Stuart R. West's Blog, page 41

Jury Doody!

My wife got the mail that fateful day, said "uh-oh," as she tossed the inexplicably foreboding government letter toward me. Surprise! I'd been chosen for jury duty! (Cue the wah-wah-wah-wahhhh mocking trombone).

Noooo! (Rendering it an even larger injustice, for years my wife has actually longed to pull jury duty. It's a cruel world).

Well, I'd managed to dodge the jury duty bullet twice before in my life time. (Years ago, I'd written the Government that my dad was in a wheelchair {true!} and that I was needed to take care of him {kinda true, but not really!}. It'd worked twice.) Feeling invulnerable, I figured I could dodge the bullet a third time. I wrote that my mother was ailing (true and constantly!) and that I was "on-call" at all times to take care of her (sorta' true if you kinda smudge the boundaries of what's "true" and whatever). This time, the cold-hearted judge didn't take pity on me.

So, on a recent cold, snow-storm threatening Monday morning, I hauled myself through gridlocked highway traffic to Olathe (and why in the world they'd put the Big Courts clear out there was beyond me). Like lemmings driven to their death, tons of people grumpily shuffled toward the courthouse. As it was Monday morning, I'd never seen quite a collection of bleary-eyed, clearly hung-over, grumpier people together at once.

At the security check, I de-shoed, unbelted, emptied my valuables into a bucket, got beeped at, then was sent through the puzzling labyrinth of the courthouse. Worse than a rat in a maze, I had to go down a flight of stairs to a room, up another flight, down the hall, down another flight, then up another flight. Finally, I entered the courtroom.

A woman who made Fran Drescher sound absolutely dulcet directed us toward where we were expected to sit. She looked at my paperwork and laughed. Actually laughed! "You're juror number one," she managed between sadistic guffaws. 

This didn't bode well. So much for a fast exit. All week long, I'd been working on a strategy to be dismissed during the "voir dire" process (oral and visual examination of the potential jurors). I figured I might try a surly and mean "hang 'em all and hang 'em high" attitude. But all now seemed lost as I settled into chair number ONE.

And there I sat for an hour. By my estimation, over a hundred potential jurors crammed into the courtroom. A lot to choose from, I thought as I looked at my non-existent wristwatch. An older man sat down in front of me, flying his flannel and sporting a mess of Grizzly Adams beard and hair. My peer. Breathing like a pneumatic nail gun, his face redder than a fire hydrant, he turned around and angrily huffed at me like some kind of out-of-control Lifetime movie husband, the only guy grumpier than me in the courtroom. At that point I figured it was gonna be a long trial.

Not Fran Drescher did her best to entertain us, answer questions, and warn of the oncoming snow storm. While she couldn't get into the specifics, she did say this was a criminal trial--a big one!--and could take up to several weeks. My Spidey Senses started tingling. Even though I didn't want to be there, the trial might provide some excellent writing research and ideas.

Some woman asked Fran Drescher's twin how they picked potential jurors. "Driving and voting records and bad luck," she said. The woman's question was two-fold, however. "But this is the fourth time I've been here this year," the woman implored. "What's up with that?"

Pseudo Fran Drescher responded, "That sucks." (A truly governmental response if I've ever heard one.)

Suddenly a yuppie--flashy in Friday casual wear--took the podium. He said he was our judge (No robe, no liver spots, no tremors while rattling a gavel. Feh. Not my kinda judge.) and apologized for keeping us waiting. Apparently they'd reached a plea agreement and we were free to go.

What?

Just as I'd resigned myself to a long drawn-out affair, almost excited about the sordid adventure awaiting me, then POOF, we were ushered out of the courtroom (and up stairs, then down stairs, then up again, and...).

Oddly disappointed, I trawled home. But at least I wouldn't be called again for another year. Then again...that "rule" didn't hold true for the poor four-time lottery loser in the courtroom.

To paraphrase Almost Fran Drescher, "That sucked!"

A jury of peers has declared Bad Day in a Banana Hammock a very funny mystery with a finding of a 4.2 rating. 22 jurors surely can't ALL be wrong.
Hear ye, hear ye, click here to read the book in session!

Sir Wesley Stuart's Cultural Kiddie Corner

Oh, hello there. I'm Sir Wesley Stuart, author extraordinaire of fine and exquisite children's literature. Perhaps you remember my mystery chapter book classic, Oh, Dear, What's Happened to Miss Billyew's Glove? How could you possibly forget my riveting masterpiece of childhood trauma, Hurry, Toddie, Which Way to the Loo? Alas, these classics are long out of print (which is a travesty, I tell you. A travesty!).

Today, however, I'm guest-posting on Stuart R. West's blog  (a rather nice chap, I believe, if a little rough around the edges; he IS, after all, from *sniff* Kansas) to bring you extraordinary news. Announcing my first children's book in decades, Don't Put Gum in the Fish Bowl! Huzzah.
(Yes, yes, I know you're all as ecstatic as I am over this momentous occasion, but kindly maintain a decorum of dignity. We're not savages, after all.)

Now, I know you're all asking where I've been in the intervening years between books. Therein lies a long story (not a particularly good one) involving my persecution by the local constable and his boobie-headed bobbies regarding a public display involving ice cream, a broom and a box of toads. Total balderdash (or as you yanks are fond of saying, "fake news"). Needless to say, genius is never appreciated during one's lifetime.

Harumph. Now where was I?... Ah, yes!

Don't Put Gum in the Fish Bowl is a cheeky tale, full of irreverent humor certain to put the red in your little ones' cheeks.  It puts me in mind of my past children's comedy masterwork, Someone's Knicked Me Knickers!

Fish Bowl is the timeless tale of Peggy, a young girl who feels fit to babysit her younger siblings. Mother entrusts the exacting job to Peggy and--oh no, oh my!--she encounters giant floating goldfish, chatty birds, and demanding bees along the way! (Why, I'm absolutely bowled over--bowled over, I say!--with laughter merely recalling my brilliant tale!)

My extraordinary co-creator is a young artist who goes by the one-named (similar to Cher) moniker of Sirac. Sirac is an excellent illustrator and *sniff* funny-book artist who has brought my characters to vivid life. And believe me, ladies and gentlemen, I wouldn't entrust such larger-than-life characters to any mere funny-book artist. If you harbor any doubts, you won't after surveying the glorious art of Sirac. Behold!
For more examples of Sirac's stellar artwork, visit his Facebook page at: https://www.facebook.com/SiracIncArt

But enough about Sirac. Let's get back to a topic first and foremost on everyone's minds: me.

Our outstanding pièce de résistance, Don't Put Gum in the Fish Bowl, is recommended for children ages 3 to 8 (although, honestly, I tend to believe any cultured adult would enjoy the extraordinary world Sirac and I have created as well). It can be ordered at Amazon: Don't Put Gum in the Fish Bowl (Although honestly those Amazonians befuddle me at times; the book is listed as temporarily out of stock, but it's merely more persecution. All orders will be fulfilled soon enough, brutes they can be.).

If you'd rather not wait, you can receive more immediate satisfaction through my publisher's--Guardian Angel Books--website: Don't Put Gum in the Fish Bowl.

Order now and thank me later. While on the matter of acknowledgements, I suppose I should thank Stuart R. West for hosting me. (But, honestly, it's somewhat dank and dingy here at "Twisted Tales from Tornado Alley." Would it hurt the barbarian to crack a window on occasion? I swan.) So tea-cup lifted, pinky finger extended. "Cheers."
 

The Incredible Mr. Lipids

After I got the results from a blood-work physical, my wife read it, said, "I'm jealous! For someone as overweight as you are, your lipids are great!"
"Um...thanks."

Talk about a back-handed compliment.

Of course I had no idea what a "lipid" was.Willy Wonka's assistant or something.

A little research told me lipids are "fatty acids."

Does that sound healthy to you? Only acid I know is LSD or stuff that burns your face off in crappy horror movies. 

I suppose there're worse things.

Recently, I turned 56. How--when--did that happen? For Gawd's sake, I still feel youthful. Sort of. I mean, there're the knee aches, multiple trips to the john at night, screaming at kids to stay outta' my yard. Strange spots showing up on my skin. I prefer not to think about those.

I suppose I'm no longer considered "hip," and frankly, anyone who uses that term (as pointed out by my daughter) is decidedly un-hip. Only "hip" here is gonna be thrown out when I fall down.

Bah.

Damn kids, what do they know?

Mandatory Sex Practice!

Recently, my awesome mother-in-law sent us a post-holiday card. Within it was a personalized message to me.

"Stuart," it read, "you better start practicing your Sex--will expect entertainment in the nursing home."
Huh.

After I rolled my tongue up off the floor and tucked it back into my mouth, I reread the card. Yep. Same thing.

What the...

The ramifications of her note were mind-boggling. And not even a bit cryptic. Kinda an order from her.

Which begs the question: what in the world have my wife and her mom been talking about? Furthermore, what does my mother-in-law mean by "practice?" Surely, she can't be advocating more masturbation, right? I mean, I don't want to go blind or grow lycanthropically hairy palms.

I suppose I could use a little boning up on my sex technique. But honestly, I'd rather not hear it from my mother-in-law.

And what kind of nursing home are we talking about here where sex is used to entertain the crowd? I imagine the facility has quite a long waiting list. (I'd better get signed up now.)

After the fireworks in my head died out, I took a closer look at the note. "Stuart," it read a bit differently this time, "you better start practicing your Sax..."

Ooooooohhhhhhh...... Okay. That's a bit better.

Speaking of things better not thought about for the sake of humanity, have you heard the one about the male stripper and his detective sister? No? Well, you're late to the party! Click here already! 

The Strange Case of the Dented Forehead

So, over the holidays, I'm sitting with my wife's family in Oklahoma. Around the dinner table where all the best conversations take place.
This wasn't one of them...

We're talking about our various scars and childhood mishaps.

My wife asks where I got the scar on my forehead.

"What?" I protest. "I don't have a scar on my forehead!"

"Yes, you do," she insists.
Everyone's now studying my forehead as I bubble into a red ball of scrutiny. "Um, no I don't. Man, it sure is cold outside, isn't--"

"Then what caused that dent in your forehead?"

Again all eyes turn to me. "Oh for... I don't have a dent in my forehead!"

"It's there...right in the middle." She taps her forehead. The ball has been lobbed back to me. As in a tennis match, the rest of the family members swing their heads back and forth, anticipating the outcome. Probably won't be a score of "love."
"No it's not! I don't have a--"

"Then why is your forehead dented? I thought you told me you had a childhood accident."

Flustered, I start babbling. "Okay, I did have a couple childhood accidents. One on my knee, another on my chin. But I don't have a dented forehead. I don't have, nor have I ever had a scar on my forehead. And there wasn't some traumatic childhood accident that my parents covered up in a conspiracy to keep me from turning into a serial killer or anything like--"

"There it is!" My wife leans across the table, squinting now. "If you didn't have an accident, what's that dent from?"

"I don't know," I scream, hands up. "Intensity, I guess!"

And I think it's dinners like this that put the dent in my forehead (which I still don't believe I have). 

For even more intensity (the non-denting kind, natch), check out my suspense thriller, Dread and Breakfast.

I Survived Four Thrilling Dimensions of Intergalactic Terror!

Not too long ago my wife and I went to the new Star Wars movie. (Okay, let's get this outta the way... I know the Star Wars fanboys are up in arms over the movie and for the life of me, I can't figure out why. It's a Star Wars movie! You get lots and lots of The Force, good guys, bad guys, explosions, chases, laser fights, battles, betrayals, heroic stuff, aliens, silly haircuts, even sillier sets... You know... Star Wars! I was neither thrilled by nor angry at the movie. It is what it is and it is perfectly mediocre.)
What did thrill me, however, was the prospect of seeing The Last Jedi in super-amazo MX4D! 

"Bonus! What in God's name is MX4D?" I ask the ticketeer.

"It's the newest evolution in the 4D cinema experience where you actually “feel” the movie," the Ticket Master recites in a bland voice. "Enjoy the magic of the movies."

(At the B&B theater chain, I believe employees are required by law to say that last bit about the magic of the movies. Too bad they never conjure any magic in their tone. But I suppose magic is sorely lacking in minimum wage jobs.)

However, the magic-loving Ticket Holder still hadn't answered my question. "So...we 'feel' the movie?" I reiterate.

"That's right, sir."

I sorely want to ask the Ticket Fairy how this MX4D process works for a porn movie, but I know my wife won't approve. 

Regardless, we roll the dice, take a chance. My wife shrugs, says, "Let's do it. Something different."

"Okay! Two tickets, please."

"Alright..." the ticket girl intones. "Two senior tickets."

"Um, not yet," I say. "We still have several years before--"

"That'll be $34.00," she responds. "Enjoy the magic of the--"

"What theater?" 

We pay the outrageous price. I figure even if we're not senior citizens yet, I can't imagine how much the "regular citizens" tickets cost. Some damn movie magic at work there.

We settle into our strange, hard, uncomfortably plastic seats. Put our feet onto the raised platform. I look for a seat-belt, but can't find one, and resign myself to sitting in this awful bucket for three hours.

The usual pre-advertisements (bah! You whippersnappers remember when they didn't show commercials at the movies? Maybe I deserve my senior citizen discount.) run their course as do the endless trailers. Then the screen hits us with more warnings than a Viagra ad.

"Warning," a solemn voice admonishes, "if you're pregnant, sick, old, or near death; if you have a bad back, neck, or any open sores; if you haven't been to the restroom in over an hour; if you're prone to fainting, psychadelically freaking out, or screaming at vicious strobe lights; if you're the litigious sort, than the MX4D experience is not for you. We'd advise you to leave right now and the theatre staff will try not to shame you. Now, sit back and enjoy the magic of the movies."

I whisper to my wife, "What strange magic have we fallen prey to?"

The movie starts. So far, so good as the friendly and familiar Star Wars scrawl trawls off into space. Then...BOOM!

Over the next three hours, we're tipped and dipped, battered by mechanical punches to the butt and back, and have water and cold wind blasted at our faces. With all the smoke on hand in the movie, we're subjected to a smoke scent that smells more like plastic. Snow is dropped. Fog rolls out. And we experience what a small, drunken alien's breath is like.

It truly is the magic of the movies! Yet, oddly enough, all of the movement seems just a beat late for the on-screen action to the point of distraction.

One good thing? If you're ever constipated, the MX4D experience will loosen those bowels. Kinda like being strapped onto an industrial-sized paint-shaker for three hours.

Magic!

For even more magic, check out Peculiar County...

Beware the Christmas Carolers!

It's the holidays. That terrifying time of the year when every time the doorbell ding-dongs, I fear carolers may sing at me.
An absolutely terrifying prospect. Oh, the humanity!

I don't do well with people performing in my face. Whether it be singing, acting, dancing, whatever, it doesn't matter. I'm not sure how to respond, particularly if the talent's terrible.

My poker-face is lousy. Nervous muscles twitch. One eyelid flutters, the other remains land-locked in a passive lie. I paste on a smile, a jittery one, one that looks like the Joker's having an epileptic fit, while I try to make it through the performance on my stoop.

This year, I've been lucky so far. No singing visitors yet. But every time the UPS guy rings the doorbell, my heart skips a beat. Caroling will happen eventually, yes it will. When it does, I hope I handle it with a modicum of decency: no screaming, hurling, and a minimum of eye-rolling.

The whole idea of caroling, I think, is kinda odd, not to mention an infringement upon people's rights. I didn't sign up for a personal, one-on-one concert on my doorstep.

"Merry Christmas," I'd like to say, "ho-ho-ho, and get the hell offa my porch, ya psychos, before I get a restraining order!"

Look, I'm a writer. But I know better than to ring your doorbell, sit down with my laptop, and write on your stoop. It's like a surgeon rolling a patient up on a gurney to your door, strapping on a mask, and removing a gall bladder. Which makes me kinda wonder what hookers do this time of year.

I've been told carolers invade because they're struck by the holiday spirit. I get that, I do (even if it sounds a little violent). But, carolers, please, please, PLEASE just send me a video, disc, link, something where I don't have to grimace and bear it in your face.

But you know what? In the spirit of the holiday, in the hopes of the new year being better than 2017, with the goal of getting along with my fellow inhabitants of earth, I'm gonna let the carolers carol at me. 

In fact, let's all forget how ugly 2017 got. Let's embrace compassion, tolerance, and acceptance no matter how the "leader of the free world" is leading by example.

Happy New Year and peace.

Annual Christmas-time, Cursing, Tree-Erecting Horrorthon!

Lo, and a Sears salesman said, "taketh this fake tree home and pluggeth the pre-attached lights in. Easy as 1-2-3. Would you like to open a Sears account for a seven percent discount?"

Talk about your false prophets. That salesman can shove his guarantee up the softer side of Sears.


Every holiday I struggle with this damn artificial tree. So, this year, I thought I'd include you all in the terror. Merrrrrry Christmas, everyone!

I'm blogging and egg-nogging live while I try to erect the accursed tree. (One glass of eggnog in and I think the word "erect" is funny. *Snicker*)

After the first year I put the tree up, the lights have never worked properly. I sorely regret when I tore off the pesky "A," "B," and "C" labels on the kazillion plugs and sockets when we first purchased it. What was I thinking? I'll tell you what I was thinking...I thought the stickers would be ugly. By corky, they're not as ugly as dead lights.

What a terrible invention, Christmas tree lights...

(Time for more alcohol.)

I'm back! Where was I?

So, what's up with Christmas tree lights? Every year, much to my wife and daughter's amusement, I lay out strings and strings of lights on the floor, then plug 'em in. And watch them do nothing. Zip. Deader than honorable presidential behavior. Like a yuletide Godzilla, I stomp across them, roaring, tearing down the spirit of Christmas, cursing like Bea Arthur on a four-day bender.

Christmas tree lights have the stupidest technological flaw, don't they? Clearly, when Michael Jackson sang "One bad apple don't spoil the whole bunch, girl," he'd never, EVER put up his own Christmas tree. Had his crew do it for him. Red or whoever (or maybe that was Elvis.)

Let's hoist a drink to Elvis! And Michael! And all the late singers of Christmas past!

Anyway...(*burp*)...stupid lights. One goes out and the whole line is shot. My wife says these are the old-style lights. I've got too much invested in this old fake tree now (two hours, four drinks, and a bad back) to go out and buy new stuff.

Fine. I'll make do with other lights.

Crikey! I haven't even started the ormaments... ormandoes... ormummies... those dumb pretty balls yet.

Balls!

Let's drink!

Good Gawd! Mice have been defecating on top of the Christmas ornaments box! Is nothing sacred?

Man, I'm discovering lots and lots of forgotten ornaments. For some odd reason, tons of penguins. The Kansas City Chiefs. Barbie. Lion King. Bigfoot ("Bigfoot?" The hell?)

I ask my wife how I'm doing . She says the tree needs "schoosing." I need to schoose the branches.

"Schoosing," I slur. "What's that?"

"You know...schoosing." She lifts her hands continuously, some kind of lazy yoga move.

I schoose. I schoose like the wind. Those pesky wired branches don't schoose easily.

I'm winded. Tired. Discouraged. This calls for a shot of Christmas encouragement.

Happy holidays! 

We're down to the dregs of ornaments now...  Shards, beheaded angels, and like so many crappy, Christmas horror movies, sleds with only the legs of riders attached.

But I tire. Still never too tired for just one more holiday drink...

Crap. I just found one more tub of decoration stuff to spread around. This is friggin' endless!

Gotta drink.

Whew. Done. No presents yet. Wait...I gotta wrap now? Noooooooo!

Wrapping can wait awhile. I'm gonna admire my day's long handiwork first. Just sorta snuggle in beneath the tree. Admire the view...and...zzzzzzzzzzzzzz....
For more Christmas cheer, why not check out Grinning Skull Press' new holiday horror anthology, The Shadow Over Deathlehem? I'm honored to have a story in it along with the many other talented authors. Even better, all proceeds go to The Elizabeth Glaser Pediatric AIDS Foundation. Stuff some scares into that stocking!
Click here for KINDLE and here for PAPERBACK.

A Fond Farewell to our Loyal and Beloved Friend, Zak

On Tuesday, we lost our beloved dog, Zak. He gave us ten joyous years of love, loyalty, and play, while the eleventh year was fraught with emotion, and at times harrowing as we saw him go through four major surgeries, one amputation, rehabilitation, and finally, loss.

Zak was an absolutely unworldly ball of energy finally done in by the limitations of his physical body. He simply couldn't be contained within his aging body. His high-level play did in his back legs.

He will be sorely missed. He is missed. This is the hardest blog post I've ever written.

But I don't want to mourn, but rather celebrate Zak's wonderful life.
Zak was a rescue dog. At six months old, we found him rummaging through trash cans, love at first sight! The first night we brought him home on a trial-basis, I found myself sitting on the kitchen floor, laughing hysterically as he licked me with wild abandon.

I said to my wife, "I really, really like him."

"Yeah," she answered, "we're keeping him."

And we were off! What an adventure we had...

Alas, because of Zak's breed--half pit-bull terrier (the other half never determined and it didn't matter to us one bit)--he faced a life-time of prejudice. My mom, brother, a good friend, even strangers on the street when I walked Zak, were terrified of our dog. We had to be extra careful with him.

Not that we needed to. Zak was the best-natured dog we'd ever met. The only threat from him came from loving you to death, smothering you in kisses. Everywhere Zak went--doggie daycare, the vet, the nail clipper gals at Petco, physical therapy--he received lots of compliments and made fans. Everyone fell in love with him, his good nature, his loyalty, his temperament. Even my mom finally came around (and she NEVER comes around on anything), proclaiming him, "such a sweet, good dog."

In his years of life, Zak only bit two people (not bad odds for any dog): one, a mower in the next yard, who definitely deserved it for taunting Zak; and two, a cable guy who I wanted to bite. Hey, Zak was just doing his job. Loyalty like his couldn't be bought. He took his protection duties very seriously. Just ask the mailman. Dunno what it was about the mailman, but it was pretty much the only person Zak never liked. Even on our walks, Zak could spot the blue uniform several blocks away and wanted to assure the postman stayed far away from invading our turf.
Zak shared with everyone a universal desire to be loved. And we did; we loved him so much that this has been a very painful farewell. Clearly Zak returned that love in bunches. Once, while I sat on the deck, he ran up to me, something draping from his mouth...two rabbit legs. He dropped the half-carcass at my feet. Wiggled his tail, golden eyes full of hope for kudos at his gift to me. A gift presented out of love. Unfortunately, I responded with girlish shrieks. But I understood the intent. It was the kind of dog Zak was. Very giving in many ways. Whenever my wife screamed at seeing a spider, Zak beat me to her rescue.

Oddly enough, Zak was never very food-oriented. Playing was his bag. And play he did, hard and fast and furious. When he was younger, he ran whip-fast, crazy-eights in the backyard. He'd actually pounce--pounce!--on his hind legs like a kangaroo. The first time I ever saw him "play" with another dog, I was horrified; it looked as if he wanted to tear the other dog apart, all growls, nips, rough and tumble worse than a no-holds barred Black Friday shopping spree. But I also noticed Zak never bit the other dogs. Even in the unrestrained passion of play, he withheld himself. When the other dog would take a bite, Zak would just back-off, tail wagging. He loved dogs, never met a dog he didn't like. Except for maybe my daughter's brat of a beagle. Which is weird, because they started as friends (my daughter insists it stems from an unseen backyard bone incident).
In his older age, Zak still maintained his energy and that's what ultimately did his back legs in. Both of them, one by one. We tried to repay Zak's unflagging loyalty. We did everything we could to save him. But my wife saw he was hurting. And the remaining back leg had developed another bone infection, one that antibiotics couldn't stop.
 Seeing that wonderful, loving, playful, force of great-natured energy stilled on the vet's table was hard. So very heart-rending.

Over the last six years, I'd spent nearly every minute of my life with my friend, Zak. As a full-time writer, I wrote 18 novels with him at my feet. 

I'll miss him greatly. My friend. My companion. My dear loyal, furry love.

Here's to you, Zak. *Tink* I hope you're happily chasing stupid angelic rabbits and mailmen with wings.

So long to the funniest show on TV...The Inhumans

I grew up as a comic-book geek kid (oh, NOW they're cool). So when I first heard there was an upcoming TV series based on the "Inhumans," a strange Marvel comics superhero group, I frothed. Fairly foamed at the mouth, I tell you. It takes a lot to make me froth. Frothing is hard-earned in the Stuart household.

Eight painful episodes in (I'm a television masochist!) and I'm stabbing a stake in the show's bone-headed heart. (Pretty sure ABC agrees; after the eighth episode--and 13 were contracted--that sultry, smoky-voiced, ABC promo guy called it the "season finale.")

Where did the show go wrong? Let me count the ways...

The best actor on the show was a 2,000 pound, teleporting, CGI bulldog. I loved that guy. The rest of the cast? Not so much. The hero, the mute king Black Bolt, comes off as a drunken, constipated mime, prone to bouts of horrific mugging that would kick Jerry Lewis out of France.

Look, the show had a really cool built-in concept of a bunch of neato mutants living on the moon. Boom! Instant awesome! But the TV Gods chose to do the dumbest thing possible: the Inhuman gang is separated and tossed onto earth. Instead of political intrigue, we get Karnak wedged into a love triangle on a secret weed farm. Medusa? The strong first lady married to Black Bolt with the wiggly tendrils of hair? In the first episode, her hair's chopped off. Triton, the green-skinned amphibious guy, my long-time fave of the Inhumans? They "kill" him off in the first three minutes of the first episode. I knew he wasn't dead, not really, just comic-book dead. So I suffered through seven awful episodes to see him come back. He did. And, lo, he was as boring as my dad's socks.

There were many problems with the show. For some odd reason, earth car traffic befuddles the Inhumans. Yet, they take to skinny jeans like a second skin.

Maybe the problem was the bad guy, Maximus. Stolen from Game of Thrones, the actor pretty much reprises his "Ramsay Snow" role with a trendier haircut. Call it method acting. 

Here's the deal, though: Once the Inhumans go through a complex, mandatory process of metamorphosing ("terragenesis"), they're expected to gain special powers. If they don't, they become "human" and are sent straight to the working mines. (President Trump fully endorses this show). Maximus is supposed to be villainous because he wants to free the "normal humans" from the hellish working conditions of the mines on the moon. Black Bolt and his royal family want to keep things status quo. And they're the heroes? I'm already endorsing a Maximus-Dwayne Johnson presidential run in 2020.

There's another villain, Mordis, who is described as "death itself." Guess what? Death is like an irritating child on a long car trip. "Are we there yet?" "I'm tired." "My feet hurt." "How much longer do we have to walk through this jungle?" Yep, a truly terrifying villain.

I could go on about the wise, talking wall and other fun stuff, but let's not.

ABC had huge hopes for the show. So much so that they put the first couple episodes out in theaters to launch it. No one went. No one cared. Except for hell-raising critics which is probably why it ended up on Friday nights, the dead zone for loser TV shows.

It's been said we're living in a golden age of television. Maybe we are if you watch FX, AMC, Hulu, Netflix, Amazon, and all the other outliers.  It's just no one's bothered to tell the networks. The network heads still insist on serving up the same horrible crap they've been shoving at us for years. If they keep it up, they're bound to become as extinct as the Inhumans.

I don't like to celebrate failure. As a contributor of entertainment content, I mourn creative failure. So here's to the late, great "Inhumans!" I hoist a terragenesis cocktail toward you, ladies and inhumans!

Not quite as funny as The Inhumans, but I tried:
One click away from pants-wetting ha-ha's.