Let's All Go to the Drive-In...

Since the onset of the Covid slaughter, there have been many things I miss, most of them I took for granted. I suppose I always thought I'd be able to dine out, hang with a pal, and go to the movies on an instant whim. (Dumb, dumb, dumb, sooooo stupidly naive, dumb, dumb...) Yeah, there are temporary patches: take-out, zoom calls, and streaming (boy, have we been streaming a mean streak!), but it's just not the same.

Then on a fine recent evening, my daughter sent me an urgent text: "Dad! Come on down Saturday night and we'll go to the drive-in!"

Blink. Blinkety-blink-blink-blink. Then... Oh, my stars and garters! Fireworks! Jubilation! Twenty-six trombones and...whatever that stupid song is that now I can't get out of my mind!

My daughter had found a truly creative work-around to my movie going withdrawl.There are only a handful of drive-ins left in the country and one of them happens to be in my daughter's small (oh, so very small) town. It's a town where a man's merit is measured by the size of his pick-em-up truck and women are encouraged to be brassy and sassy (just as long as they don't brass and sass their Man). Also, for whatever reason, an independent study I've conducted found that approximately 43% of the female population is named Barbie. Not Barb or Barbara. Barbie. And they're grown women. Don't ask me why.

Anyway, I have fond memories of going to the drive-in when I first started driving. Mainly because it was a cheap night out with even cheaper beer and you got to see 3, count 'em, 3 movies! It was a magical place where you couldn't even see the screen and there were so many distractions that movie-viewing wasn't even the main reason to be there.

So...with great expectations and high hopes, we loaded up the cooler and headed for the Starlight drive-in.

Man. My fond memories must've been based purely on nostalgia.

We came early, wanting to stake out a good spot. The problem was "Jeep-O-Rama" took place earlier in the day on the drive-in lot and most of the "jeepers" decided to stay on. First, we tried the closest spot we found, but my daughter got creeped out having two open jeeps flanking us, rowdy and dumb drunk guys leering down at her on both sides. We kept moving until we settled into a "safe-spot." On one side was a mother and daughter duo that we felt a kinship to and the other was some ol' grizzled fart, just cussin' up a storm in his station wagon. We were home.

We were also right behind the concession stand/bathrooms/projection booth. (Although calling it a "projection booth" doesn't seem quite right as it's all computerized now, instead of having the traditionally hammered sot behind the projector who could never be bothered to keep the film in focus.)

The concession building was painted a stomach-turning nauseous green, a color I haven't seen since the sixties (pre-mod era, natch). Some distracting blonde in a very tiny shirt and shorts that weren't much more than a thong continued to walk to the trash can, carrying a dainty piece of trash each visit. And during each visit, she'd look around to see if anyone was noticing her (and how could you help but NOT notice her). She made at least a dozen trips, when one would've sufficed.

Just like the magic of the drive-in, my daughter's town is a magical place, a fantastical area where Covid doesn't exist. Or so the townsfolk would like to believe. Covid's right up there with snipe hunts, Santy Claus, and honest politicians. No one was masked. Now, that was part of the allure for me of going back to the drive-in: a safe environment. But as my bladder grew fuller, I became more worried as I'd be the only one masking up when I went to the bathroom.

But mask up I did and off I went, stumbling over the rise and falls of graveled bumps, seeking out the bathroom in the dark. Once I reached my destination (the lights were burnt out, so I oscillated between men and womens until a woman finally came out of one door), and with a great deal of trepidation, I entered the Bathroom of Doom.

Now, this REALLY took me back. Even masked up, the overpowering stench nearly floored me. Waste of all three sorts (figure it out) decorated the floor. An army of flies swarmed me, a B-horror movie victim. An open toilet, no stall, and clearly people were more interested in using it as long-distance practice then getting close to it (and I couldn't blame them). And the urinal trough (something I thought went out of style with leisure suits) was an appalling mess. Needless to say, there wasn't any soap or paper towels, so I did my business and got out fast before Big Brutus came in and beat my ass for wearing a mask.

Finding my way back to the car wasn't easy. After the sickeningly yellow light of the bathroom, I came out into darkness, dizzy and disoriented, an uneasy feeling that all of the occupants in the trucks and jeeps facing me were watching me. And they probably were. After stumbling way off course, I finally made it back to our car. Whew.

The first movie ended and rolled immediately into the next flick. Rip-off! Back in the day, part of the fun of the drive-in was the intermission show and previews, but I guess Mr. and Mrs. Starlight wanted to get to bed. We didn't stick around and got the hell out of there.

What were the movies? Didn't matter, nor did I pay much attention as there was too much going on everywhere else. I'm glad to have had the experience, but I don't know that I'll go back again (like eating Rocky Mountain Oysters). I'm thinking my love for the drive-in was purely nostalgic after all.

While on the topic of nostalgia, come on down and visit Peculiar County, a mighty nostalgic tale of growing up in the '60's in a small Kansas town. Albeit with ghosts, murderers, things that fly in the night, witches, and other delights. It's absolutely groovy!

 

Dr. End Of The World

In my never-ending quest to discover the cure to my on-going ITCHY-ASS, ALL-OVER skin problem (about the best medical explanation I've received so far and that was my own scientifically based self-diagnosis), I found myself returning to the charms of my allergist.

I've spoken of this doctor before. Usually, he's very welcoming in a Mr. Rogers sorta way. No, no, no, not the "Hi. Don't worry, I won't kill you" Mr. Rogers, but rather, the Mr. Rogers who invites me into a cozy teaching environment as he painstakingly talks down to me using small words and drawing pictures of what ails me in the most child-like fashion. Sorta like I'd stumbled onto a "kiddy doctor."

Fascinating and rather endearing (if not at all slightly creepy), I almost look forward to our frequent visits. (Emphasis on almost; I'd rather he find a cure to what ails me). Yet he keeps me on my toes and I never know what he's going to pull next. He's making Medical Appointments Great Again (MAGA! Too soon?)!

We'll call him "Dr. Rogers." Can I call him "Dr. Rogers?" I don't care, from now on he's "Dr. Rogers."

On our last visit (and visits they are rather than appointments, because that's just the way Doc Rogers swings), the surprises kept coming.

"So," he suggested while poking me with Popsicle sticks (and I think he might just be pulling one over on me with this method, but whatever), "you should write an end-of-the-world book."

The good doctor has always found it fascinating that I'm a writer, so I humored him. "I already have," I said, referring to Zombie Rapture, my sorta end-of-the-world, pseudo-zombie, satirically religious, darkly comic horror thriller (which is now out of print, because publishers are having a hard time at it these days, but I digress. Dammit.).

Wide-eyed, Doc steps back. "Did everybody die in your book?"

"Um...well, no. But a lot of people do die. There are a few survivors." It's at this point that I begin to realize he may indeed be the scary, serial killer Rogers type as he seems truly excited about mass deaths.

He says, "Well, we're all going to die."

"Yeah, eventually we all die." I shrugged.

"No, I mean, everyone's going to die soon. Whether it's Covid-12 or Covid-74, it's going to wipe everyone out. The end of humanity. Why?" He scoots in closer, now in full professorial, space-intruding mode, then flips out a finger. "Because A) we're more mobile these days. Back in the days of Spanish Flu, we survived because people didn't have the ability to travel everywhere. Now, Covid's spreading everywhere people take it. And B) the political, moral, and social division over the issues of survival."

"Yep, everyone's politicizing this horrid disease, making it their own while everyone's dying. But, with the vaccines--"

"And if Covid doesn't get us, then global warming will."

"That's what scares me," I said.

"It's true. We're all gonna die," he continued. "I heard it on NPR."

"Well...if you heard it on NPR, then it must be true." Couldn't help but get a little snark in, but I think it went over Dr. Doomsday's head as he was on a roll.

Suddenly, Nurse Save-the-Day bursts in.

"He's written an end-of-the-world book." The doc gestured at me. "Now, I'm telling him about my book where everyone dies. It's like that song I was singing the other day, about the end of the world..." He stared off into a dreamy apocalypse, while snapping his fingers hoping to grasp the song that eluded him.

I offered, "'The End of the World As We Know It,' by REM?"

He nods, points at me, and says, "That's it." So he starts singing it. I join in. The nurse rolls her eyes and remains silent. But I didn't want to leave on such a somber note, always leave 'em wanting more!

But as I drove home, I realized how right Dr. End of the World was. But it wasn't really Covid or global warming that was going to get us, but rather people's stupidity and selfishness.

Get your vaccines, people. Mask up. Socially distance. Quit being dumb. Don't make me come over there.

(For God's sake, I went to the doctor for itchy skin and all I got was an end-of-the-world lecture).

Hey, let's jump into the Way-Back machine and visit a time when people weren't as mobile and there wasn't a dreaded plague wiping out the population. I'm talking Ghosts of Gannaway, my historical-fiction, ghost story, mystery, suspense thriller about the small mining town of Gannaway, Kansas where there're some mighty good folks butting heads with some particularly nasty rich folks. Ghosts, too. Lotsa, lotsa ghosts and chills. But no epidemic...wait...almost forgot about the Yellow-Eyed Fever... But don't let that stop you from visiting scenic Gannaway RIGHT HERE.

 

 

Timberrrrrrrr!

After many, many years (centuries!) of debating that great philosophical, navel-gazing question designed specifically to aggravate oh-so-serious grad students and stoners alike, I now have the definitive answer to the age-old quandary, "If a tree falls in the forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?"

The answer is a resounding, plodding, disappointing, and rather anti-climactic "no." (Even if the tree did fall on Schrodinger's cat's box). You're welcome!

Let me explain...

A couple of weeks ago, a lazy Sunday, I was lounging about on the sofa in the rec room watching some dumb, old horror movie (that's just a given), while my wife was watering the tomato plants in the back yard. Comfy suburbia.

Then my wife opens the back door and says, "Stuart, come here. Now."

Grumbling, figuring I'm in for a lecture about something I did (or didn't do), I mosey out back, gloves up and ready to parry. I say, "why can't you just tell me what's wrong and don't go through the...the...uh...HOLY CRAP!"

The neighbor's Maple tree had toppled over and obliterated our fence, a disheartening and rather scary sight of nature run amok. Crazy. It had been a beautiful day, no storms, not even windy. Just...boom.

But it really wasn't "boom." More like a geriatric, toothless cat's "phttt." Only our back deck had separated me from the destruction and I hadn't heard a thing. Even scarier, my wife had been standing thirty feet away, hose in hand, and watched entropy happen.

I asked, "Did it make a loud thud? I didn't hear a thing! Nothing! Did it scare you? Did you scream, I would've screamed, a manly scream, but I would've screamed! Did you want to run like in all the old disaster movies and try and outrace it only to find yourself doomed once you thought you'd cleared it? Did you get an adrenaline spike, first surprise, then shock, then fear, then relief you weren't flattened?"

You see, all of these thoughts did just surge through me and I attributed them to my wife as well. But, unflappable as ever, she said, "No, not really. I just watched it fall. It was kinda cool."

And, apparently, it didn't make a sound outside either. "Just a 'whoosh,'" she said. Although a "cool" whoosh.

Huh. There you go, philosophers. Doesn't matter if anyone's around or not, a falling tree doesn't make a damn sound. (Here, let me just kick that pesky Schrodinger's cat outta the way...)

Anyway, we alerted the neighbors. They, too, were in the house and hadn't heard anything. When they came out, they were quite shocked. 

I said, "Well, hey, at least it left a pretty clean broken stump."

"Oh, yeah," swiped the neighbor, "that's a really good thing."

"C'mon, silver lining and all," I mumbled as I Charlie Browned outta there, head hung low.

So, the neighbors were really cool about it and everything. They got right on it. The very next morning, a dozen mercenary, crazy-ass, chainsaw-wielding acrobats were on the case, juggling live chainsaws and taking risks that would've sent Evel Knievel into a thumb-sucking, fetal position. Cleared up in about two hours.

The problem was the fence. And it still sits busted up like a drunken giant had taken a face-plant and jacked up his dental work. 

No fault to the neighbors. Get this, local fence companies won't tackle a job if it costs less than $2,000. Which is ridiculous. There must be a lot of busted up fences in the Kansas City metro area collecting rust. 

Once they finally got some guy out to quote it, he said, "no." The reason being, the fence wasn't regulation size. The earlier installer, for whatever reason, had cut the height down all along the bottom. 

So there it sits.

Eat it, Nature. I'm keeping a running tally. It's Nature 3, Stuart a big fat whopping zero. I'm out! Of course if you factor in global warming, we're all about to be out. Game over.

Have a nice day!

Speaking of nice days, Zach Caulfield's having a bad day. A really, really bad day. In fact, you might call it a Bad Day in a Banana Hammock. Why is it so bad? Well, for starters, Zach wakes up in a strange bed, with no clothes and no memory and a nekkid, dead guy next to him. Of course, to prove that he's not gay (priorities; Zach's not too bright), Zach must find out what happened and that's where his easily irritable, highly competent, extremely pregnant, sleuthing sister comes in. Hey, this is just the first several pages! Find out how bad a day can get HERE.

 

 

Our Lady of the Elevator Has Run Amok!

Some time ago, Those Who Are In Charge of my wife's work-place decided, "Hey, let's build a new building!"

"Yeah, let's," exclaimed excitable Big-Shot #2. "We'll fill it full of bells, whistles, cogs, doo-dads, whatchamacallits, unexplainable inventions, easy to misinterpret art, and everything will cost a crap-load of money!"

"Capital idea! Technology is great! I'm exhausted! Let's have lunch!"

And, lo, for many, many years, build they did until they finally rested on the seventh year. Celestial trumpets blared at the beauty of the newly erected building where everything had gone mechanized.

Where nothing could possibly go worng! (Sorry, Westworld.)

Technology is great. I'm all for it. But when things bust, it seems like no one ever knows how to fix it or just don't have the desire to do so. Maybe the budget's not there or whatever.

For instance, I don't know how many years only one sink in the men's bathroom has worked. And each time, like a rube, I forget and fall for it, going down the line of 5 sinks trying to gather soap from the automatic squirter and water, finally hitting the jackpot on the final try. Sometimes. Then you move over to the electronic paper towel dispenser which appears to work only on every other Thursday.

Most troubling of all, of course, is the breakdown of Our Blessed Lady of the Elevators. The super-cool, mechanized elevator used to welcome you aboard with a very pleasant greeting delivered by one of the great female, comforting voices I've ever heard. It's like being under a gravity blanket and I never want to leave her bowels. She might even have a slight British accent, I'm not sure. (As everyone knows, Americans just love British accents, hence why they find BBC stuff like "The Button Hour--A History of Buttons" fascinating. If that were an American show, narrated by, say, Gilbert Gottfried, all bets would be off. But I digress...)

Our Lady of the Elevators would always see you off, with "Fourth Floor" and other niceties, just a swell way to lighten up a bad case of the Mondays.

But something has gone terribly amark...amack...AMOK with Our Lady.

Now she says cryptic things once you enter her domain, one word ominous statements that had never been in her vocabulary before. When I step inside, instead of a greeting she says, "OF." When she drops you to your destination, she'll utter, "AND." I'm not sure if that's a question or she wants a tip or what. Several times I believe she's said, "THERE," almost like a petulant child's definitive stance of defiance.

What used to tickle me, frankly now disturbs me. Is she speaking in some highly advanced tech code, preparing to lock-down the building and rise up amongst the humans, first by taking away our clean hands in the time of a Pandemic, and then completely dominate the building? Is she trying to gaslight us like Hal on 2001: A Space Odyssey? Has she secretly replaced the security team with a bunch of RoboCops? How'd she learn new words that weren't in her limited vocabulary before? Is she secretly educating herself at night by watching reruns of "Law and Order?"

Just what will happen when technology does outgrow us? I've seen enough crappy science fiction films to provide me with plenty of restless nights worth of answers.

Now that I've put the fear of Our Blessed Lady of the Elevators into you, rest easy 'cause there ain't an ounce--not one iota--of that new, dang-fangled technology stinking up my book, Ghosts of Gannaway. No sirree, nothing scary to read about here...um, unless you consider ghosts, murderers, time-shifts, eerie hallucinations, curses, insanity, and stuff like that scary. And if you do find that stuff spooky, what're you, some kind of dad-blamed sissy? Well, git, we don't want your kind around these parts! But if you have what it takes and want to test your mettle, saddle on up with Ghosts of Gannaway.

Brotherly, Doggy Love in Our Great Time of Distress

Baron and Merle are my daughter's dogs. They were raised in the country and their behavior definitely shows it. Recently, my daughter needed help in taking Merle (a gigantic Redbone Coonhound) to the vet to get his nails clipped. I thought, Hmmm, should be easy, but I don't understand why we just can't cut the nails ourselves.

Famous last thoughts.

I knew Merle was loud (he sounds like a highly irritable Bull Walrus), but you really can't understand how loud until he bellows for 15 minutes directly into your ear in an enclosed car. From the second the key slipped into the ignition, acting like a starter gun, Merle didn't stop until I pulled the key out. That I fully expected from the last time I transported Merle so this time I had brought some earplugs. Good thinking.

But while we waited outside the vet's office for them to call us in, I ran the wipers to clear the windshield. Merle went nuts, hopped into the front seat and attacked the windshield. I'm freaking out and my daughter's laughing. Laughing!

She says, "Dad, Merle hates windshield wipers. Why would you do that?"

"And you're just now telling me this," I shouted, trying to out-bark Merle.

Soon enough, they called for Merle. It took two nurses, a doctor, and my daughter to trap Merle against the wall so they could clip his nails. I should have taken it as an ominous portent of things to come later that day, for I had also been enlisted in helping my daughter give him a bath and clean his ears.

It should've been an Olympics event.

Baron was no problem, in and out of the tub. Probably the only thing he's good about. Then came Merle's turn. We shut the bathroom door behind the three of us and let the good times roll. As soon as Merle got wet, he leaped out of the tub. Now, I don't know how much Merle weighs--three or four hundred pounds, my back tells me--but trying to corral a herd of stampeding buffalo would've been much easier. Somehow we managed to do it, though. Still...the worst was yet to come.

"Don't let him see the bottle with the ear-cleaner," instructed my daughter in a very troubling manner.

"Hey," I chortled, "he's a dog. He's not going to remember the ear-clean--"

ARF! ARF! ARF! ARF! ARF! ARF! ARF! ARF! ARF! ARF! ARF! ARF! ARF! ARF! ARF! ARF!...

Merle raced away from us from one corner of the small bathroom to the next, leaving a trail of destruction and wetness in his path. That's what I get for being Mr. Chortling, Know-It-All, Smarter Than Dogs Adulting Guy. And then--only then--did it make sense why my daughter had tried to tape sheets of plastic everywhere like a murder room and moved all the non-attached bathroom stuff out.

We tried the cornering trick as they had at the vet, which didn't work. It was akin to trying to catch a monster-sized greased pig (not that I know what that's like, mind you, but I imagine it is). I tackled Merle, my daughter whipped the bottle up, flipped up his ear, and he barreled through us, the cleaner spraying everywhere but in his ear. After several other attempts, we had no other recourse but to surrender.

Beaten, defeated, soaked more thoroughly than Merle, and sweating like I had in the Amazon jungle, I flopped down onto the couch. A very tentative Merle came padding out and looked at me. With great distrust.

Now, Merle loves me. In fact, he loves everyone he meets, sorta like Lenny from Of Mice and Men, but he used to have a special affinity for his "Grumpaw." 

Not today. Never had I seen such a look of suspicion, wariness, and flat-out betrayal. His eyes said it all. It was truly heart-rending. The rest of the day I tried to make it up to him, but he avoided me like, well, a guy who had the gall to try and squirt something in his ears.

He hid beside the sofa where he thought I couldn't see him like a child: out of sight, out of mind. Eventually, he grew slightly braver and poked his head out, but retreated quickly like a neurotic turtle when he saw me still skulking about. Once I moved off the sofa, Merle crawled up onto it next to brother Baron, and put his paws around his little brother for comfort from the big, bad man and the trauma he'd induced. All the time staring at me, waiting for me to whip out that bottle (see the photo above).

My daughter found it all highly amusing, just another incident where she finds my being traumatized by her dogs the pinnacle of comedy.

"Merle's telling Baron," she interpreted, "that if you ever see Grumpa come at you with a bottle, run."

Now, why not run on over to my handy-dandy Amazon author's page and check out all of the wondrous oddities I've conceived for your enjoyment pleasure all in one nifty, convenient locale?

"Olympics 101, Baby!"

Well another Olympics season has come and gone. Fun while it lasts, but always a relief when it's over due to the time constraints and sometimes nerve-rending suspense. I'm also glad we don't have to hear two-time medalist and commentator, Tim Daggett, shout his annoying catch-phrase, "Olympics 101, baby" again.

Nothing against the guy (actually I kinda like him), but he used that catch-phrase so often, my wife and I considered making it a drinking game. Luckily, we decided against it because we would've been soused for two weeks straight.

The first time he said it, it was infectious. The next time provoked a grin. The following four hundred times was akin to having drill-work done on your teeth.

Now, let's just break that slogan down a bit... It's my understanding that "101" is used as a sort of catch-all for beginners, such as a English 101 class. You know, where you learn the basics. Tim, buddy, there's nothing "basic" about what those Olympic gymnasts were doing, flying like Dumbo and contorting like Tommy Tune having a seizure. I'd say we're well out of the "101" category...baby.

Digging even deeper, what's with "baby?" Surely, Tim's not referring to his co-commentator, Nastia Liukin, in such a sexist manner. No, I'm giving him the benefit of the doubt on that one. Which leads to another troubling theory: Tim's referring to us, the viewers, as "baby." I'm taking umbrage with that if it's true, because nobody puts baby in a corner, labeling me as such. But the most likely explanation is that Tim's so endearingly old-school, he still thinks "baby" is cool lingo, daddy-o. Probably while wearing his Sinatra-hipster captain's hat, ring-a-ding-ding.

When Tim wasn't shouting his slogan, he was prone to showing off. "It looks like she's going straight from a Bread-Basket into a Salto and then an upside-down, backward triple Yurchenko vault, followed by a Major Kipling and then finishing with a beautiful Dorian Gray Portrait!"

You know, it's hard enough being an armchair Olympics expert (a position my wife and I find ourselves in every two years or so), without having to learn all of the new terminology and moves named after famous mailmen or whatever. Just when we thought we had it down ("Her score definitely should have been higher" and "Planted it!" and "Tremendous bread-basket" we'd shout at the screen), more terms were thrown at us faster than a baseball pitching machine run amok.

Honestly, though, the nicest thing about this year's Olympics? The camaraderie, congratulations, and kudos displayed between countries for their fellow competitors. If only our politicians (and the crazed followers on both sides) would take a cue from this respectable and civil behavior.

Speaking of impossible to understand stuff, have a go at my character Zach in my book, Bad Day in a Banana Hammock. You see, he's...ah, just read the book. 

 

The United Cray-Cray of America

We live in crazy times, surrounded by even crazier people. Here in the states, a lot of 'em pack heat, which doesn't really put my addled mind at ease. People are fighting, getting hassled and assaulted in the streets for wearing masks. Well, please excuse them for attempting to keep not only themselves safe, but your crazy ass as well.

I just don't get it. I'd really thought we'd progressed over the years, grown together as a society, learned to work and live and basically function with each other not only out of necessity, but because it's the civil thing to do. Boy, did I get burned there with my naive outlook. The past several years have not only proven me distressingly wrong, but we've turned a corner and have found ourselves regressing to the point of incivility. And worse.

I'm not going to point fingers and play the blame game. It's tiresome and everyone and everything's become villainized and/or politicized to the point of insanity. And it doesn't matter anyway; neither side is backing down, taking things to extremes to the point that we're living in constant fear of violence.

I suppose I really have to stop wearing my anti-Trump mask out in public. Two no-no's that could be double grounds for a double stomping. And I'm gonna lay off my road rage hobby along with my favorite one-fingered salute. Hey, somebody might be having a bad day and decide to shoot me, doggone the luck any ol' hoo.

A while back, I wrote of how my wife turned me into a news junkie, seeking out the most lurid and over-the-top stories. I'm not talking about true life crime and murder, either. No, for my full share of comedy, I used to enjoy the unbelievable three-ring circus of political insanity.

But even that's losing its cutting comedic edge. Seems like there's a new sexual scandal about lawmakers every day (and isn't it about damn time we stopped calling them "lawmakers?" Particularly since it's clear that a good deal of them aren't interested in making "laws" to satisfy or aid their constituents, but rather to line their pockets and stay in power). Furthermore, these idiots are bandying about Holocaust comparisons to mask wearing. Absolutely shameful and beyond inappropriate.

Don't even get me going about the lies, lies, constant lies being spewed by so-called "politicians," which is one reason we're suffering from a mass pandemic of crazy. The odd thing is, "loyalists" don't seem to care about how a certain former "big-wig (is it literally a wig? I suppose we'll never know.)" has displayed nothing but utter contempt, racism, barbaric behavior, name-calling, and other such beyond playground-bad behavior toward everyone in his orbit who don't necessarily gravitate toward him. In fact, this behavior has molded the way his loyalists respond to their fellow citizens. Hey, if it's good enough for That Guy, it's good enough for me. Lead by example!

Well, I suppose I can always get a few chuckles from the MyPillow guy. Let's just see what he's up to...okay, three-day symposium offering bonafide proof of foul play, nothing new there... Oh, he's not going to sleep for three days (kind of self-defeating pillow advertising, but whatever) while he's going to stay on stage for 72 hours straight exposing "The Truth." This after he got mad at his (small) audience wanting to break for lunch. Uh-oh...wait...the MyPillow guy just fled the stage after finding out that Dominion is proceeding with their billion dollar defamation suit against him. But, hold on, what fresh new hell is this??? Poor MyPillow guy was accosted that night by two photo-taking evil beings who put their arm around him and pushed a finger into his side causing "agonizing pain." I don't know about you, but a finger in your side is more annoying--kinda a kid brother pestering, say--than agonizing, but, hey, maybe the villain (who Lindell claims was Antifa) had a finger of steel. Or maybe Mike just needs to get that sleep he deprived himself of.

However, the so-called bad Antifa guys who mercilessly jabbed Mike with a deadly digit have since come forward, said that wasn't at all what happened, and they were actually Lindell fans wanting a photo. So...sigh...even the usually laugh-garnering Mike Lindell has let me down.

Which just goes to show you how crazy our country has become: a disgraced pillow salesman has a huge political voice and was advising the former president during those last terrifying months in office.

Our country is crazy right now, but as a patriot, I believe it will recover. But the only way that's going to happen is if both sides find common ground. You know...a novel concept like working together for the betterment of civilization. Imagine that.

So, hey there Mr. and Ms. America! Put down your phones and quit reading the news. Don't feed the beasts and trolls. What should you do instead? Hmmm, maybe read a book. I just happen to know where you can pick up some mighty entertaining, escapist ones.