Stuart R. West's Blog, page 11

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 , 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. (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

Another Day, Another Indictment...

This is getting a little old. I'd kinda think that even the MAGA crowd might be getting a little tired of it, too. Donny Trump, of course, has been indicted four--count 'em, four!--times during a four-and-a-half month time span with 91 felonies under his (needs to be loosened a few notches) belt. And of course he was just ruled guilty of fraud in a New York civil case.

Damn. In the United States history, we've never had a president indicted before. Yet...yet...here's the punchline: Trump's currently tied with our current president in voting polls!

How can this possibly be? Don't get me wrong, I have issues with Biden, too. He's by far not my ideal president. But when compared to the lying, traitorous, bullying, raping, crooked, misogynistic, racist, blowhard, hate-mongering, philandering, Big Mac chowing orange alternative, Joe looks like Honest Abe. At least Joe's trying to assist the country, more than Donny ever did. Trump's wallet and ego always comes first, even ahead of family.

Wake up, half the country!

Do you really want to be dragged along with Trump's self-proclaimed four-year "revenge term?" That's all that's on his mind. Yep, he's railed about how he's going to imprison his "enemies (i.e., honest politicians who don't buy into his lies)," defund the Justice Department (the only branch willing to go after him), and eliminate any executive branch's checks and powers over his tyrannical stranglehold over our country. This ain't how a president's supposed to act.
Unbelievably, his grotesque and cheap theatrics just become more childish and deranged. This week he called for departing Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, General Mark Milley to be put to death. Unbelievable. AND he's called upon his spineless Republican sycophant senators to shut down the government. Why? Because he thinks it might keep him out of prison, a desperate last chance to "defund the election interference against him." He doesn't care about how bad this would be for our country or the thousands and thousands of government employees who will have to work without pay checks. Despicable, you betcha! I'd even go so far as to call it traitorous.

C'mon! Before the 2020 election and especially after the infamous January 6th insurrection, Trump hasn't shut up whining about how the election was rigged, contrary to not a shred of evidence being presented. Quite the opposite: any evidence that was found pointed to a tight, secure, and legally binding election.

Check out this quote about Donny from 2016:

“You know, every time Donald thinks things are not going in his direction he claims, whatever it is, is rigged against him. The FBI conducted a year-long investigation into my emails, they concluded there was no case. He said the FBI was rigged. He lost the Iowa caucus, he lost the Wisconsin primary. He said the Republican primary was rigged against him. This is how Donald thinks. And it’s funny, but it’s also really troubling. That is not the way our democracy works. We’ve been around for 240 years, we’ve had free and fair elections, we’ve accepted the outcomes when we may not have liked them. And that is what must be expected of anyone standing on a debate stage during a general election.”

This came from Hillary Clinton! In 2016, before Trump ever stepped into and polluted the White House! Say what you will about Hillary, but she was certainly prescient. I believe she has more super mind-powers than Trump does, even when he claimed he could declassify a document just by looking at it.

Okay, so Donny had his original "Big Lie" regarding the "rigged election." Half our country bought into it. Now he's following it up with an equally insidious Big Lie: "Election Interference!"

Every time, Donny gets indicted, he claims it's the evil, satanic liberals, bla, bla, bla persecuting him and interfering with a fair election. And, of course, his faithful cult buys into this crap. Worse, it appears to be growing.

WHY? The only thing I can possibly think of is that the more people hear something, the more brainwashed they become. Hell, Trump's in the news now more than he was president! I'm sick of reading the paper (okay, perusing the intronet's headlines) and reading hard-hitting journalism about how Trump has insulted the Justice Department for the kazillionth time.

This isn't election interference. It's called justice. From what I've read, there's more hard evidence incriminating Trump on a number of charges than anyone ever presented regarding the so-called "rigged" election of 2024. Facts don't lie, people! Contrary to what the My Pillow guy says and we all know he's a highly qualified expert on the subject, right?

Wake up, Maga! Your cult leader is a horrid person who cares not for you, nor his country. He cares about money, power, BIG TV ratings, porn stars, and Big Macs. In that order.

I tell you what, this gets my dander up! Don't make me have to tell you guys this again...

While I'm trying to calm down, I may as well hit you up with the hard sell... Check out my book, Ghosts of Gannaway. It's a historically-based ghost story about a small mining town in Kansas, run by the evil, greedy man who owns the mine and will throw everyone under the bus (well, train, in this case) to further line his wallet. Hmmm...sound familiar?

"My Crotch Itches. Someone Must Be Thinking About Me..."

It's one of those weird ol' wives' tales regarding body parts. I think. Don't hold it against me. But I went ahead and said it anyway...
"Wow. My crotch itches. Someone must be thinking about me."
My ever-suffering wife's eye-roll and headshake let me know via non-verbal means what she thought of my statement, even though I proclaimed it with a very furrowed brow and authoritative finger jutting in the air to give me that professorial gravitas necessary for such a bold declaration. (Although, really, I'm pretty sure I said it just to get a laugh and to give my wife forewarning I was about to scratch myself and not come off as a savage. For those keeping score, I accomplished neither.)
But I know I'd heard some similar strange wives' tales regarding body parts. (And before anyone starts calling me sexist, I'm fully aware of the ramifications; but if I were to talk about "husbands' tales," you guys wouldn't know what I was talking about, unless it had to do with...well, scratching your crotch or whatever.) So I donned my journalistic cap and went to work on research...
Dayum, there's a lot of them out there! Strange superstitions about hair alone are too numerous to get into, but I'll cover some highlights (see what I did there? Hair? Highlights? Ba-da-BOOM.). 
For instance, did you know that if a woman has a "widow's peak," she'll outlive her husband? Furthermore, if a woman starts suddenly developing curls, then her man doesn't have long to live! Yow! Guys! Spare no costs in getting your woman to the salon for hair-straightening! Honestly, I had no idea that my wife's hair would dictate the length of my life. And it's all true, too, because it's on the introwebs.
Let's move onto eyes (because I want to quit thinking about my wife's hair controlling my fate). If your right eye itches, it's lucky. However, if your left eye itches, you're doomed! It doesn't say what's in store for you if both eyes itch, which is my case. So I plan on having no luck, good or bad.
Here we go: If your ears are burning, someone's talking about you! (I just got the wrong body part before; but frankly the crotch makes more sense as far as all of this goes.) Fun Fact: First century AD Roman writer Pliny the Elder created this superstition (more or less). I imagine his ears were truly burning when Mount Vesuvius buried him in hot lava along with the rest of Pompeii in 79 AD. Of course people were talking about him at that point: "AIEEEEEEEE!" and "GROSS!" they were heard to say.
They say you can tell a lot about people by the shapes of their noses. (Well, "they" don't really say that, unless you consider "they" a cabal of "old wives.") A prominent nose suggests intelligence. Jealousy and uncertainty are natural byproducts of thin noses. And look out for those bad-tempered receding nose guys! (Honestly, I'm not sure what a "receding" nose looks like; the first image that comes to mind is the Crypt Keeper and since he's always giggling, I'd hardly call him bad-tempered.)
There's also said to be a connection between the size of a nose and a person's sexual organs. My mind boggles at Barbara Streisand and... Never mind.
Did you know that when your lips itch or tingle, you're about to be kissed? It's true! Even if you're in a crowd of strangers. Or maybe it's a cold sore. And if you bite your tongue while eating, you've recently told a lie. This could explain why Donald Trump chews his Big Mac nearly as much as his tongue. I like this one: a large gap between your teeth means you're lucky in life. Now, try explaining that to the gap-toothed individual about how lucky they are to have that huge, honking gap. And then RUN!
Nearly every body part is covered in ol' wives tales regarding itching. I've already covered a few, but still no mention of a crotch itch. But the next time you go gambling, pay attention to your palms. If your right palm itches, bet hard! If your left palm itches, go to the seafood buffet. 
Fun Fact #2! During the time of Edward the Confessor, if you cut off the hand of an executed convict while he's still on the gallows, it will enable you to commit crime and robbery without getting caught by stupefying those who saw it! I don't make up the news, I just report it.
Do you guys know why the left hand is considered unlucky? Simple! Because before God ousted Lucifer from Heaven, he always sat on God's left side. Duh. However, it's been keeping me up at night pondering what happens if you cut off the left hand of a dead criminal on the gallows. 
A damp hand means the person is amorous. Right. Do you want to make out with a sweaty-handed person?
Two people should never wash their hands in the same water because it will lead to a quarrel. The next logical step is if two people take a bath together, they'll go on a killing spree.
The first finger should never be used to administer medicine as it's known as the "poison finger." The third finger ("wedding finger") is related to matters of the heart. Hmmm. No mention of the second finger. Wait! I've got one: Never salute a cop with your second finger or you could wind up in the hoosegow.
You wouldn't believe all the superstitions about moles. But you only need heed one: check them out with your doctor. Warts, however, are obvious signs of the devil and the only way to banish them is to rub a frog across them. Probably while licking their backs in the process. (Although, come to think of it, my dad swore that as a child, he had a wart, took an onion, went into the back yard, rubbed the cut onion on the wart and threw it back over his shoulder, never seeing where it landed. If you looked where the discarded onion landed, it would nullify the process. But after obeying all the rules, my dad's wart vanished! Science!)
The list goes on and on, this cabal of old wives having a lot of spare time. But STILL not a mention of a crotch itch. (Although there is one that says if a girl's bra or panties slip down, someone's thinking of her. Probably quite a few people if they witnessed it.) 
But maybe these superstitions are adaptable. And just maybe, the old wives cabal was too polite to talk about the truths of crotch itches in mixed company. So...I think I'll grab a frog and a cut onion and go into the back yard...
Speaking of monumentally bad decisions, Zach Cavanaugh (dumb, but good-hearted male stripper) just can't help but constantly make terrible choices. Hey, I wouldn't have a book series without all of his dunderheaded decisions! Too bad for his sister, Zora (smart, competent, frustrated, and usually pregnant sleuth), who has to haul his butt out of trouble every step of the way. Especially since he has a tendency to be a dead body magnet and gets blamed for the murders. Join the fun and mystery in the Zach and Zora series: Bad Day in a Banana Hammock, Murder by Massage, and Nightmare of Nannies, all of which can be found HERE!

The Big Apple Battles Beantown!

No, we're not talking a new civil war (not yet, at least; that may be coming after the upcoming 2024 election farce). But recently I heard someone on TV refer to Boston as "Beantown."

I said, "Wife, why is Boston called 'Beantown'?"

"Boston baked beans," she replied.

Well, I probably could've figured that one out eventually, though I chose not to because I'm married to The Human Google. Sure enough, the intronets Google corroborated my wife's information, proving her right once again (one of these days I'll trick her up.) But travelling tip to the wise and wary: if you find yourself in Boston, don't call it "Beantown" to the locals, unless you're looking to get your arse kicked. Apparently, they hate it.)

My wife hit me back with "Why is New York called 'the Big Apple'?"

Excitedly, my fingers flew to Google, hoping to finally--FINALLY--one-up her on knowledge. Naturally, the answer isn't an easy one.

"Experts" don't readily agree on "the Big Apple's" secret origin story. (And to these "experts," I say, "Get a hobby.") My favorite (since debunked) myth has the moniker being coined because there was an infamous madam who ran a brothel named Eve. What would make the most sense, of course, would be the term being coined because New York state is America's top apple grower. But nosiree! It has nothing to do with fruit.

The most widely accepted explanation comes from a 1920's sports writer named John J. Fitz Gerald (who has already lost credibility with me because he pretentiously has four names. Oh, la-dee-dah!). While covering horse racing in New York, John J. Bla, Bla, Bla overheard two jockeys saying they were going for the "Big Apple," meaning the money/trophy/prizes. No real explanation given. Just accept it and move on.

Of course Mr. John J. Yadda-Yadda-Yadda took it and ran with it, cutting out the middlemen and the prize money, and began to refer to New York as the Big Apple. Check out his typical "sports writing:"

The Big Apple. The dream of every lad that ever threw a leg over a thoroughbred and the goal of all horsemen. There's only one Big Apple. That's New York.

Yow! No wonder the guy has four names! This is writing my high school teacher would've loved. But thanks to Mr. Etc., Etc., Etc., a New York tourist board snatched it up in the '70's for a huge promotional blitz and the rest is history. 

Which got me thinking about other famous American big city nicknames. There's "The Big Easy" for New Orleans, of course. This one needs no explanation since the locals prefer the easy life of partying (or maybe it began during prohibition when you could get booze easy-peasy). Either way, these guys aren't like those uptight Beantowners and adore their nickname.

Likewise, Las Vegas' moniker "Sin City" needs no explanation. Not with gambling, prostitution, and Frank Sinatra and his rat pack running rampant through the city. 

Seattle has a slew of nicknames. "Emerald City" is perhaps the most famous, due to all the greenery (but couldn't that hold true for a crapload of other cities, too? By the way, if anyone would like to mow and trim our "greenery," I'm open to offers.). It's also called "Rain City (not for me!)" and "The Coffee Capital of the World (thanks, hipsters!)."

I never knew Miami was called "The Magic City." Apparently, this came about because when immigrants first came to the land, they relied on the Miami River for abundant and easy-to-get food and POOF! Miami practically became a city overnight. (Of course now Florida history books will rewrite this: Miami is called "the Magic City" because white people magically rule!)

Naturally, I assumed Denver being dubbed "The Mile High City" was something smutty. No such luck; it's due to Denver's 5,280-foot elevation point. Boring. Next!

Philadelphia is "The City of Brotherly Love," a nice (albeit sexist?) little moniker named by a Quaker based on the Greek words for love (phileo) and brother (adelphos).

I know why Chicago is called "The Windy City," and trust me, you don't want to be there in the Winter.

All of this research made me curious about my city's nickname. Of course, my lil' suburb wouldn't have a nickname (unless it's "City of Remarkably Poor City Planning" or "City of Mutant Art"), but I wondered what Kansas City nicknames were out there.

"City of Fountains." Okay, we have a few, but I doubt more than any other big city. There's "Cowtown," which I find offensive (but I wouldn't go to blows over it like those blow-hard, bad boy Beantowners). "Cradle of Jazz" I kinda like, but doesn't "cradle" sort of imply that Kansas City was a baby in the creation of jazz? I think not! We should be the "Old Man Diaper of Jazz."

"Gateway to the Southwest" is kinda cool, I think, but it pretty much poo-poo's our city as a turnstile to Bigger, Better things found in the Southwest. And who came up with the ludicrous "Paris of the Plains?" Not only is it not even remotely accurate, but it's embarrassing. I have a bone to pick with the public relations firm that coined that monstrosity!

Then we have the "BBQ Capitol of the World." Well. I wouldn't argue, but try bringing it up to folks from Memphis or North Carolina or Texas or...

Finally, we have "The Heart of America." I'm going to rest on this one, your honor, not because we're the sweetest, nicest folks you'll find in America, but because we rest smack dab in the middle of the country. Case closed! (Now I'm going to go see if my wife knows all this...)

Speaking of geographical nicknames, 15-year-old Dibby Caldwell lives in a rural Kansas town nicknamed "Peculiar County." For good reason. Dibby's dealing with corpses that won't stay dead, witches, a mysterious killer, ghost dogs, a haunted tree, a hanging judge back from the dead, and something that flies the night skies of Peculiar County. Come on down and visit Peculiar County. Tell 'em the mortician's daughter sent ya. They'll be waiting...

Into the Dentist's Chair...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What's that?"

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

"That sounds horribly painful."

"It's not," she lied.

"What's my other option?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What now?"

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

"Acid... What? No!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You want it filled now or what?"

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

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

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

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

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

"AIEEEEEEEEEE," I replied.

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

"Oh, did that hurt?" she asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Frankenfish!

Well, here we are again hot on the tail-end of my warning of the dangers of humans dressing as animals. I saw that as the new threat to humanity. But it looks like humanity's downfall won't be due to apes, robots OR humans in animal costumes (maybe the downfall will come at the hands of the MAGA movement, but I'm really tired of talking about those guys). Nope...it looks like there's a new scary predator in town, ladies and gents. I give you...FRANKENFISH. (Cue lighting flashes and thunder crashes).

Take a look at this guy. Cuddly, yeah? Apparently scientists are freaking out over this predator and the US government recommends killing them upon sight. Yow! Pretty harsh for a little fish, wouldn't you say? But the Frankenfish, aka the northern snakehead, are invasive, spread quickly and kill off ecosystems. An equal opportunity predator, the Frankenfish is color blind and enjoys destroying White Perch and Black Crappie (and with a name like "Crappie," I gotta side with Frankenfish on that one).

What makes the Frankenfish really freaky is that they can go for days without water. They breathe air through a suprabranchial chamber which allows them to go to the top of their habitat, cough, expel their old air and suck in a ton of new air, thus enabling them to wiggle across land in search of new water sources. They can wiggle for days! A whole lotta wigglin' goin' on! In Arkansas, apparently the slower stragglers corpses can be found alongside the road.

The stuff of nightmares.

Furthermore, these cute lil' guys have been known to lunge and bite at people who get too close to their eggs. And I thought piranha were scary enough.

Okay, so how do you kill a Frankenfish? Thank God the US government is at the top of their game and explaining just how that can occur. First, you can put them on ice. Um, how exactly is that supposed to work? The government isn't very forthcoming. (It's kinda like when someone tells you their plan on how to get rich is "I'll start with a million dollars.") If the Frankenfish is busy lunging and biting at me, I'm not going to take care to put him on ice.

You can also cut off its head (again this calls for alarming proximity), gut it (ditto), or even eat it. I don't know about you guys, but I'm kinda not okay with eating something that could eat me.

And the government's last final, ominous warning? "Whatever you do, don't throw it onto land to suffocate it." Because the guy will just wiggle away to procreate and wreak havoc on another unsuspecting ecosystem. (Again with the lightning flash and thunder crash.)

One final terrifying thought on the Frankenfish: some guy who used to have one in his aquarium said it could recognize people. How did THIS guy ever sleep? With his Frankenfish watching him at night, plotting and just waiting for the right time to wiggle out of the tank and lunge at his "master" with his sharp teeth going for the jugular...

It's aliiiiiiiiiive!

While on the topic of alarmingly grotesque monsters and abominations, you'll find lots of 'em in my short story collection, Twisted Tales From Tornado Alley . We've got giant spiders and bugs, angry sentient murderous space plants, underground cannibalistic hellspawn, and a lovesick and lovably violent Bigfoot! All this and more fun awaits you RIGHT HERE!