"I Don't Want To Die For David Sedaris!"

We had tickets to go see David Sedaris, had 'em for a long time. But the closer the show date came, I started having doubts. Something I couldn't quite put my finger on.

I had no doubts regarding Sedaris, a particularly insightful and amusing anecdotist. But with the show in October quickly approaching, my doubts began to solidify.

The day of the show, I was getting dressed. Kinda hemming and hawing and dragging my feet.

"This shirt feels too small. Does it look too small?" I whined to my wife. Standing in front of the mirror, I looked like a tightly packed sausage, splitting at the casing.

"Does it feel comfortable," she asked in return.

"I guess. If I suck my gut in."

"You can suck your gut in for David Sedaris," she said.

Then it hit me. Jackpot! The answer to my doubts about going to the show that night. "But...but...I don't want to die for David Sedaris!" 

For you see, it was the time of the year and I had yet to get my new Covid shot. Now I know that these days it's practically de rigueur to stop worrying about Covid and move on with your life. But not too long before this October play-date, I had attended a funeral of someone who had passed away from the dreaded disease. And from what I'd been reading, the newest Covid strain was making a dent into people once again. I wasn't quite ready to throw the mask back on (and how did I tolerate that for as long as I did?), but the old creeping, crawling, scary fears were coming back.

Now, don't get me wrong, it wasn't for lack of trying that I'd failed to acquire my shot. I'd been trying for three weeks.

At my grocery store, I thought I could waltz right in, wait five minutes and get jabbed like I'd done in the past.

"Do you have an appointment?" asked the pharmacist on duty.

"Ah, no...I didn't know I needed one."

"Yes. We're kinda short on vaccine this year, so we're only doing it by appointment."

So, I needed to cut a little red tape. No problem. I whipped out my phone and asked, "So...what's your phone number?"

She looked at me incredulously, tolerating no fools. "You CAN'T just call now for an appointment." I could tell she struggled to tamper down an eyeroll. "We don't have any openings until next week."

"Okay. So...can I sign up now?"

"It's best if you do it online." She tapped on a flyer with the website address.

"Fine!" I huffed and screamed on the way out. "But if I die, it's on YOU!" (Note: I only imagined shouting this last line. Not even I'm that big of a jerk.)

When I got home, I prepared for battle with technology. Great, I thought. It says I need good, clear photos of my health insurance card.

So, through extraordinary pains and effort, I took photos of my card. As a cute bonus, I held it up next to my face to show the pharm tech my winning smile. I emailed the pics to my computer and began to complete the process of online appointment setting.

But the mindless automaton behind the process told me, "I'm sorry. We can't find any stores in your area."

WHAT? I was just there! Stoopid, stoopid, stoopid damn automaton couldn't find a grocery store right in front of you, grumble, brumble, grumble...

So, Plan B... While picking up a prescription for my wife at our local pharmacy, I asked the pharmacist, "Hey, do you have to have an appointment to get a Covid shot?"

She said, "No, we take walk-ins."

I checked the time. "Great...but I can't do it now. I've got somewhere to be." (Like she cared about this or something.) "I'll just come back tomorrow! How does that sound?"

"Sounds good," she said in a manner that was decidedly not so good.

The next day there was a different pharmacist on duty. "Hi, I'd like to get my Covid shot!"

"Well, we have plenty of the vaccine on hand, but we're doing it by appointment only," he says.

"What? But...but...but..."

"And we're pretty full up now. I think the first opening is...next Monday."

"Okay," I groused, "Sign me up."

He taps another flyer. "Scan this and do it online."

Once home, I go to work. Photos of insurance card? Check. Did it find my store? Check. Will I be able to sign up for...for...

"I'm sorry," the screen read. "At this time there are no available appointments." To make matters worse, the automated response didn't sound "sorry" in the least.

Out of desperation, I went through all of the local (and near local) pharmacies and grocery stores I could find on my phone, frantically searching for the life-saving vaccine. I struck out time and time again. It was quite a different scenario than when the vaccine first hit here. At that time, the government was actually paying people to get vaxxed. Now you couldn't buy a shot.

Finally--FINALLY--I was able to beat the system and schedule an appointment a week out from the date. Days after my David Sedaris show. Gulp!

You know, I had Covid once before. But mercifully, it was after I'd had the first shots, thus rendering what could've been a death sentence into about four days of misery. I don't have time or patience for Covid deniers. Frankly, I can't even believe there are such a thing. Anyone who believes that Covid isn't real is an idiot and a walking insult to the three million plus people who've died from it. So kindly keep your stupidity to yourselves. Along with your germs.

I survived the Sedaris show (and had forgotten my mask, too, showing how used to life without it I had become!), but the two guys behind me had me scared. The only two guys constantly coughing throughout the sold-out auditorium.

While I'm mulling over stupid people, guys don't get any dumber than Zach, one half of the protagonist team in my comic mystery Zach and Zora series. It's that old cliché of a dunderheaded male stripper with a heart of gold who can't help but stumble across corpses all the time, until his long-suffering, usually pregnant sister, Zora, has to find out who the true murderer is. Be there for all the laughs, murder, mystery, and wicked dance moves you can handle. Start at the beginning with Bad Day in a Banana Hammock!

Mr. Fix-It Has Gone Missing!

A feeling of dread fell over me like a purple bruise-colored storm cloud. Again, I checked that I had the right hours on Mr. Fix-It's shop. Yep, 10:00 A.M. The neon sign in the window declared "Open" in bright, cheery, yellow letters. Yet it didn't match my mood as I pulled on the door handle again, just making sure I hadn't lost that much muscle mass due to aging. Or maybe latent OCD. Either way, it remained locked.

I rattled the door, thinking that possibly Mr. Fix-It--another victim of inescapable aging--had pulled a morning siesta, dozing off behind his desk while watching day-time, screaming TV. My hands cupped, I peered into the store-wide window. Nothing. Not even a shining ray of hope beaming from beneath the bathroom door.

Huh.

I went to my car, thought I'd wait it out. In the car, my mind rattled like a maraca tossed around by a bratty toddler. 

What could've possibly happened to Mr. Fix-It? It reminds me of that true crime mini-series I watched where nobody knew the housewife had been brutally slaughtered behind her locked doors. Mr. Fix-It's gotta be raking in the cash for all of those high-dollar repairs. A victim of robbery. Better call Five-O.

But before I did that, I called the store number and watched carefully as I sat parked mere feet from the front window. Looking--no, hoping--for movement inside.

Instead, I got a cold, metallic, recorded voice. A voice that sent ice slaloming down my ski-slope of a back. A voice from beyond the grave. "Hello, you've reached Mr. Fix-It. I'm sorry we're unable to help you right now because we're with another customer. Please leave your name and number and we'll get back to you shortly. Have a nice day."

I held the phone glued to my ear as the line went dead. As dead as Mr. Fix-It, no doubt. Slowly, the phone dropped to my side. Could I be misreading the happenstances? I squinted, looking inside again. Maybe Mr. Fix-It was helping a secret customer in the back room, a celebrity perhaps who wanted to keep a low profile, not wanting to let Joe Public know that he had a vacuum cleaner on the blink. 

But...but...there ARE no celebrities in Kansas City. Yet...the recording steadfastly insisted that Mr. Fix-It was with another customer.

So, I waited. I picked up my phone, dialed in 911. My finger hovered over the button, close to detonating. 

But what would I be detonating?

Wait, just wait, wait a gol-darned minute! What if Five-O suspects me? After all, my fingerprints are all over the door handle, my DNA smeared onto the plate-glass window. Maybe Mr. Fix-It had even installed a security camera, capturing footage of me, madly yanking at the door. No, better to keep it cool. That's right. Play it cool, reallllll cool, the way I roll.

So I rolled out of there, taking back roads all the way home, my gaze glued onto the rearview mirror, looking for Johnny Five-O's red and blue cherries to be twirling a psychedelic light-show of guilt, guilt, GUILT.

The following week I had many restless nights, unable to sleep. Wondering if I did the right thing. 

What if I'd left Mr. Fix-It, laying in a pool of his own blood, gasping for breath, holding onto dear, sweet life, scrawling my name in his own blood and implicating me, thus sending me down the river, where I'd end up in the Big House, wearing caked-on deep-blue mascara while holding onto a big thug's belt-loop?

What other options did I have? Friday night as I lay in bed, sweating, expecting the worst, and knowing that the even worse worst was just around the corner, I made up my mind. A decision that would undoubtedly change my life forever.

After my sixth night of sleeplessness, I decided to return to the scene of the crime.

With great trepidation, I drove to my destiny, fearing I'd see yellow tape in front of Mr. Fix-It's store, designating it a crime scene. I pulled in front of the store, parked and turned off the ignition. No crime tape, but the cops had probably already been there and were looking for me by now, APB's posted city-wide. The neon light in the door still proclaimed "Open," but that didn't signify anything. I wondered if Mr. Fix-It still lay rotting in the back room, starting to stink by now, flies buzzing around his corpse and starting to lay eggs in his ears.

Then...suddenly...the door swept open. Broom in hand, Mr. Fix-It stepped out!

Near tears of relief, I jumped out of the car and ran to Mr. Fix-It, my voice trembling as much as my hands.

"Mr. Fix-It," I screamed, "I've been so worried! I was...I came here last Saturday at 10:20 and you weren't here!" My arms wanted to wrap around Mr. Fix-It's neck and pull him into a long, loving embrace, but my mind--somehow, wisely--forbade the move.

Mr. Fix-It took a step back and said, "Oh. On Saturdays, we sleep in a little bit and don't get here until 10:30."

My mouth dropped. A blood red veil shaded over my line of vision. I stumbled back a step, felt my hands shaking again, this time not out of a sense of great loss and morbid fear, but out of an uncontrollable, inevitable, building rage.

"What?" The only word I could mutter.

"Saturdays we like to take it easy and grab an extra half hour of shuteye before we get here, " he said, smiling a very dumb, caught with his hand-in- the-cookie-jar grin.

"But...but...your door...your website...says you open on Saturdays at 10."

"Oh, well." Still grinning like a mischievous school-boy who'd been held back for fifty years, he shrugged.

"God dammit," I raged, "maybe you should fix your stupid website! Or how about you fix your DAMN ALARM CLOCK, MR. EFFING FIX-IT!"

Another shrug was his way of apologizing. "What can I say?"

So I took out a gun and shot him. Hey, it's Kansas.

(The story you've just read is true. Sort of. Kind of. Maybe if you're really drunk and half-out of your mind, it's true. Whatever, it's true enough.)

Speaking of huge-ass lies, most of my books are filled with characters spouting them. That's where the mystery usually comes from. I mean, come on, how many murderers tell the truth right up front? Check out my Amazon page to get started! 

The Curse of Halloween 2023

The day after every Halloween, a curse falls upon our house. No, for a change, I'm not talking about American politics. That's a curse of a different sort.

Rather, every day following Halloween, something shrinks in our house. This year it was a wine glass.

Check out the photo above...

No, it's not a hoax! Not a dream! Not an imaginary story! And we didn't buy cutesy Matryoshka doll wine glasses to nest within one another.

These matching set of glasses were gifted to my wife this year at a work party. And they were of the same size. 

Not anymore.

After using them Halloween night, my wife put hers into the dishwasher. The next morning...it HAD TURNED INTO A SHRUNKEN HEAD VERSION OF IT'S FORMER SELF! AIEEEEEEE! *Choke!* *Gasp!*

Perfectly reduced including the slogan upon the glass, identical in every detail but size.

"The curse is back," I said.

"I know. And I really liked those glasses," said my wife.

"Well...you do drink smaller wine portions than me," I volleyed, trying to be the optimistic, "glass-half-sized"...er, I mean, the "glass-half-full" kinda guy that doesn't come easily to me.

I suppose our curse started about four years ago. The first thing we noticed that had shrunk around Halloween was the economy, and hence, our budget.

Now I hear all of you supernatural pooh-poohers saying, "That's no curse! That happened to everyone!"

I say thee NAY for I have the startling facts that I'll lay out upon you.

The following year, I awoke after Halloween and threw on the EXACT, SAME (REDUNDANT) SWEATSHIRT I'd had on the night before. Yet...and yet...it had mysteriously shrunk, particularly around the gut! The night before it had fit. But the cold hard facts were plain and staring me in the face: we had a Halloween curse upon our household.

You want more facts? The next Halloween, THE SAME THING HAPPENED TO MY JEANS! I couldn't even button them the following morning! And they hadn't been in the washer or dryer either!!!

Clearly, our house is built upon an old Indian burial ground. Hey, I don't make stuff up. I'm a hard-hitting journalist who just reports the facts. And I believe all of the facts presented to me on TV and the internets.

While we're on the topic of all things spooky and Native American supernatural hijinks, check out my book, Ghosts of Gannaway. It's another hard-hitting piece of journalism about a cursed mining town, culled from the true facts of yesteryear. And every...WORD...IS...TRUE! (Well...except for the stuff about the curse, the ghosts, the haunted museum, the murders, the...)

Nightmare in Aisle 26

My grocery store has decided to change up its "perks" program. Ordinarily, this shouldn't be an issue. But it's different when the damn program doesn't work. (For the uninitated, the "perks" program gives the grocery shopper gas savings and special deals on food; my wife and I used to not believe in such crass mercantilism and invasion of privacy, but with the gas prices what they are these days, we've become believers.)

So, I have an established card with the old "perks" program. Stupidly, I thought it'd just roll over to the new program. But, no, things aren't ever that easy. Before my weekly grocery shopping run, I stop in at the customer service desk. But there's no customer servicing to be done and no one in sight. I wait...and I wait...and I wait. Meanwhile, just a few feet from me is a young clerk, standing there, doing absolutely nothing but avoiding eye contact with me.

Finally, a woman appears. I asked "Do I need a new perks card? Or what?" (Because I'm already getting a little huffed.) A deer caught in the headlights, her eyes flutter to and from, panic overtaking her. 

"No," she finally says, "but you'll need to activate the new program."

"Great! Activate me!" I proofer my old card like it's Willy Wonka's golden ticket.

She refuses to take it. "No, no, I can't do that. You'll have to wait until 9:00 before the lady who's going to do it gets here."

"Okay, whatever, guess I'll go get my shopping done." Usually it only takes me about ten minutes to whip through the store. But since I had a grueling 25 minutes to kill, I took my time, lollygagging around in the medical aisle, reading all the labels like some kinda weirdo.

Ding! 9:00! I head back to the customer non-service desk. "Hi! I'm back. Where's the perks lady?"

"Um...she's not here yet. Why don't you go do your shopping and come back?" she says, while I'm leaning on an obviously full cart.

Suddenly, the non-helper kiddie clerk starts shouting, "She's here! I see her, Jan, she's here! Finally, she's here!" (I realized the kid's job was to rat out other employees and not much else.)

So, the new woman (who seemed to me to be much too old for green dyed hair, but whatever, it takes all kinds) rolls up to the the customer service desk and the initial woman--Jan--fills her in. "Marsha, you've got to start activating the new perks cards."

"What?" Marsha is stunned by this news, her mouth opening and closing like a land-locked fish. "Nobody told me that!"

"Well, they just told me. This gentleman has been waiting for you." Jan juts a thumb at me while they both pretend like I'm not there.

At long last, Marsha pastes on a smile and turns to me. "Follow me."

I follow her to a desk with a "Perks!" sign on it near the front door. Marsha then starts playing with two different tablets, growing more agitated and flustered.

"I'm sorry, sir, but the system's not letting me in." Then she whips her phone out. "Let me try on this."

So, I'm waiting and waiting and waiting, standing in front of green-haired Marsha fiddling around with two tablets and her phone. "It's just not working, sir. Hang on a minute." She gets up to leave, takes a look at me, then decides I look suspicious and comes back to gather her electronics. "I'll be back shortly."

Meanwhile, another older woman with a very menacing glare rolls an empty cart up next to me. I say, "Looks like this might take a while."

"Yeah, I can see that," she says, staring at me while not seeing me, not really. "While we wait, perhaps you'd be interested in seeing my nails. They please a lot of people."

Okay, my supposed ten minute grocery gathering trip just grew stranger. "Oh, um...sure...let's see your nails...or whatever."

She stands up from leaning on her cart and wiggles her fingers, giving them that special jazz hands touch. Little eyeballs and ghosts and spiders adorn the tips.

"Ohhhh, that's really....ah...that's really...you must really like Halloween."

Ms. Spooky-Fingers face puckers up and she glowers at me. "Why would you say that?" she says and shakes her head.

Thankfully, Marsha rode back in to my rescue. Completely out-of-breath, she huffs out, "Okay, I think we've got it worked out." She starts back to fiddling with her armada of electronics. Again frustration sets in. "Hmmm...I don't know why...wait! Here we go!"

Over to the side of us, the little kiddie clerk narc pumps a fist and shouts, "Yesssssss!"

Marsha begins to quiz me about my life. By this time, we've gathered quite a group of "Perks Desirers," many of them grumbling about how they couldn't sign up online or how they've had to come back several days or how their savings wasn't counted at the gas pump. But Marsha is relentless, asking me my address, phone number and age in front of the crowd at my back.

Suddenly, Marsha "Jeckyll and Hydes" back into frustration again. "Why won't this let me in? It was working a minute ago! Why the... What's going on with...DAMMIT!" She counts to ten, takes a breath and says to me, "I'm sorry, sir. Why don't you go do your shopping and come back."

I sigh and wave a game show hostess hand over my full (now melting) cart.

She excuses herself again and bolts, leaving me at the mercy of Ms. Spooky-Fingers again.

"I don't care as long as I'm out of here by ten," she says. "I've got to go get a shot in my eye again."

I sigh, do an internal eyeroll and know full well I shouldn't get sucked into her spiderweb of craziness. But I can't resist, either due to the social niceties of humanity or just dumb curiosity. "Ohhh? Do you have macular degeneration?"

Again, she gives me the evil eye. "Nooooo! I had a stroke in my eye! Can you believe that?"

"Um, well, no...I guess not. Did the...ah...doctor say how it happened?"

"No! I was on the phone waiting for six hours, too!"

Please, Marsha, please come back, please come back, please bring your green-haired self back and...

My prayers worked! Marsha reappeared like a green-haired, out-of-breath genie!

"I'm sorry it's taking so long. Yesterday, the system went down. I've got to talk to the assistant manager about this."

So, we're all waiting for the assistant manager to come down and pull a perkish hail Mary. I'm stuck between Ms. Spooky-Fingers and Marsha of the Green Hair getting angry at electronics. Finally, the little rat fink clerk shouts, "Ahoy! Here she comes, Marsha! She's here!"

Some young kid (I've eaten potato chips older than her) enters the fray and says, "I'm sorry, everybody. The perks system is down again."

There was a good hour-and-a-half shot out of my day. "Well...how am I supposed to get my gas points?" I ask in a pissy manner.

"Oh, the old cards still work."

Huh. Imagine that. Maybe they should've told me that ninety minutes ago. Just another perk of the store, I guess.

Speaking of perks, you'll receive absolutely none from reading my books. But I would recommend you do so anyway. And why not start with my ghostly mystery, Peculiar County? (It's my personal favorite of all of my books. There's your damn perk!)

Cone-a-copia

I hate dog cones. Probably not as much as dogs do, but I'm right up there with them. So imagine the fun that developed when one of our dogs and one of my daughter's dogs ended up in cones at the same damn time! My wife and I were juggling responsibilities between our house and my daughters' trying to keep the conesiness of it all relatively sane and safe for humans and dogs alike.

Here's what happened to poor little Mr. Loomis...

While playing with the fence-jumping neighbors' golden lab, Loomis got caught in the crossfire between his larger (younger) sister and the lab. While inside, I heard a blood-curdling shriek from Loomis and went out to see what the problem was. Apparently, the neighbor heard it too, but his dog clearly felt guilt-ridden and wouldn't heed his owner's calling, instead looking forlornly, tail between legs, back at Loomis.

But the damage had been done.

A couple days later, I noticed that Loomis' eye had gunked up. Naturally, I noticed this the day before I was to go help out my daughter with her dogs and the day before my wife was leaving town.

"Hmmm, there appears to be something wrong with Loomis' eye," I said.

The vet verified this. "Well, he has an ulcer on his eye and it's a bad one."

An ulcer??? In the eye??? My limited medical knowledge thought that an ulcer was something you develop in your stomach because you're worried about making financial ends meet or the current state of politics or what decent clothes I may have that still fit. Definitely not an eye issue!

So, armed with seven kinds of eyedrops and 34--count 'em, 34!--applications through the day (and all spaced apart, natch), we went down the long road of coneheadedness. The cone was clearly too large for Mr. Loomis. He'd sadly drag it through the backyard, face down into the dirt. Inside, he'd bang into everything he possibly could. At night, when he'd go into the bathroom for a drink of water, he'd constantly shut the door onto himself by bashing the door with his cone. Worse than having a baby, I was up numerous times through several nights.

And all the time, Loomis would give me a look suggesting, "Why in the HELL are you punishing me, bald baby man?"

So we bought him a "comfy cone." Comfy cones are designed to be...well, comfy. Softer and smaller and more pliable than the damn plastic cones of torture, I wasn't sure how it would work, if it'd keep Loomis from rubbing his eye. I believe it helped, but he was still locking himself into the bathroom. He even did it when he finally got the cone off, maybe seeking fun where he could or he'd emBARKed on a revenge tour to destroy my sleep. Loomis certainly hated the velcro ripping sound when we'd put the cone on him, paddling his paws madly, trying to make a getaway from the constant torture.

Meanwhile, in my daughter's town, Merle had surgery to remove some masses. 

Now, Merle is a huge, honkin' Redbone Coonhound who sounds and acts like an angry walrus, probably not the ideal candidate for The Great Coning. But cone him we did, although he rarely kept it on. And talk about banging around into things. My Gawd, you'd think it was Fourth of July, 24-7: BANG! CRACK! SPILL! TUMBLE, TUMBLE, TUMBLE...wash, rinse, repeat.

When the vet told us he needed to keep the cone on for two weeks, we screamed "TWO WEEKS???" causing the entire vet clinic to erupt in a pandemonium of barking, led by Merle himself, who I'm sure didn't even understand why he was barking, but he loves the act sooooooooo much.

My daughter took a cue from us and ordered Merle a "Comfy Cone." I had doubts, mainly because Merle possesses super-animal strength and is able to bend steel bars with the power of his jaws. But Merle had doubts because when we opened the comfy cone package, the item was pink.

"That is NOT what I ordered," said my daughter, taking in the pinkishness of it all. "Amazon's trying to make my dog a sissy."

I tried to comfort her trauma over the emasculation of Merle by telling her her dog looked like he was wearing a bad-ass hoodie. Just a pink one (tee hee hee).

As of this writing, we've finally done away with the two cones (or four, if you're keeping count). My wife thinks I anthropomorphize the dogs and their responses to cones too much. But their abject misery is way too palpable to ignore and the looks on their faces are just heartbreaking. Bah. The only good cone is of the ice cream variety.

While I'm yakking about dogs, a dog plays an important role in my book Secret Society, the first in the Killers Incorporated trilogy. But that's not all! There are more serial killers to be found in the pages of these morbidly amusing, dark, suspense thrillers than you can shake a dog at. And they're the "good guys." It's complicated. Read all about it here! (No dogs were harmed during the writing of this book, unless you count a "coning," which I certainly think is harmful to a dog's mental state of mind, so never mind my ASPCA disclaimer.)

Big, Fat Guys

There's no denying that the world has it in for "big, fat guys." The blessedly thin look down their noses with disdain at overweight people, one of the more common, yet relatively restrained "hate groups" in our country. We even have an ex-president (and let's keep it that way) who insults a Republican competitor with fat insults (and honestly, shouldn't this guy look in a mirror? All of those Big Macs are going somewhere. Recently he claimed he was 6'3" and 215 pounds. HA HA HA HA HA HA HA! ).

Recently, I've come to realize something odd about how people refer to overweight folks. Have you ever noticed that it's always "big, fat guy?" It's never just, "hey, check out that big guy over there," or "Wow, look at that fat guy!" Nope, it's always "get a load of that BIG, FAT guy!"

Why do we need both "big" and "fat?" Aren't they kind of redundant? Is it merely trying to doubly amplify one's size in derision? When you refer to an underweight person, you don't call them a "thin, skinny guy." And sometimes, people like to go for the trifecta of fat insults and up the ante to "big, giant, fat guy."

And it's always "guy." People don't like to personalize it, maybe too afraid to get to know the big, fat guy and hang a name on him. "Say, there goes big, fat Phil" is just unheard of in polite circles.

But how best to politely describe overweight people? The "experts (a bunch of THIN experts, I have no doubt)" have presented some guidelines:

*Plump: This sounds so veddy British and polite, that it already wins you over. In fact, there's a jolliness attached to it, evoking everyone's favorite good-natured "plump" fellow, Santa Claus. Come to think of it, as a child I don't EVER recall my peers referring to Santa as that "creepy big, fat guy who breaks into homes." No, they kept their mouths glued until December 26th when things reverted back to business as usual and open fire was declared on the hapless, overweight kid on the playground.

*Big-Boned: I don't know. This one kinda sounds like an excuse the thin give overweight people to explain their girth while they don't really buy into it for one minute. Besides, I don't think big bones really add to your overall size. Unless you're a Tyrannosaurus Rex or whatever.

*Heavy Set: I suppose this one's okay. At least it doesn't fly to the stratosphere with "BIG" and "FAT," leaving a little bit of leeway in the wide range of "heavy settedness."

*Larger: Well, duh. But larger than what or whom? Who's the standard bearer for weight? I mean, this kinda changes with the times, doesn't it? Look at the movies made between the '20's and '50's, where many leading starlets (and men) tipped the scales. Our currently popular, bone-thin, heroin-chic models wouldn't have a place on the silver screen back in the day.

*Overweight: This is a favorite of doctors. Used by anyone else, it's insulting. But those glib, thin doctors get away with it frequently. (Besides, I don't know if I'd trust a doctor who diagnoses you as "pleasantly plump.")

*Morbidly Obese: No. JUST no. Talk about insulting. And people who use it usually don't even understand the terminology. The word "morbid" constitutes sickness and death. Once, in my heavier youth, my dad actually called me this. Thanks Dad!

*Plus Size: Often used in modelling, I assume this term makes people feel okay about themselves, because hey! It's modelling! Personally, I find it slightly insulting, but really, all of these are. But if it makes an overweight person okay with who they are, more power to them.

*Curvy: This is the term a buddy uses when he sets you up with his girlfriend's friend. 

*Full-Figured: see "Curvy."

*Stocky, Stout, Burly, Bulky, and Husky: These are all interchangeable and bring to mind muscle more than sheer mass. So large guys might readily adopt these euphemisms.

There you have but a slight selection of euphemisms and code words for overweight people. Tons more than there are for thin people, just part of the overweight bias prevalent in our culture. I've been on both sides of the spectrum, many times up and down through my life (currently I'm tipping those scales upward again, but I'll be back down again at some point), so I feel I'm uniquely qualified to be able to talk about subject. 

Really, it probably depends on the individual what you refer to them as, but why refer to their weight at all? Proper names or even "hey, you!" are much preferred.

Now that I'm off my soapbox, it's shameless plug time! Elspeth, the Living Dead Girl is a YA paranormal murder mystery with loads of humor and suspense about, well...a living dead girl. It's complicated. Find out how complicated riiiiiiiiiiiiiight HERE!

The Blue Jay of Nutrition

Recently, my wife and I were kicking around Weston, Kansas, a quaint, small town known for wineries (yay!) and "antiquing (boo! And don't ever, ever, EVER use that "word" around me)." When we left, I noticed a small store off the beaten path.

"Blue Jay Nutrition," I scoffed. "I wonder what they sell!"

My wife says, "Nutrition. Duh." Then she waited a beat. "Wait...did you think that it was nutrition for blue jays?" She starts laughing and laughing and attracting attention to my dunder-headed faux pas.

"Well...kinda." I hung my head, burning redder than a fire hydrant.

In retrospect, I should've known better. But my brain blipped and I followed the logic. For a ludicrous moment, I imagined the store's proprietor giving a tour to visiting school children. "Okay, today I'm going to show you what blue jays eat for their nutritious needs. Other bird's eggs. That's the end of our tour, boys and girls, please donate your lunch money on your way out. See ya!"

Well, it was kinda a dumb name for a store, so don't judge me.

Of course this sent me down the path of finding other really dumb business/store names. The results will make you say "what the hell were they thinking?"

There's "The Morning Wood Company." Not a joke, not an imaginary story, not a dream! It gets even worse with their slogan: "You've Got To Get Up Early To Beat Us." I'd like to think that the proprietor of Morning Wood knew exactly what he was doing, but...would it equate to good business?

How about "Bunghole Liquors?" I'm not even going to comment on this one. Well, maybe I will. If the owners name is "Bunghole," surely a lifetime of childhood humiliation would've sent him fleeing to the courthouse by now to have his name legally changed.

"Poopsie's" isn't so bad, I suppose... If it were a children's fun palace or toy store. Maybe. But it's a restaurant. Next!

"Sam & Ella's Chicken Palace" is next on the list. This one took me a moment to figure through. But keep saying "Sam 'n Ella"  out loud and you'll realize it's about the worst possible advertisement for a chicken palace one could imagine.

Here's one that dads everywhere will be sure to enjoy: "Passmore Gas & Propane." C'mon, Dad, let's hear that one again! 

"Master Bait & Tackle!" Well...I'm not sure how these two activities (if you will) go hand-in-hand (if you will even more!), but I won't be darkening their doorway any time soon (unless I'm wearing a trench coat and nothing underneath, if you will infinity!).

We'll wrap things up with "Dumass Taco." I kinda think these guys knew what they were doing since their logo is a donkey. Just don't confuse them with their competitor down the street, "Braniac Burrito."

There you have just a few entries into the remarkably creative (or astoundingly narrow-minded and just plain dumb) arena of mercantilism. Okay! It's going on lunch-time, so I think I'll go and pop off at the local "Kum 'n Go" for something good... Wait... Um...

While we're on the topic of dunderheaded and idiotic buffoons, meet Zach Caulfield, male stripper par excellence (but he prefers "male entertainment dancer") and incredibly unlucky dead body magnet! Thank God for his sleuthing sister, Zora, who bails him out of trouble time and time again by finding the real murderers (even when she's carting around her four kids, natch). Read the wacky hijinx and cases of MURDERRRRRRRRR in the Zach and Zora comic mystery series!