Stuart R. West's Blog, page 28

Doctor, Doctor, Give Me the (Fake) News...

There was a time when I thought Trump was funny. It seems like so long ago...

So, Dr. Anthony Fauci has been leading Trump's Coronavirus Task Force since January of this year, thus making him one of the longest-surviving members of Trump's staff. But not if Trump has anything to say about it! He blasts Fauci at every opportunity, attempts to discredit him, basically calling his findings out as the hated "fake news," you name it. I dunno. Call me nutty, but you'd think Trump would want his own task force to succeed, but you know, people roll in different ways, I suppose.

Let's look at some of Dr. Fauci's credentials; he's been the director of the National Institute of Allergy and Infectious diseases since 1984. For 50 years, he's served on the National Institute of Health and has been an advisor to every president since Ronald Reagan. Without a doubt, he's one of the world's leading experts on infectious diseases.

Yet Trump thinks he's full of poo, because Fauci makes him look bad. Recently, via a very presidential tweet, Trump declared Fauci to be WRONG regarding the fact that we never shut down the country completely and reopened too soon. Trump's explanation is we have more corona virus cases because we test more. Simple! If we tested less, we'd have fewer cases. 

Things that make me go "Hmmmm." I think Trump is taking a child's eye view here. "If we don't report the cases, they don't exist, now can I go out and play, Mommy?"

What a maroon (in both color and other ways).

Here's where things get good. Who does Trump turn to instead for medical advice? Why, the amazing Semen Demon  Dr. Stella Immanuel, that's who, the doc who puts the you in voodoo! She's a quack who Trump picked a tweet up from who touts the amazing miracle cure for corona virus as hydroxychloroquine. Of course Trump is doubling down on the med even though the good Dr. Fauci says it's unproven.


The less than stellar Dr. Stella's credentials read like a text book on crazy. First, she describes herself as a prophet of God. Now, that's pretty impressive. Not even Dr. Fauci can boast that. She alleges doctors use alien DNA in experiments. Well...maybe all those movies I've watched were documentaries? Nahhhh. Here's my favorite Dr. Immanuel theory: demons are responsible for infertility and sexual diseases. Of course they are! The great prophet on the '70's, Flip Wilson, was right! "The Devil made me do it," he had once preached.

Furthermore, Dr. Immanuel was sued for malpractice over a patient's death and several other...ahem...indiscretions can also be laid at her feet. To add insult to injury, she's called Dr. Fauci a "liar" who's "playing Russian Roulette with Americans' lives," and she's telling people they don't have to wear masks.

Of course Trump proudly proclaimed her as "magnificent." Truly the doctor of Trump's dreams. Well, Trump can have her. We'll see how magnificent he thinks she is when he's having a heart attack from too much hydroxychloroquine.


While on the topic of all things hellish and orange, that ol' debbil himself pops up a few times in my supernatural collection of short stories, Twisted Tales from Tornado Alley. (Um, I mean ol' Beezlebub, not our president. Although come to think of it, I'm not sure there's much a difference these days. That orange comb-over is hiding the mark of "666," I just know it!). 

Take a Stripper Out to Lunch Day

OK, that's not really a thing, but maybe we should make it a special holiday. I mean, there's a "Talk Like a Pirate Day," so how comes strippers can't get a little lovin', too?

Let's look at some startling facts: recently the government kicked $1.4 billion dollars in taxpayer-backed corona virus aid to the U.S. Roman Catholic Church. Guess where the money's going? Yep, paying huge settlements because of clergy sexual abuse cover-ups! Wow. What a great way to give it up, government.

Now, pity the poor stripper. They've got mouths to feed, but their livelihood has been taken completely away from them due to the corona virus. Strip clubs were the first places shut down and they're still shut down. (Um, that's what I've read, at least).

Wouldn't you think Trump, at least, would want to help out strippers? Seems like it's right up his alley. Or does he prefer porn stars?
Before you guys start telling me I'm being sexist, understand that I don't like going to strip clubs, never have. I always hated bachelor parties. I'd tell my young and dumb cohorts, "Wouldn't you guys rather go somewhere where you actually might stand a chance of meeting a woman?" But, no, the clubs are one of those rites of passage things, I guess.

Anyway, since Trump's not going to come to the strippers rescue, some enterprising strippers down in Houston, Texas, took matters into their own hands. Yep, they opened up the first drive-through strip club! You drive your car inside, order a burger and beer from the safety of your car, while strippers dance for you behind a barricade. Patrons are encouraged to toss tips over the barricade.
While I appreciate ingenuity, somehow I just don't find the idea of a stripper wearing a Darth Vader mask do be all that exciting. Maybe it's just me, I dunno.

So the next time I hear about the government throwing their money to the Catholic Church while strippers everywhere go hungry, I'm gonna go ballistic. Strippers gotta eat, too. In fact, I think I'll make it my mission to take a stripper to lunch (while social distancing, natch) every day. Just doing my humanitarian duty.

Naturally, this would be a great time to plug my Zach and Zora comic murder mystery series, except...um, right now they're without a home after I quit the publisher! For those who don't know, Zach is an imbecilic stripper (well, he prefers "male entertainment dancer," thank you very much) who has a habit of stumbling over dead bodies. It's up to his gun-toting, children-toting sleuth sister to bail him out of jams. Three books so far in the series, Bad Day in a Banana Hammock, Murder by Massage, and Nightmare of Nannies (with a fourth one planned soonish, I hope). Fellow writers and publishers help me bring these books back to life and hit me with your ideas!


 

Brawl in Aisle Six!

I don't know why people like to fight with me. Maybe because I'm tall, big, and sport a shaved head. Maybe it's my "winning personality." Perhaps I have an uncanny superpower to seek out people on their Worst Day Ever (my "grumpy senses" are tingling!). Whatever the reason, grocery store cashiers hate me.

Wait...there's a caveat here, probably an important one. Usually, when these folks take umbrage with me, I'm with my mom. Full of blatant hand dismissals, eye-rolls, "whatever's," and oft-times rude behavior, my mom believes everyone's out to rip her off and the entire world owes her. Who knows, maybe they are and do, and I'm the one in the wrong. Grocery check-out clerks certainly believe so.

Case in point (before the world went into lock-down mode), during a recent weekly grocery store trip, I dragged my mom up to the check-out line. The cashier (older than me, younger than my mom) kept trying to have a conversation with my mom and ignored me. Which is more than fine with me, except my mom can't hear very well and can barely see. I find myself in the unenviable role of translator, barking loudly so she understands. Which I imagine makes me look like a jackass.

Anyway, my mom decides she wants to hear more about the store's "points program." And it's my turn to roll my eyes.

We're gonna be here a while, I just know it.

"I just don't understand this whole points program," my mom says to me in her teeny-tiny peep of a voice.

I sigh and repeat it to the cashier.

"Well, I have a brochure that'll explain it to you," snips the pelican behind the counter.

"Mom," I shout, "she has a brochure!"

So, this transaction goes on for a while as I'm playing Switzerland, trying to remain neutral in a battle over a free piece of cheap Tupperware I don't care about. Then it hits me: I'm now the United States, hip deep in this war! How'd that happen? 

Meanwhile, my mom's flying Switzerland's flag, standing off on the sidelines with an innocent (devilish?) smile. All to win a free piece of Tupperware which she'll never get because she won't accumulate enough points within a month's time, but, hey, my mom never lets anything "free" slip by her.

Finally, we're done, all packed and good to go.  The cashier dangles the Golden Brochure, fanning herself with it, baiting my mom. When I reach for it, she yanks it away. I try again, and she raises it above her head like some playground bully.
Feral as a rabid badger, she shakes her head and growls at me. "I said I'd give it to her! Not you!" Teeth clenched, the badger metaphor truly applies.

I sigh, try to retain my cool. 'Cause the only thing worse than being a tall, shaved-headed, big guy is how freaked out people get when they see a big, shaved-headed, tall guy freak out. 

"She can't read it," I explain. "She's blind."

Lips pursed, eyes narrowed, the cashier says, "Is she really, now?"

"Yes. Well, okay, about 90% or so. She has Macular Degeneration." Now, I'm getting pissed off because I'm being questioned, put on the spot, and forced to explain myself. Mercifully, my mom's oblivious to the entire exchange.

At long last--and much to the relief of the growing line of people behind us--the cashier relents and unleashes her treasure. "Okay, then."

"Gee thanks." I snag it away and instantly give it to my mother. After all I don't want the cashier thinking I kept the literature all to myself for evil, nefarious means. (Mwah, hah, hahhhhh, I shall rule all of Kansas with the power vested in me by this almighty brochure!)

"What's this?" asks my mom.

Sigh. "It's the brochure, Mom," I shout. And by this time, I truly am shouting, partly out of frustration, mostly out of anger. Which I'm sure makes me look like I'm being mean to this poor sweet lil' ol' lady. I had to get outta there. Fast. Before mob mentality took me out over in the produce aisle.

The trials and tribulations of being the tallest, most despised man in grocery store lines.

Speaking of trials and tribulations, anyone who's ever read any of my books knows I like to drag my characters to Hell and back. Sometimes, literally! Check out Demon with a Comb-Over , my serio-comic horror tale about a hapless stand-up comic (who's tall, shaved-headed, and big!) who has the bad misfortune of heckling a demon. 

Art is Anal!

Well, maybe not all of it, but definitely some is.

Wait, here...let me illustrate my point:
See what I mean? My awesome brother-in-law sent this to me and it took me forever to even figure out it's supposed to read "artisanal." So...whoever the graphic designer is on this logo should probably be fired. Or he's giggling all the way to the bank.

Having been a graphic designer for twenty some years, it's a major gripe when I see the misuse of fonts. Just because someone's found a snappy font on their computer does not mean you have to use it.

Here's another fine example. My wife and I had a hankering for some Povitica, so we thought, "Hey, let's go check out the Strawberry Hill Povitica shop here in Kansas. We'll make out like greedy bandits on the samples!" Great idea. Except we never found the damn store.

Wanna know why? HERE'S why!
That logo's impossible to read even though we drove right past the store at least three times! Plus some genius put it in black against a green background. Certainly screams "strawberries," doesn't it?

Really gets my goat. Here, for your viewing pleasure, are several other logos. And they're all real!
Um. Oh, I see it's for a Swedish property management company named "Locum." Only in Sweden, am I right?
Well, this is certainly an interesting choice.
This of course is for Clinical Dental where the dentists supply that extra touch.
Here's the cute logo for "Mont-Sat," where the technicians are excited to serve your needs.
I don't even want to know what goes on in this store.
I'll just bet they do.
And finally, we have the logo for the Institute of Oriental Studies where they really put it to their students. Or something. Proving, once and for all, my theory that art is anal.

You know, they say "art is in the eye of the beholder." But what if the beholders are all a bunch of perverts?

Speaking of perverse things, there's plenty of that to be found in my short story collection, Twisted Tales from Tornado Alley. Check it out!

The Importance of being a Karen

Last week I was visiting my daughter for the first time in a while. As we do, our conversation inevitably swung around to politics. I told her that all of these in-your-face protestors look like steroid-chomping, bad-ass bikers with tats, shaved heads, impressive beer bellies, and beards down to their "moobs."

She said, "Really? All I see are a bunch of Karens."

"What're you talking about? What's a 'Karen?'"

"They're these bored white ladies who wanna raise hell everywhere they go. Wait...let's look it up. Google can explain it better than I can."
But I knew what a "Karen" was already, oh, yes I did. It's the kind of woman who (even though she's fit and takes Pilates) demands to see the manager of a clothing store and further demands that they start carrying a certain dress in plus sizes. Or the woman at work who wears all kinds of ribbons, buttons, and safety pins to show she stands up for doing the right thing and yells at anyone who thinks differently. Maybe it's the woman who starts a fight in the grocery store because someone's walking down the wrong way in newly sanctioned one-way aisles.

That's a "Karen." We've all known them. Or at least heard them. And...I realized I've been guilty of some Karen-like behavior in the past as well. I once outed someone publicly for not recycling a plastic bottle. Guess that makes me a "Karl."
Along with a little help from Wikipedia, my daughter found the "official" Karen definition: Karen is a pejorative term used in the Western world for a woman perceived to be entitled or demanding beyond the scope of what is considered appropriate or necessary. A common stereotype is that of a racist white woman who uses her privilege to demand her own way at the expense of others.

Okay, so maybe I'm not such a "Karen" after all. But Donald Trump is the biggest, baddest Karen of them all.

But let's not be too hard on the "Karens" of the world. They're needed, too, part of the circle of life. For you see, they balance out the "Joe-Bobs" of the world, and if you've been following the news (how can you not? We're inundated by it!), you know exactly what they're all about.

The interesting thing is all of us are getting different stories from the media. My daughter sees "Karens" screaming at cops. I see bikers. A friend of mine sees inner-city kids and he said I'm getting a different message. He's right.

It pisses me off that the media's playing us--becoming actual news-makers and influencers themselves--instead of just reporting. No matter the source, (right, left, or other wing) they all have agendas these days.

That's why my wife fled to the BBC. The Brits with their stiff upper lips don't have too much of an investment in the stupidity rolling through our lands right now (they've got their hands full with Brexit).
Whoops. Gotta run before things get ugly. A Karen's screaming at a Starbucks manager because she didn't get a double-shot.

Speaking of other things that piss me off, check out my short story collection, Twisted Tales from Tornado Alley. In addition to being frightfully scary and scarifyingly amusing, these tales were written in a post-Trump-trauma state of mind. Enjoy!

I'm the Butcher of Seville!

Since the pandemic started, my wife's had to forego getting her hair cut. For her, that's a problem, as she likes to keep it extremely short and spiky. (I think she'd had enough of dealing with Big Hair back in the '80's.)

So, it came down to me (using my beard trimmer) to give her a haircut. Gulp! At first I was tentative, afraid I might screw it up. But soon I was into it, just hacking away as gobs of hair gathered in the bathtub. By the time the second haircut rolled around, I was an ol' pro, going to town with maniacal glee.

Then...Black Thursday happened.

I'm in the dog house. Big time.

Things began well enough. I did the usual shaping and trimming, then took the guard off to get her neck. When my wife looked at the results in the mirror, she decided she wanted more taken off. 

"Okay," I said with a zeal that shouldn't have been there.

I raised the razor and started in on the back.  I gasped, recoiled in horror at what I'd done. I had forgotten to put the blade guard back on.

She said, "What'd you do? Did you give me a bald spot?"

"Um, it's not too bad. It--"

"Oh, my God, you better not have!" She bounded out of the bathtub and hurtled upstairs to retrieve her hand-held mirror. 

Then, throughout the house and loud enough for the neighbors to hear, " OH! MY! GOD! "

She exploded back down the stairwell, each footstep pounding with my rising heartbeat. I knew I was in trouble.

It probably didn't help that I couldn't fight the grin that kept creeping onto my face. "Honey, it's not that bad. Um, maybe you could wear a hat or--"

"I have to go into work tomorrow, too!"

"Oh. Yeah. Sorry, honey, really, a million sorries, so many sorries that..."

I groveled and pleaded for a while. That was yesterday. I'm still paying for it today.

She said, "I'm going to find a new barber."

Sure is crowded in this doghouse.

Speaking of things going to the dogs, things get even worse when they go to the wolves. Werewolves, that is. Check out my darkly comical horror satire, Corporate Wolf , to see exactly what I mean. 
 

PLACEHOLDER!

Alright, I'm beat, you guys.

What was meant as a satirical statement on the sad state of the world these days has offended a friend of mine, and more importantly, my wife. She kicked my ass just hearing the title of the post.

Okay, ahem, I apologize to anyone I offended. It was meant to be satirical and funny and angry (because I'm pissed at what's going on), and it's the best way I have to rant and rail.

I apparently have overstepped.

Be careful out there you guys, and again, I'm sorry. (Hanging head...)

Into the Horrifying White Void with Author Edward Newton

SRW: This week I’ll be chatting up author Edward Newton, whose first horror novel, Horrorfrost, is a genuine sleeper. Physical, psychological horror, and relentless dread, it’s the best of all dark fiction worlds and a stunning debut. Edward, welcome and tell everyone what your book’s about.

EN: Hell on earth, but it turns out Hell’s a lot colder than we thought.  A blizzard strikes a Montana ski resort and a dangerous predator arrives with the whiteout.  A monster as big as a water tower begins to systematically dismantle building by building, sending survivors out into the snowstorm.  What will get them first—the frigid temperatures or the massive beast that hunts them from behind the veil of white?

SRW: I couldn’t find much information on you. Am I correct in assuming this is your horror debut and your first novel?

EN: It’s my first published novel.  I’ve had several short stories printed over the last few years.  I received the Robert L. Fish Memorial Award from the Mystery Writers of America for the Best First Mystery Short Story for a tale published in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, which was presented to me in New York City by none other than Jeffery Deaver himself.  Quite an honor.

SRW: I did manage to suss out ("stalk") you live in Florida, about as far from the terrors you write about in Horrorfrost as one could possibly get. You know an awful lot about rough winters, so…did you experience some in your past? Hence Florida now?

EN: I grew up in North Dakota and spent decades battling the cold (no monsters out there in the white, although my sisters would sometimes employ a sneak-attack snowball fight).  Last year, I finally waved the “white” flag and escaped to central Florida, where I now meet folks who have never experienced snow in their whole lives (which still boggles my mind).

SRW: Okay, the title, gotta ask you about the title. First of all (and even though we’re used to pretty bad winters in the Midwest), I’ve never heard the term “hoarfrost” until your book. Actually, I kinda thought it sounded like a special for prostitutes at the hair salon. Was the title originally Horrorfrost (which is a great and fitting title) or did it start out as something else? 
EN: Ha! The title came on pretty early.  I like the terms that are uniquely familiar to folks that really know what cold is, like wind chill, block heater, ice fishing...there was a kid down here in Florida just fascinated when my father-in-law described the experience of fishing on a frozen lake!

SRW: Your writing is extremely adept, assured, and very good. Having said that, I gotta admit I don’t like the trendy present tense writing that all of the cool kids are doing these days. To me, it reads like stage directions (“He walks down the stairs, looks in a mirror, and combs his hair.”). But in your book, it works. It adds urgency to the proceedings. Do you always write in present tense or do you mix it up for every project?

EN: I rarely write in present tense.  It made sense for this story as I tried to frame the veil of white as a symbol of the unknowability of the future.  Many of my characters are stuck in the present and afraid of the future, fearful of what is coming next in their lives.  They can’t imagine what their tomorrow is going to be.  So the present tense was meant to evoke more the mood of being stuck in the now instead of stuck in the snow.

SRW: The prose is quite cinematic, yet there are more psychological inner monologues than dialogue (which I would imagine would be hell on a movie adaptation). Are books or cinema a larger influence?

EN: I usually prefer my horror in book form.  King novels are the best; King movies are hit and miss.  Visual horror is very different for me than physiological horror.   In Horrorfrost, I meant to make it as much about the fear of what was coming next in the lives in these characters before the novel even began as the fear of whatever monster suddenly arrived to hunt them in the snow.  That kind of fear seems suited for the page.  Not that a big, bad monster in a crazy blizzard wouldn’t be pretty great to see on the big screen! SRW: The beginning of the book reminded me of all of those cheesy ‘70’s Irwin Allen disaster movies (hey, in a good way!), where you’re setting up all of the characters with soap opera problems and clichés (there’s a selfish lothario cheating on his fiancé, an overweight bullied kid, a woman afraid of facing her impending aging, etc.), than unleashing them into Hell to see who will survive. But what was refreshing is you’ve lent a modern relevant eye to the proceedings and have switched the stock characters up to all kinds of different races, ethnicity, and sexual orientation. Was this intentional? Or did the characters just sorta fit the plot?

EN: I wanted a broad representation in the cast.  I’m tired of seeing the same blonde bimbo chased by the same psychotic white hillbilly.  I thought it was interesting to see a more representative slice of America cast in a classic kind of horror-movie setup. 
SRW: Frankly, you surprised me quite a bit in who and who didn’t survive, avoiding yet more clichés. Bonus! Did you have a clear idea who would make it out alive or did the characters survive independently, surprising you as well? (I love when that happens in my books.)

EN: I intentionally set out at the beginning with the idea that I had no clue as to who would make it to the end.  I almost made a target with the names of the cast and just threw darts at the board as to who might live or die.  I wanted the randomness of a crazy situation to play out in the cast.  In the end, I wrote the story and the ones who lived and died became a mix of karma and fate and chance—just like life itself.  I was surprised myself by some of those that survived... and a couple that didn’t. 

SRW: Roman’s a very interesting character. A successful corporate raider, he walked out on his job twenty years ago to go wrestle, kill, and skin bears, because he’s sick and tired of people and progress. Is he your mouthpiece? Are you a grumpy hermit (a lot of writers are, including me). Do you agree with his assessment that modern “civilization” is awful, addicted to their phones, slandering via social media instead of communicating face-to-face, and worshipping sub-par celebrity behavior?

EN: Maybe Roman has the right idea!  He refuses to embrace the future and he can’t go back to the past.  He is stuck in the present.  That’s what I struggle with...do you stay in one place or do you move forward, into the unknown, pressing through the white even if it is dangerous and crazy and doesn’t make any damn sense?  I identify with Roman (and a lot of the other characters) in that I’m also leery of tomorrow.  I’m afraid of what’s in store for us.  Do I agree?  Maybe the ending of the novel is a bit of the answer.

SRW: Would you rather read/write about visual horrors, utilizing vivid imagination, or leave said horrors unseen up to the readers’ imagination? I’m curious as to your answers as both a reader and a writer.

EN: Interesting question, because my first draft was intentionally vague about the nature of the monster and the origins of the storm.  The publishers wanted it more defined.  In the end, I was pleased by the explanation as it tied the theme of “fear of the future” to the unseen threat inside the blizzard a little more overtly.  I think a visual versus unseen threat depends on the nature of the horror and the purpose of the story.  Here, I was more descriptive about setting and character reaction than the actual action and the look of the creature.  I think it’s more mysterious here to have the monster veiled by the blizzard than wholly described.

SRW: The book details a long, intense run for survival. It’s very suspenseful and there’s a wonderfully claustrophobic sense of dread building and propelling the characters to their fate. As an experiment (and based on a dream) I tried writing a book that’s basically one long chase scene. I know how hard it is to write constant compelling suspense. Do you find that aspect of writing tough? If not, what’s the rockiest road in writing for you?

EN: It wasn’t easy when the storyline was constantly trying to freeze up all my main characters!  I think the format here helped me be able to sustain forward momentum.  The characters might have had misgivings about the future, but the storyline gave them no choice but to move, move, move.  They couldn’t stay in one spot or they’d end up icicles.  The setting didn’t let for much pause, either, as the only way to stay warm is to keep moving.  The blizzard necessitated a brisk pace.

SRW: Edward, I started counting how many times you wrote the word “white” and gave up after about a billion. Did you ever consider using synonyms? Although, honestly, I can’t imagine such sentences as “He floundered through the alabaster storm.”

EN: White wasmy synonym - it substituted for “darkness”, “shadows”, “the unknown”, “tomorrow”, all the things in front of us that we can’t see or refuse to acknowledge.  I love a thesaurus now and again, but the simplicity of the word “white” was most effective.  I tried the flowery route in an earlier draft and it just distracted from the flow.  In the end, I really like that the repeat of white was just like the effect on the characters - endless, everywhere, an onslaught.

SRW: What’s next on your laptop?

EN: Oh, where to start!  I’ve got a murder mystery and a couple of Young Adult novels I’d love to see in print.  I just finished an edited draft of a political thriller that examines our divided discourse in America.  Speaking of politics, check out my alternate account of the 2016 election called American Herstory, a fast-paced thriller available on Amazon.  And the itch for another horror novel is starting to pester.  The voices in my head always have something new to say... 

SRW: Alright, there you go! Thanks for being a good sport, Edward, and everyone go snag a copy of Horrorfrost, put out by the fine folks at Grinning Skull Press. It’s a good one, guaranteed! Perfect remedy for these quarantined days.

Nature is Revolting!

No, wait... I'm not talking about the kinda "revolting" that best describes a lot of America's behavior these days, or the Kardashians' newest show, or the wacky antics of our Dorito of a president.

Nope, I'm talking about how Nature is actually rebelling against us, a coup d'etat if you will. Turns out Alfred Hitchcock was quite prescient with his film, The Birds.
Need more proof? Here are the facts (none of that "fake news" stuff goin' on here, nosiree-bob-cattail!):

FACT: The birds in my 'hood are getting bolder and braver. Robins aren't afraid of me anymore. This weekend, I was pushing my mower (and sweating and cursing and crying in misery; it wasn't pretty) through the yard. A robin sat in my path. And he watched me. Finally, one foot away, he took flight just to come right back. They've been inching closer, staring at me with their lil' birdy, beady eyes... Planning...

FACT: Lately, when I've ventured outside to sit on our deck swing, a hugely obese, three-legged, golden cat is sitting in the swing. Several times. He glowers at me like a James Bond villain's cat, and growls before sauntering off. 
FACT: We have daytime owls who can't tell the difference between night and day. I'm talking big ol' horned owls, the kind usually found in cartoons wearing glasses and a scholarly cap, dispensing wisdom to the fledglings. But these owls don't dispense wisdom. Instead, they dole out TERROR! They swoop and screech and hoot and attack. Quite the showmen.
FACT: The other night I awoke to such a clatter, I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter. (Sorry...) There were loud thumping noises coming from the first floor at 2 or so in the morning. Now, I'm not overly fond of getting shot by burglars so I didn't go downstairs, but rather stomped around for a while. Then I opened the door at the top of the stairs and listened. Nothing. The next morning I carefully crept around the house. The covering over the fireplace had been pushed open, the wine rack in front of it had moved. Something had fallen down the chimney and made its way into the house. I'm still waiting for a rabid badger to jump out at me from his hiding place in a pantry or something.
FACT: When my wife goes outside, angry squirrels pellet her with nuts. Then they glare at her.
FACT: Ants are marching through our kitchen, and nothing--I mean, NOTHING--kills them! We've tried a lot of remedies. My wife even started sprinkling around this awful looking yellow powder. I asked her what it was. She said, "Basically, it acts like broken glass and tears their insides apart." I thought, how horrible...and now our kitchen's gonna be littered with thousands of bleeding ant corpses. Well that hasn't happened. Yet. But DOUBLE FACT: the ants have invaded my nightmares!

FACT: Mother Nature's none too happy with us right now based on the way we've treated her since the beginning. Hence, Global Warming. Yes, I know roughly half of America doesn't believe in it, but c'mon, who can argue with the crazy weather patterns that are just getting crazier?

I could go on with more FACTS, but I've illustrated my point. Now, why is this happening, you ask? I have the answer for you. 

Nature's sick of the crappy way humans have been behaving lately. They'd like the world to be pleasant again.

I mean we have riots based on injustices (hell, I wanna protest because I'm sick of the Corona-weight I've put on recently!), outta control cops wailing on people and reporters (when they're not shooting them), name-calling, hair-pulling, a regular wrestling venue (only real), stupid people running the country, smart people bounced because they disagree, racism, sexism, people still finding ways to destroy the environment on big and little scales, reality television, and all of it led by our very angry POTUS. 
You don't see animals behaving this...well, barbaric.

I tell ya, the world's going to the birds (as they gather for their annual fly-by over my car to make it look like a massive paint-ball victim).

Speaking of bad things happening to people because of the way nature's been mistreated, check out Ghosts of Gannaway , a true (kinda) ghost story based (looser than an elephant's skin) on the heart-breaking (pure ballyhoo!) saga of Picher, Oklahoma.

Brownies: The Gateway Food To Destruction

Everyone knows that one puff of a marijuana reefer leads directly to heroin addiction. (I think Trump said that, so, of course, I believe it.)
  But what about that confectionery catastrophe, that most dangerous of desserts, the sultan of sugar, the brownie? The truth about this devious dessert, sadly, is swept under the rugs like a deep dark family secret everyone is too afraid to shine a light on.

Until now. In my ongoing quest for journalistic judiciousness, I'm knocking down the doors, and exposing the hidden dangers of...the brownie.

First things first, let's ponder the name: the brownie. Hmmm. Wikipedia sheds some very interesting facts about the brownie. It's widely known to be a supernatural entity, a nocturnal spirit creature who pretends to do good things at night, such as clean your house, only to pull ghastly pranks when least expected. I know I'm not alone in receiving a mysterious "Wet Willie" in the middle of the night. This smacks of satanism.
Furthermore, these hideous, foul creatures have insinuated themselves into an insidious cult that goes by the name, "Brownies." On the outside, the members look like clean-cut, wholesome, sweet and innocent young girl scouts (grades 2-3), but don't be fooled by their appearance.

Because something smells fishy. What is the "Brownies'" primary function? Why to spread sugar and diabetes and disease throughout the lands, the goal being the fattening of America, making us ripe for the forthcoming, inevitable Satanic slaughter.
Think I'm kidding?  I have first-hand knowledge of the dangers of The Brownie.

During the (un)Great Quarantine of 2020, the brownie took hold of our lives here in Kansas. I'd like to blame my wife, I'll settle for a mutual blaming, but honestly? It's the Brownie's fault and the powers that lie in it's kitchen of killing grounds.

Early on in our quarantine, my wife said all she felt like doing is baking. I pondered that while she went upstairs to work. I pondered some more until I was salivating. Slowly--as if in a trance--I made my way downstairs to the food pantry, where I knew a brownie mix awaited. My fingers inched closer to the door. I hesitated, then pulled it open with a creak. As if being pushed toward me, the brownie mix box plopped to the floor. With trembling hands, I picked it up. Then raised it over my head just as Simba had done in The Lion King. And somewhere--far away, yet everywhere at once--I heard a deep, Barry-White-deep, voice laughing.

Now, I've never made brownies. Never had a desire to. Didn't even think they were that good. But I baked. I baked until sweat broke across my brow. I went upstairs to share the news with my wife.

She said, "I don't know whether to be pissed off at you or to kiss you."

The vile nature of the brownie.

Sure, the pecans I found and put in the batch were rancid, but it didn't stop us. On the contrary. Brownies became nearly an every day occurrence in our household.

It took its toll. My clothes started shrinking (the work of supernatural brownie pranksters, no doubt). My gut grew to kangaroo-pouch proportions (birthing Eeeevilllll). And we didn't stop. We couldn't stop.

Until, one night when I awoke from a nightmare. I had started eating entire fried chickens, bricks of pre-fab cheese, and watermelons. And that was just a snack!

Things had to change.

Now, we're on a diet. It's hard. The temptation's there. But...I've already lost 15 pounds, so it's working. But I still think of those sweet, sweet bricks of sugary goodness and melty deliciousness...and...and... NO! Satan, get behind me with those brownies!

This is a cautionary tale, folks. Please heed it. And remember, the next time you go to a grocery store and see "Brownies" pandering their demonic delights, whip out your crucifixes and lay some goodness smack on them. People will applaud you. Trust me.

Speaking of Satan, why not give my book, Demon with a Comb-Over a shot? It, too, is a manifesto of goodness versus evil. Who wins? I'm not telling, you'll have to read the book. It's a delightful romp about a crappy stand-up comedian who accidentally pisses off a demon in the audience. Clean-cut fun for the entire family!