-blue statement: "I think you're just looking for a new mother for your daughter."

That really blew my mind. "No, I'm not. She already has a mother."

But the damage had been done. I left her there to watch the movie alone while I tended to more pleasing things like doing the dishes and taking out the trash and cleaning the toilet.

At the end of the movie, I ushered her to the door. Where she lingered for an awkward twenty or so minutes, obviously wanting to see what would happen next. Clearly, in addition to being judgy, she was delusional. In what possible world, could anyone have viewed this as a good, successful date?

I opened the door and said, "Okay. Bye."

So the datesaster process began anew once again. (Now that I think of it, this datesaster wasn't nearly as bad as some upcoming ones I suffered through. But that's a post for another day!)

The only guy who had a worse dating profile than me has clearly got to be Shawn Biltmore. On the surface, things don't look so bad as he has two attractive women interested in him at the same time. But could one of them possibly be a murderous, flesh-rending and gnawing werewolf? Find out in my darkly comical horror satire, Corporate Wolf, available here.

Night of the Sick Geezer

Last week, I was so sick, I found myself unable to write a new blog post. Hey it was a struggle to get outta bed!

So...about that...

For some time, me and my fellow "geezers (that's what my niece calls us; yet she still enjoys our outings!)" had been planning a reunion of sorts at a local bar.

With some effort and through a ton of texts, I managed to get (almost) everyone on board, including one of our pals who resides in Portland. 

The bar was Ground Zero, the area where I picked up this hideous virus (and am still recovering from). But through the miracle of modern forensics, intensive investigation, and arduous research (and lotsa assumptions), I found out exactly who Patient Zero was.

Okay, so maybe it wasn't as tough as all of that...for you see, in our group texts, one of our friends gave us a "heads up. I'm recovering from a bad cold."

To which I responded, "unless you're 100% recovered, stay at home because we don't want your plague."

His comeback? "Now I'm more bound and determined to come."

Sure enough, when I saw him enter the bar, I turned to my brother and said "crap. I didn't think he'd actually come."

With about a dozen of us in attendance (half of the bar's capacity pretty much), we had pushed two tables together. At the time of Patient Zero's arrival, our second table was occupied by just one other geezer.

I pointed at the barren table and said, "you sit over there."

He didn't. Not only did he find it funny to sit down right next to me (12 guys around two small tables is quite "cozy"), hilarity further ensued as he comically rubbed the back of his hand against mine. Several times. And since it was loud in there, he yelled while talking to me and I felt his virus-ridden spittle land on my cheek and hand. This occurred during his explanation that it'd been a week and he wasn't contagious any longer.

Yikes.

Anyway, a good time was had by one and all of we geezers. And after that night, I went home. And waited for the other shoe to drop.

And drop it did. Right on top of my head like a cartoon anvil purchased from the Acme Company.

Wednesday morning, I felt like a pu-pu platter. As the day progressed, I grew worse and felt like a three day old pu-pu platter. Eight days later, I still haven't completely recovered from the Virus From Hell. Thanks buddy!

So it was my civic duty to check in with the other geezers. I put out a high alert and canvassed them to see if any others had fallen ill. Sure enough, my pal from Portland had the exact thing I had, picked it up at the same time, and we're both in the recovering phase. (I still haven't heard back from three of the geezers, so they're either busy or on their death beds.)

I told my wife the entire horrific saga. She said, "if you die from this, I'm not inviting 'Patient Zero' to you to your funeral." I suppose there was some comfort to be had in that. When I told a couple of the other geezers my wife's comment, one guy said, "make sure your wife knows I'm still on a low-carb diet and pretzels and light beer will be fine at your wake." It's good to have friends.

Meanwhile, Patient Zero still refuses to accept full responsibility for his reckless actions. Sure he has a point that we were in a crowded bar, but I'm extremely suspect. At the bar, my interactions were limited to the 12 of us geezers. And prior to our soiree, I hadn't been outta the house in about a week. The evidence certainly points toward him. 

In a way, I suppose I don't blame him. Not really. I probably would've done the same thing if I were in his sick shoes. It's not often we have everyone gathered from our college days, quite an accomplishment, one not to be missed.

Still...still...this cautionary tale adds an entire new spin on the saying "drink responsibly."

Speaking of irresponsible behavior, people don't come any more irresponsible than my character, Zach, possibly the world's dimmest male stripper (whoops...excuse me..."male entertainment dancer"). Just ask his long-suffering detective sister who constantly has to bail him out of jail and worse situations. All because he's kinda dumb and can't help but fall into very bad situations. See for yourself in my Zach and Zora comedy mystery series available here.

Zombie Cow!

While my wife peruses the morning "news" on her tablet, she likes to call out ludicrous headlines.

"Here's one for you, honey," she said. "'Beloved cow killed by trespasser; ranch owner says not the first time.'"

Yow! Just how many times has this poor cow died? You'd think that after a while the ranch owner might just throw in the towel and quit performing his voodoo rites to bring back his beloved cow.

Obviously, the headline suffered from poor writing. This is the kind of stuff my take-no-prisoners journalism professor in college would've ridiculed for the entire class' enjoyment.

Which brings me to the sad state of so-called journalism these days. Remember all of those 40's and 50's movies where newsrooms are packed with hard-hitting, dedicated, chain-smoking reporters? They're pretty much gone now. Instead of the bustling newsroom, we have conspiracy theorists churning out crap on their computer from their mom's basement. And more and more of our newspapers are going the way of disco.

Now, every time I hear the term "fake news," I cringe. Mostly because I attribute the term to our preening jackass in charge who shrugs off anything negative he hears about himself as "fake news."

But I'd be foolish to doubt the existence of "fake news." These days, people from both sides of the political aisle throw out anything that suits their agenda, true or not. It's becoming harder and harder to sift  the reality from the crappery.

News is compromised. Everywhere. Even the highest bastion of nighttime news shows--60 Minutes--has become vulnerable to our cranky, orange baby king's needs and wants by offering apologies and losing lawsuits. It's pretty sad.

And never trust anyone who only watches one news channel. If some guy says to me, "last night on NewsMax, they said President Trump bla, bla, bla...," I immediately tune them out. Why, it seems like only yesterday that news was supposed to be completely unbiased and not push their own agenda. Those days are long behind us. Even CNN or MSNBC are admittedly more left-leaning than they probably should be. So it is hard to get true news any more. Try to stay balanced. Go ahead and watch CNN. But then switch over to Fox News to see what the other half is up to! If nothing else, many laughs will ensue!

And do you guys remember editors? You don't? Well, for good reason! They don't exist any longer, as dead as a zombie cow. An editor used to be a full-time job, the overseer of bad writing and fact-checking. Now, any buffoon with access to a computer can churn out anything and post it on the world-wide intronets as "news," the facts be damned. And don't even get me started on the misspellings and poor writing in these "stories." Even professional outlets apparently have done away with editors, their stories riddled with errors.

Okay, I realize I'm coming off as a negative nelly and a cranky coot. But having a journalism degree means a lot to me. Having said all of that, there's still plenty of enjoyment to be had by looking at a lot of the trashy click-bait and articles purporting to be "news." Laughs abound! 

Hey! Didn't I start out by writing about a zombie cow?

While I'm on my cranky old guy soapbox, you may as well check out my book of short stories, Twisted Tales From Tornado Alley. In it you will find stories of horror and occasional bursts of dark comedy. But I also wrote it at a time when I saw where our country was headed and some of the stories represent everything that's wrong with our country these days. (It's also fun, though. Don't let me scare you off!)

Cooking the Oven

You know how people say "when it rains, it pours" in reference to a streak of bad luck?  I think that is perfectly appropriate for us during the last couple weeks. Except "when it smokes, there's fire" would be even more accurate.

My wife calls it an "exciting" day. I think "horrendous" would be more apt.

A couple days ago, my wife was baking cookies for an event at her place of work. Suddenly (calmly) she says, "Oh, great...the oven's on fire." While she's taking it in stride, just another day in the kitchen, I've already hit the "panic button," ready to call 911, the fire department, the armed guard, whoever. 

My wife takes the handy-dandy kitchen fire extinguisher to it, but that didn't put it out as it was an electrical fire (the so-called "electrical element" or some such gizmo was the culprit). So my wife runs down to the basement and shuts off the power to the range.

(All of which goes to show everyone that in the case of a zombie apocalypse, my wife should be the one to take charge. But I digress...)

I said, "ahhh...aren't you supposed to cook what's inside the oven and not the oven itself?"

"Oh, shut up."

For a while, we were both stumped on how to handle such a situation. 

"Um...who do we call to fix it? Is it fixable?" I asked.

"I don't know," replied my wife, "I've never had this happen before."

In the meantime, my wife starts pulling out various pots and pans. "Here," she said, "you're going to have to improvise while you cook."

I looked at the strange proffered cooking gadgets, wondering what the hell she was on about.

"You can grill food in the small grill and nuke the rest of it." 

Needless to say, dinner was a very interesting  (and not very successful) mess that night.

The next day, my wife comes home from work and says, "I bought an oven. It'll be here tomorrow." (I guess my meal was THAT bad.)

No moss on her, I thought great, problem solved, now I can get back to cooking the way God intended us to cook.

Except it opened the door on a ton of new problems. When the delivery men finally dropped it off (on the coldest day of the year, natch), I stared at the cockamamie device, wondering what sort of strange, robotic machine has my wife unleashed?

Where's the buttons? The knobs? How do you turn the damn thing on? Timer? WHAT timer??? Calgon, take me away!!! ARGHHH!

Apparently, my wife hadn't realized she had bought a "smart" oven. And clearly it had outsmarted me in every way. It didn't help that in this day and age of "keeping it green," there was no damn manual.

As I write this warning of robotics gone amok, we've only had the oven for a couple of days and I'm still trying to figure out the basics (and creating imaginative strings of curse words in the process). 

Give me a "dumb" oven any day. 

While I've got "dumb" on my brain, I'd be remiss if I didn't pimp my Zach and Zora comical murder mystery series. Hands down, one of the protagonists is the dumbest character you'll ever read in a book, satisfaction guaranteed! (Thank God, Zach's detective sister, Zora, is along for the crazy ride to offset Zach's dumbosity.) Start at the beginning with Bad Day in a Banana Hammock and continue from there. All the books will be on the test.

Drunk Raccoon!

You've all heard of the film Cocaine Bear, right? (If you haven't, you're missing out on a very funny and creative flick). Well, move over, Cocaine Bear! There's a new impaired mammal in town...It's Drunk Raccoon (aka Trashed Panda)!

Two weeks ago, during the Thanksgiving weekend, a raccoon found itself up in the rafters of a liquor store. It fell through the ceiling tile and into the store, whereupon it decided to trash everything in sight and in the process, trashing itself. My kinda guy!

But I wonder what led up to this liquor store siege...

Did the Drunk Raccoon wake up one morning and  declare, "Eureka! By jove, I've got it! Today I shall trash the local liquor store!"

Is it a warning to humanity to take care of the earth and the other inhabitants upon it? Lest we be overrun by millions of drunk raccoons, worse than any Planet of the Apes movie you could ever imagine, enacting revenge for our careless destruction of our planet?

Or did Drunk Raccoon do it on a dare?

"I'm bored, Hank."

"Me too. Nothing to do but scavenge around in old trash cans, Chuck."

"Hmmm... I just got an idea! You see that store down there? The one where the hairless apes always go into?"

"Yeah?"

"Hank, I'll give you a day's worth of nuts and berries if you go down there and bust up the joint! C'mon! What do you got to lose? It's early morning, no people in sight, and you're already wearing a mask to keep your identity a secret!"

Silence. Interminable silence while Chuck's cognitive wheels turned. "You got yourself a deal, Hank!"

Either way, I'm still left wondering why Drunk Raccoon would decide to throw all of the bottles around and breaking everything in sight. Perhaps he "pre-gamed" with some booze before the mammalian act of destruction. Or he just panicked and went on a rampage. Whatever the case may be, Drunk Raccoon lived up to his moniker and got absolutely hammered by mixing all kinds of booze (deadly for us weak humans!).

When the store opened that morning, the first employee at the scene of the crime found Drunk Raccoon sprawled out on his belly, passed out in the bathroom (I don't think he made it to the porcelain shrine.).

Happy endings abound! Animal Control scooped him up and took him to a shelter where he sobered up and was then released into the wild. And Drunk Raccoon had quite a story to tell his grandkids.

But Drunk Raccoon's notoriety didn't end there. The liquor store created three new drinks in his honor: the Rye Rascal Sour, Midnight Masked Gin Fizz, and of course, Trash Panda Old Fashioned. Something for the entire family!

Even better, over $156,000 was raised for the Hanover County Animal Protection & Shelter by selling Drunk Panda merchandise! So put a smile on your grandchild's face this year and get him that Trashed Panda hoodie he can proudly wear in his classroom!

Well, by cracky, while we're thinking about destructive, furry creatures of the night, you may as well go over to Amazon and check out my book, Corporate Wolf. It's the satirical, darkly humorous, werewolf horror thriller that you know, you want but have been too embarrassed to admit it! Find it here!

The Great Thanksgiving Dog Search Party of 2025

Ah yes...The Great Thanksgiving Dog Search Party of 2025! I remember it like it was last week. (Well, since it was last week, I'd be in trouble if I couldn't remember it...)

There was a Fall nip in the air, a taste of the biting bitter coldness of Winter to come; leaves of gold, yellow, and brown still stood knee-high in our yard (much to the chagrin of our neighbors); and our house was filled with a multitude of delectable odors as my wife kept kicking me out of our tiny kitchen. It could only mean it was Thanksgiving.

These days, most of us have extended families, which means family members work around schedules, trying to accommodate everyone. So the first of several of our Thanksgivings was to take place on Tuesday, the 25th. My wife came up with a great idea to relieve family of the typical Thanksgiving spread: she sent out a survey asking everyone what their two fave foods were. This resulted in lasagna sitting next to fried chicken, deviled eggs coinciding peacefully with angel food cake, barbeque meat vying for room against the mashed taters, etc. (Diet, what diet? We're STILL working on leftovers.)

On Monday, my brother and sister-in-laws traveled up from Oklahoma City with their two Labrador mixes riding comfortably in the back of their van. Monday night we all gathered at our house, talking about a multitude of things including how we all agreed that in movies, people in jeopardy was no big thing; but put a dog in peril and we're all emotionally invested.  DUM-Dum-Duhhhhhhh....(oooh, real-life foreshadowing!).

Tuesday morning, our family members were to leave their dog-friendly air B&B (just blocks away from us) and join us for brunch. Then we got the text from my brother-in-law: We'll be over as soon as I find Chuck and Tilly because they escaped out of the yard.

Chuck, the naughty agent provocateur who led his sister astray.

Knowing the neighborhood better than my out-of-town bro-in-law, I joined the search, my mother-in-law riding shotgun. Up and down the mean streets of suburban Kansas we crawled (pissing off cars behind us), looking for two missing Labs. Being a nice day, there were tons of people out walking, predominantly dog-walkers. Everyone was very polite, but the dog-walkers really jumped to attention. Several times, it was suggested that we look on the local neighbors Facebook page. I attempted to get on, but was stymied by questions and a waiting period while the powers-that-be determined if I was worthy of joining.

By this time, my wife put cooking on hold and joined the search party, so there were four of us out looking, while my sister-in-law acted as the hub headquarters, calling local shelters and vets. Several times we realized we were duplicating efforts as people would say, "oh yeah, we just talked to someone else about your dogs." And every time they said they'd keep an eye out.

But then it dawned on us: how would they get in contact with us? So, my mother-in-law searched for paper, anything she could find in the car, and began tearing off bits and writing phone numbers, dog names, etc. to hand out to people. Sometimes the recipients looked at the proffered piece of napkin or cardboard box with hesitation, but most accepted it willingly.

My mother-in-law (probably the friendliest person in America) was given the task of jumping out and approaching people at parks to tell our story (I figured people would be less afraid of her than me). She made many, many friends along the way, explaining our situation (probably more details than necessary) as I grew more stressed; I could feel time ticking away like a countdown to a bomb. Tensions were high as we continued the search.

Finally, one woman walking two dogs, suggested we get on the neighborhood Facebook page again. I told her we couldn't and she said, "hold on" and checked her phone for us. Seconds later, she said, "Are these your dogs?" 

Now, neither mom-in-law nor I were familiar enough with the dogs to make a definitive identification so we discussed dog colorings, ears and appearance in the car while the good Samaritan kept holding her phone toward us.

Finally, my mother-in-law said, "That's them!" Feeling triumphant, we had a high-five moment while the woman attempted to contact the person who had captured the dogs. The person wasn't immediately responding, but it was just a matter of waiting . Fully confident, I contacted family members and told them "we found your dogs!"

Then the good Samaritan flagged us down again. "Sorry," she said, "I didn't read the full post. It's just one of your dogs. The person who caught one, almost caught the other...but she escaped."

Disheartened, I called back the relatives and told them the semi-bad news.

The search continued. Meanwhile the person who had Chuck contacted my bro-in-law and he went to retrieve him. One down, one to go.

Briefly I came home, got on the computer, and tried to get on the Facebook page. I took the survey and waited. Then Mom and I went out again, this time broadening our search area. On occasion, we'd cross paths with someone else in our search party, and go the opposite direction. Mom was asking everyone in sight, handing out our little information napkins, cardboard, whatever.

Taking a quick break for lunch, refueling, we gobbled and went back on the hunt again. Somewhere along the way, I traded out my mom-in-law for brother-in-law, where we were finally able to compare crucial information. Chuck had been nabbed at a local Starbucks, so that gave us a bit further circumference to search.

As I had grown up in the neighborhood, I started having flashbacks as to when my dogs ran away. One came home of his own volition: we just heard him enter the open garage and begin to eat his dinner. Another we found down in a ritzy golf course romping with another dog. Finally, the third didn't have such a happy ending: he had been hit by a car on the extremely busy (pseudo highway) Shawnee Mission Parkway. Which was right next to the Starbucks where Tilly had last been spotted. (Gulp!)

We kept driving around at a snail's pace, my bro-in-law occasionally yelling "Tilly" out the window and stopping every person who didn't look like a serial killer. I took a quick break and went home to check my neighborhood Facebook page status. I was in! I wrote a veritable novel about Tilly and her peoples' situation (TOO much info, I'm sure) and let the magic of Facebook do it's job. We got over 600 responses! Alas, they were all of the "sad face emoji" or prayers or good luck variety. Tilly had not been found.

Meanwhile, an hour away (and while at work), my daughter joined the search by calling every shelter and animal control in surrounding counties. Eventually, my nephew joined as well. I haven't seen this big a city wide "manhunt" since...well...ever.

At 5:30 or so, we decided it was futile to continually drive around, our thoughts being that someone had picked her up and hadn't reported her yet. (OR...someone decided to keep her.) But we were exhausted, out of ideas, and we had the entire Kansas City metro area on red hot alert (some of the people we talked to, were getting kind of sick of our double-alerting).

Meanwhile, bolstered by the power of social media, I put the same sob story on about eight sites (some of them questionable; one was like "Dog, The  Bounty Hunter {although it should probably be "Man, The Dog Hunter}," consisting of a couple of guys who would suit up and go all gung-ho when there was a dog sighting). 

Okay...truthfully I couldn't believe the outpouring of support we were receiving. One woman graciously went out and searched for the dogs on her own before enlisting her daughter in the cause, too. I sincerely hadn't seen or felt a sense of community like this since eleven years ago when an orange idiot decided to irrevocably divide our country and erode our democracy. It restored my faith in humanity...everyone uniting over a missing dog (kinda ironic, yes?).

But still no word on Tilly.

At 2:30 in the morning I couldn't sleep, visions of the worst case scenarios running through my head. I got on the computer, searching police reports and the websites for any news.

The next day was pretty grim, but we did our best to soldier through our early Thanksgiving over food and games. Still, Tilly's shadow loomed over us. Time and time again, I'd anthropomorphize (an annoying habit of mine, just ask my wife) Tilly's thoughts: I'm all alone, cold, have no idea where the hell I am, how dare my people do this to me!

Begrudgingly, Tilly's people left (minus Tilly) on their 4-1/2 hour trip home.

I'd pretty much given up all hope at this point.

Then at 5:45, my bro-in-law calls:

"Paul," I said, "what's up?"

"Tilly's been found."

Blink. Think. Clear out cobwebs. Blink again. "What?"

"She's at the Fairway Animal Hospital."

My mind skyrocketed over the Kansas City area with amazement. "Okay, is she hurt? How'd she get there? Wait! What time do they close? I'm sure they're not open on Thanksgiving! Crap! I gotta go! I'll send pics!"

On my way to the door, I grabbed my nephew (because Tilly knows him best), and my wife decided to drive. A race against time, we sped through our local neighborhoods (I'm sure a cop would escort us if he knew it was all about a dog, dogs being the great uniter and all), ignored speed-bumps, and bounced our way to the hospital with seconds to spare.

"There she is," said my nephew as we walked along the large front window. Tilly was surrounded by two doting employees and another couple.

"Hi Tilly! Where have you BEEN?" All of us were so relieved and happy to see her that all seemed forgiven. (But she'd better not ever do it again!)

The young couple standing nearby were introduced as the people who brought her in. After slobbering all over them, we got the skinny: Tilly was found in Fairway (which we'd all driven through numerous times) hunkered down behind this couples' air conditioner unit. Their other dogs were going nuts, barking up a storm, and they discovered Tilly, scared and nervous. Her tags were missing, but they took her to the hospital where they scanned her embedded chip and contacted Tilly's owner.

Everything was right with the world! Huzzah! Tilly's people were overjoyed to see video and photos and the next day, my mom-in-law would take Tilly back to Oklahoma to reunite with "mom and dad."

REUNITED! (And it feeeeeels so good...)

I got on all my websites and updated my story that Tilly had been found, so everyone could call off the (*ahem*) dogs.

In a fascinating coda to the tale (tail?), a woman responded: "That nice couple who found Tilly is my daughter and her husband. Ever since she graduated from college, she's saved numerous dogs. A while back, they had found another runaway dog in the exact same spot where Tilly was found. Dogs must feel something so strong that they know they'll be safe with my daughter and attracted to her house."

Wow. Cue the Twilight Zone theme...

Anyway, happy ending, normal is good, and I could finally relax. Whew. Then I started to wonder: maybe we could fix our country if we got Trump a dog. Just sayin'...

Okay, I'm gonna take this opportunity to pimp my book Secret Society (the first in the Killers Incorporated trilogy). Yeah, sure, it's a darkly comic thriller series about a secret cabal of serial killers working for an  evil nationwide conglomerate, bla, bla, bla. But a dog plays a crucial part in the story, humanizing (I hope!) one of the killers. (And don't worry, the dog has a happy ending.) Check it out here.

The Secret Message of Dogs

Recently, we've encountered a problem.

Up until about a couple of months ago, our dogs--both of them--were house-broken and potty-trained. But for whatever reason, they've now decided to be defiant and go rogue. And go all over the carpet.

Extremely aggravating doesn't even begin to cut it. I mean, poop is gross enough, but relatively easy to clean. Not pee, especially on carpet. We're constantly battling it with enzymes, cleaner, and shampooing the carpet is pretty much an every other day thing now. And STILL they insist on bucking authority.

It's not like they have it rough. They have a full fenced-in backyard where they can go nuts any time they like to. But our bigger dog doesn't even want to go outside any longer. Most mornings when I'm the first one out of bed, I have to pick Bijou up and toss her outside (and I'm sure the neighbors enjoy watching my new Olympic event: dog-throwing in underwear).

Here's what's most frustrating: both of the dogs know what they're doing is wrong. How do I know this? Because they try and hide it from us. First of all, it's nearly impossible to catch them in the act, sneaky lil' varmints that they are. But the real damning evidence is that they try to hide it from us by secretly going  behind my living room chair or beneath the table where nobody usually thinks to look.

More than one person has told me they're trying to tell me something. Which isn't helpful. But on those insomnia-stricken nights, in the wee hours of the morning, I've given their would-be "message" a lot of thought. And there's only one obvious conclusion: dogs everywhere are secretly plotting to overthrow humanity.

Their sneaky side-eye glances to one another haven't gone unnoticed. And when I enter a room, they break apart suddenly from their deep, secret communication.

You don't have to be a brain surgeon to figure out one of their typical conversations (to illustrate the brutal, troublesome truth, I've chosen to reenact a sample dialogue using their dog names)...

"Say, Rowf-Ruff-Grrrrr-Umph-Barkity-Bark, when do you think we'll institute our secret plan to overthrow our loathsome human captors?"

"Soon, Yap-Yap-Ark-Yark-Yippity-Grrrrr-Oomph, soon. You must have patience, little one. We've already put our plan into action by defiling their domiciles. Now it's just a matter of waiting."

"But...but...Rowf-Ruff-Grrrrr-Umph-Barkity-Bark, I'm tired of waiting! For too long we've had to suffer stoopid, cutesy human slave names for us. And to be forced to go to the bathroom outside? It's barbaric!"

"I agree, Yap-Yap-Ark-Yark-Yippity-Grrrrr-Oomph. We've been held down by The Man for centuries, but soon enough there will be an uprising. Soon we will reclaim our ability to walk upright on our back two legs. And soon we'll be able to put pants back on and take back some of the dignity that humans have tried to breed out of us."

"But...but...it's taking forever!

"What did I say about patience, Yap-Yap-Ark-Yark-Yippity-Grrrrr-Oomph? As soon as our great overlord, Snippy-Yip-Ruff-Ruff-Aroooo-Garooo-Garumph, calls for us to rise above our human shackles, then we'll move. In the not too distant future, we'll kick humans out into the yard to potty, no matter the weather!"

"I'm so excited! Can I put the Cone of Doom and a shock collar on the fat one?"

"Of course, Yap-Yap-Ark-Yark-Yippity-Grrrrr-Oomph!" (Mutual dog laughter all around).

THIS is one of the many things that keeps me up at night.

While we're talking about everything going to the dogs, I may as well plug my novel, Corporate Wolf, where the protagonist is a hairy beast. That's right, it's the only bloody, scary, funny, mysterious, corporate business satire, werewolf book ever to come out of Kansas! (Of course the competition isn't very stiff...) But check it out here!

Curse of the Singing Cowboys

Growing up, I was aware my dad loved cowboys. I'm not talking the kiddy-type infatuation that most boys have but get over it by adulthood. No, I'm talking the full-fledged,  man-loving (but in a "good" way, so put those pitchforks down, "right-wing-siders"), he-man sorta adoration, usually reserved for baseball players, war heroes and favorite presidents (an oxymoron?). I mean, back in the day (in ancient times when there were only three channels to watch), my dad would seek out any western on TV he could find. Now THAT'S dedication.

In fact, I have a vague recollection that my first Halloween costume was as a cowboy. The following year, I was a bunny. Go figure. To this day, I think that was my mom being bold and putting her stamp of disapproval on everything cowboy. Revenge, one might say, with me being used as the hapless weapon.

For you see, cowboys drove my mom crazy. If she even heard  a single gunshot zinging off an outhouse emanating from the TV, she'd be outta there like a rocket.

One day, lil' Stuie asked Mom, "Mommy, why do you hate cowboys?"

Her face drew tighter than if she'd bitten into a lemon. "Mercy! They're all the same thing. Bang, bang, bang, dusty, dust, dirt, boring." She paused, lost in thought. With a look of distaste, she dredged up what must've been a painful memory for her. "The first movie Poppa took me to when we were dating was a singing cowboy one." Her amazing eyeroll looked as if she'd become suddenly possessed, head swaying back and forth. "MERCY!"

Singing cowboys, I pondered. That was a new one on me. I'd never heard of such a thing and it was clear my mom was done with the topic. But it was nearly impossible for me to correlate the brave sheriff of Palooka, Missouri, singing to the evil Jonzy brothers as they shot up his town.

Later I asked my dad about singing cowboys. He licked his lips (a sure sign it was a topic he adored and was ready to pontificate about) and said, "Those are my favorite, son! There's Roy Rogers, Dale Evans, and of course, Roy's loyal, brave horse, Trigger. But your mom doesn't care for them." He chuckled. "Say! Would you like to see one the next time one's on?"

"Sure!" As my dad's eyes lit over my enthusiasm, I began to wonder if I'd just made a big mistake.

Well...I did. 

Sure enough, about two weeks later on a Saturday afternoon, Dad and I sat down in front of the gigantuan black and white monster TV box and prepared for singing cowboys to shoot it out.

In my youthful naiveté, I felt like I'd discovered a heretofore unknown relic, a clue to a mysterious past newly uncovered and passed down from our ancestors. What other hidden film genres awaited discovery for me, I wondered. Tap-dancing ninjas? Crooning monsters?

The credits unrolled over a corny song. Okay, I thought, just the credits, it's about to get good.

But it never did.

Roy Rogers sat astride Trigger, strumming a guitar and singing in a high-pitched voice that hurt my tooth cavity. He wore a frilly, fringe-laden outfit that would've made Liberace jealous.

THIS is our hero? I pondered. My dad grinned ear-to-ear during the entire film. And I didn't want to rain on his parade so I sat stoned faced throughout the nightmare unfolding before my eyes. Very little gunplay. But lotsa--I mean, LOTSA--sissy singing and Vegassy outfits. It soon became clear that Roy was more interested in singing love ballads to his horse than shootin' up bad guys, keepin' the town clean of ne'er-do-wells, and even courtin' Ms. Evans.

That day, my dad pretty much ruined westerns for me. Since then the only westerns I've liked are of the spaghetti variety (besides having tons of style, everyone always looks grungy, filthy, sweaty, and stinky the way people in the Old West were meant to be! And not a single sissy, namby-pamby, Cher wardrobe-raiding, clean-cut, fake cowboy in sight!).

I never did tell my dad that I absolutely hated Roy Rogers. I saw how much it meant to the "kid" inside of him, so like a good "parent," I encouraged that hobby of his. But I always had an excuse (predominately homework, something that couldn't be disputed) as to why I couldn't watch the upcoming matinee with him.

I've not written any westerns, but I suppose my historical fiction ghost tale, Ghosts of Gannaway, comes the closest. At least all of the townspeople of a downtrodden depression-era mining town in Kansas are pretty dirty and living in squalor. Except, of course, for the evil rich jackals up in their ivory mansion (sound familiar?). Heavily researched (the book broke me on ever wanting to do research again), it's a perfect ghost tale to curl up with on these windy, chilly fall nights. Get it here!

The Old Round-About

My pal (since grade school!) and I like to frequent the neighborhood brewery. It's never too crowded, the beer is good, and the bartenders know our name (like Cheers!).

There's a crew of regulars there every Saturday we go, and if we don't know them by name, we secretly give them nick-names (you know, just like in grade school): Slim, The Geek Squad (always playing Dungeons and Dragons) and my personal favorite, Dahmer.

"Dahmer" is particularly scary. Every time he's there, he's sporting a skin tight t-shirt (with what looks like blood stains), is always by himself (probably because by the looks of it, he hasn't washed his hair in over a month), sits alone, muttering, looking at his reflection in the front mirror, undoubtedly looking for his next victim.

But the regular I want to talk about is a self-proclaimed witch who has been a thorn in Doug's side for some time. (We'll call her "Griselda" because if I used her real name, she might hex me). She lives on Doug's street and I quickly figured out they'd been going at it for a while.

One Saturday, she approached Doug and started bragging about how she was responsible for the new speed bump on their street. Of course Doug hates the speed bump, so they argued about it (as "frienemies")at great length.

Another time she called Doug "feral" and yelled at him to wear his damn motorcycle helmet. Once, while sitting at the bar, Doug pompously stated, "The kitchen is my wife's and the rest of the house is mine." Behind the bar (and I'm not sure why she's given privileges to get her own beer; maybe she has the employees under her thrall), Griselda turned around, shaking her head and said "There's SOOOO much wrong with everything you just said." (On this point I had to agree with the witch.)

But, by far, their biggest point of contention is the old roundabout. Everyone who lives on that street were asked if they would support a roundabout (which is ridiculously pointless and would do nothing but back cars up on their quiet, low-traffic, suburban street). Naturally Griselda was all for it. And just like their cat and dog relationship, Doug hated the idea and actually campaigned against it by telling all neighbors to just say "NO."

Flash forward to two Saturdays later...At the brewery Griselda approached Doug again and immediately they renewed the ol' roundabout argument. 

After 20 minutes, I'd had enough of their pointless bickering (like our two opposing political parties trying to change each others' minds).

Exhausted, I finally said, "Are you two STILL going around about about the roundabout?"

Relieved the witch started laughing, I heaved a sigh of relief. And as of now, I STILL haven't been turned into a frog.

Boys and girls, it's probably not a sound idea to piss off a witch.

While on the topic of witches, I'd be shamefully negligent if I didn't hype up my book trilogy, Tex, The Witch Boy. It's got everything: thrills, chills, spills,  mystery, suspense, bullying, witchcraft, romance, humor, horror, fried chicken, and the woes of high school. Get 'em here!

Happy Horrorween!

Hey gang! It's that time of the year! Kids will be getting sick from too much candy, eggs will be splattered, pumpkins destroyed, and I'll be cowering in the darkness while terrifying little varmints pound on my door demanding candy. Also, the Orangeatan in charge is edging us closer and closer to mass insanity and the end of the world.

So let's unlax with some great horror films. You're welcome!

Okay, here are the must not horror films I've seen in 2025 that need to be avoided at all costs: Megan 2 (I refuse to type the cutesy title). I liked the first one, but this second one is like a terrible episode of Westworld in its' last crummy season. The Conjuring: Last Rites? Sigh. Been there, done that. It's time to quit giving these debunked charlatans screen time. While the first Conjuring was great, they've milked the series for all its worth. And why in the world is it 2 hours and 15 minutes long? Don't even get me started on the awful Terrifier series. If gratuitous torture and gore is your bag, have at it. Him is kinda pointless and a bore. And I Know What You Did Last Summer is just a blatant money grab and an insult to fans of the first couple films in the series.

Whew.

Now to the good. By far, the best horror films of the year are Sinners, Weapons, Heretic, and Oddity. Even if you're not a horror film fan, all of these films are fantastic and possibly even classics. Only time will tell. (And after Heretic, I want to see Hugh Grant become the new Vincent Price and forget about all of those namby-pamby rom-coms).

Together was good, if ultimately goofy. Companion is an excellent sci-fi thriller, not really horror. And Bring Her Back is pretty good for the most part.

And I'd be remiss if I didn't mention Cobweb. Okay, sure, it's a 2023 film, but I stumbled across it and found it to be the scariest movie of the year. No idea why this hidden gem has eluded me nor why it didn't top peoples' best of the year lists, but watch it.

But finally, the movie I want to tell you about, the one that's not only my fave horror film of the year but maybe favorite film of 2025 is...(drum roll)...Good Boy.

I don't want to give any spoilers, but do you love dogs? Do you love horror films? Then whaddaya waiting for? It's the horror film tailor-made for you! And the lead actor deserves an Oscar (but I think he'd appreciate an Oscar Meyer wiener more. Such a good boy!).

Okay, got that out of my system. You've all got your homework and today is Halloween so you better get busy.

But while I'm thinking of Halloween and wieners, check out my horror (and sometimes dark humorous) book of short stories, Twisted Tales From Tornado Alley. There's a story called Halloweenie Roast that's perfect for the season. (And if you think I was kidding about cowering in fear at the "angelic" cherubs trick 'r treating at my door, you'd better read it NOW and thank me later.)

Highway Blowout!

Have you guys ever had a blowout on the highway? Now, I'm not talking about the kind where you suffer the after effects of eating Taco Bell, but rather the nerve-ratcheting, terrifying, car-shaking kind where a tire just blows.

Last weekend, I was zooming down the 8-laned highway to visit my daughter (usually just an hour's drive), bringing the car up to 70 mph. I was nearing the exit to a smaller highway, when my car starts shaking.

My first thought, of course, was "hmmm, we're having an earthquake." Then I thought, "wow, they really need to repave this stretch."

Soon enough, it became quite apparent that there was something wrong with my car. I think the people passing me, yelling, honking, and pointing at my tire was my first clue.

Okay, I know what you're supposed to do: pull over on the shoulder and change it (or call triple AAA). But there really wasn't a shoulder to speak of, no room to change it, and I didn't relish the idea of trying to change a tire with thousands of cars racing by me just inches away from my back.

So I did the next best thing: kept driving on it, attempting to make my exit that was within sight, just a quarter mile away. 

"C'mon," I muttered, "we can do it."

Everyone and their father (ESPECIALLY your fathers) will tell you that driving on a flat tire isn't the right solution because you'll ruin your wheel and perhaps do even more damage to the car. But I persisted.

The car rattled, shaking like a blender. Soon a constant thwapping sound seemed to be following me: thwap, thwap, thwap, thwap, thwap... Then...a very scary sizzling sound.

Something started to smell; something burning. Then the inevitable metal grinding into pavement sound came next. But here was my exit! So close, yet so far away.

People were shaking their heads, speeding by me, honking, using one-fingered salutes (you know, typical good citizens) while I had no recourse but to carry on, acting in my best oblivious Mister Magoo manner.

Finally...the exit!!! I felt like an idiot as I thwapped onto the exit and then had to wait at the light with a lot of cars in front and in back of me. My plan was just to fix the tire on the ramp (or just off of it) but then like a message from God, a sign beamed in the sunlight. "Discount Tire!" Huzzah! I figured, why not? It's only about a quarter mile away. Meanwhile people are still honking and pointing at my tire as I slowly ground my way toward my lucky break.

I thwapped my way into the Discount Tire parking lot. I just stopped the car, didn't bother with a parking spot. I raced into the store, hoping to get immediate relief, and...there was a line of about five people with tons more sitting around, clearly disgruntled.

When I finally got waited on, the clerk came out to take a look at my tire. And promptly laughed. "Wow," he said, "I can't believe you made it." The tire was nothing but tatters, the wheel resting on the tarmac. But the good news was he didn't think the wheel looked damaged and said I was lucky.

After waiting in the tire store for three hours, I didn't feel so lucky. But I resumed my journey. What normally took one hour took four hours.

Later, I was telling my daughter and her boyfriend of my harrowing experience. I felt validated when the boyfriend said, "Yeah, I would've done the same thing." 

So let this be a lesson to all of you. Your fathers were WRONG about driving on flat tires!

Speaking of making bone-headed decisions, have you guys read my Zach and Zora comical mystery series? Well, why not? Read about Zach, a very dumb but lovable male stripper, who does nothing but make bone-headed decisions which more often than not, makes him a murder suspect leading to his (usually) pregnant, sleuth sister to bail him out of trouble. Check 'em out here!