Stuart R. West's Blog, page 5

BAM! You've Just Been Old-Manned!

Last week the nice young couple across the street were vacationing in Barbados (we're lucky to get to Oklahoma!). Before they left I received a text from the guy asking if I'd keep an eye out, pick up packages and mail. No problem!

The morning after they got back, he texted me and wanted to know when he could pick his stuff up. With our dog pack, it's easier for me to just meet him outside. So I met him on our stoop.

"Hey, how was Barbados," I asked.

"Oh, man, it was great. The weather was warm, I surfed a little, and swam with the turtles," he said. I didn't pursue it further, but I hope that wasn't like "swimming with the fishes."

"Then you come back to this," I splayed my hand at Kansas.

"Yeah." He stared down at his feet like he couldn't tolerate standing in Kansas.

"Okay, here's your packages and mail." I handed over the bounty.

"Thanks again. Well, I'm going to get out of your hair," he offered, seeking a speedy getaway.

"What hair?" I asked.

"Heh, yeah. But I gotta run." He hitched a thumb across the street.

"Oh, okay, I don't mean to hold you up," I said, while doing just that.

One step down the front steps, I stopped him. "Hey, we're going to be out of town from the 23rd to 27th or so. Could you maybe pick up packages? You know how it is...I still have late gifts trickling in." I offered a little chuckle, which wasn't reciprocated.

He scowled. "Uh...yeah, I can do that." He turned around and took another step down.

I pulled out my best Columbo imitation. "Just one more thing. Your decorative candy canes?"

"What about them?"

"The three in front of the door aren't lighting up."

One more step on his getaway. "I think I remember that when I set them up."

"Oh."

"I'll shoot you a text when we leave. You know, just a friendly reminder."

"Gotta go!" He practically ran down the yard and into the street to the safety of his house.

It wasn't until he slammed his door that I realized I'd just "old-manned" the young neighbor.

I was reminded of the time nearly thirty years ago when I first moved in and was the youngster on the block. My arms loaded with grocery sacks, I got out of my car and heard the old man across the street calling out my name.

Crap, I thought. Caught!

Sure enough he began to leisurely stroll across his yard. To speed things up, I met him in the street. Maybe a speeding car would put a quick end to our sure-to-be agonizing convo.

No such luck. As the groceries in my arms grew heavier and things started melting, the old guy kept me out there for twenty minutes. To make matters worse, he wasn't wearing his hearing aid, so I had to speak up and repeat bland niceties about the weather at mega-levels. I told him that when I trimmed the front hedges, I developed terrible poison ivy.

"I coulda told you that there was poison ivy in the bushes," the only helpful thing he said. Just too late.

I kept looking down the street for a runaway vehicle. Finally, he said, "well, I'll get outta your hair." (This was back when I actually had hair.)

My arms aching, I pitched a sigh of relief as I escaped inside. I had been "old-manned."

Yikes. I guess what goes around comes around. I hadn't thought my conversation with my young neighbor was too long, or too old-manly, or too dull, but my unwitting victim apparently did. I just never thought I'd be doing any "old-manning."

Just hope those young whippersnappers stay outta my yard. Well, time to put on my gravy-stained sweater and head down to the cafeteria for the early bird hour.

Speaking of all things autobiographical, check out my book Corporate Wolf. Many of the things that happened to our hapless protagonist happened to me in my tenure in the big business sector. Well, except for the werewolf stuff. And the gruesome murders (although there were several coworkers who I envisioned meeting gruesome endings.). Come for the corporate satire and stick around for the dark humor and horror and mystery of Corporate Wolf.

The $25,000 Pork Chop

Hey-ho, here we go, with another cautionary tale, yo!

Several years ago, my brother sat down to dinner (undoubtedly in front of the TV, a family habit shared by myself) with a pork chop. Soon, he started feeling crummy, having trouble breathing. And his chest hurt. Badly.

He thought he was having a heart attack. So he was rushed to the E.R. I'm not sure of the details that transpired there (I'm not sure I want to), but after they fixed him up, the doc on duty came back and said, "You had a chunk of pork chop lodged in your esophagus. Chew your food."

And he probably didn't get a lollipop either.

Later, he remarked, "I had a $25,000 pork chop."

I understand completely how this happened. While growing up, another trait that was shared in our family was our mother used to cook the crap out of meat, thus draining the juices and making any kind of meat crossing our supper plates akin to a dry piece of leather.

I believe both my brothers still like their meat cooked "well-done," i.e., as desiccated and dehydrated as Lawrence of Arabia in the desert. Growing up, my family used to enthuse about "steak night." I'd just roll my eyes and wonder what the hullabaloo was about. First, it took about an hour to chew the much-lauded steak, and to me, it was tasteless. My mom even overcooked liver, and the less said about that the better. When my dad came home one night espousing the joys of spam, Mom even found a way to blast that to a crisp.

Later, I escaped the curse of dry meat by experimenting with medium, then medium-rare. Much better.

My wife says that's a trait of older generations: to overcook the hell out of meat. Me? I'd rather risk botulism, then waste all of those long hours chewing on a dry shoe again.

I think my brother learned from the infamous pork chop incident. But I hope he enjoyed it!

Speaking of pork, the cops can't seem to catch benevolent serial killer Leon Garber. But the nefarious shadow company who originally hired him to do their dirty work sure can. Believe it or not, they're the real villains. Find out what in the world I'm talking about in my darkly comedic and suspenseful thriller trilogy, Killers Incorporated, available here.

Sump Pup

That's NOT a misspelling in the title! NOT a dream (although it kinda resembles a nightmare)! NOT an imaginary tail (pun intended)! And NOT a hoax!

No, this is the traumatic tale of one dog's disastrous Thanksgiving. This is the tale of Mr. Loomis and his terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad holiday.

For those of you who don't recall, Mr. Loomis is our special needs, 15-year-old Lhasa Apso dog (with a bit of Dachshund tossed in for extra length!). He's 95% deaf and blind and sometimes bounces around like a pinball looking for a hole to fall into. I have a certain soft-spot and affinity for Mr. Loomis because he reminds me of myself: he's a cranky old man who never gives up.

But I digress. Why I remember that traumatic Thanksgiving morning like it was last week...because it was...(cue the wavy vision and flashback music)...

My wife thought it'd be a great idea for Mr. Loomis to get a bath Thanksgiving morning. After all, we had family coming over and Mr. Loo needed to look (and, um, smell) his best.

Mr. Loomis doesn't like baths. He groused, grumbled, tossed and turned, fighting my wife, until he finally resorted to howling. But she--and he--powered through it.

Once Mr. Loomis was out of the tub, my wife and I went upstairs to put some crap away, leaving Mr. Loo (and our other two dogs) free to roam the main floor.

My wife went down first, then called up, "Hey, did Mr. Loomis come up there?"

I looked around, knowing full well he hadn't. "No...can't you find him?" Panic set in. I had no idea what had happened to our senior dog. He definitely can't manage stairs any longer by himself, riddled as he is with arthritis.

I raced downstairs (well...as close to "racing" as I can get, seeing as how my knees are arthritic also). Now I couldn't find my wife either. Clearly, there was only one possible realistic conclusion: alien abduction.

But before I called Mulder and Scully, I heard a detached, echoing bark from the basement. (Actually, it was more like a "YARK!" Loomis doesn't say much, but on the rare occasion he does, it's always one loud, snappish, angry YARK.)

My wife's voice resounded up the basement stairs as well. "Oh my God," she exclaimed. "How'd he get in there?"

Mr. Loomis had somehow tumbled down the basement stairs, managing not to break any bones. Even worse, he'd found the worst possible place to land in the basement: he'd fallen into the sump pump.

Panic really kicked in when my wife told me he was swimming in the sump pump. She fished him out. When I looked down the stairs, Mr. Loomis was running away from my wife with her following in hot pursuit.

"Is he okay?" I asked.

"He's fine. Just mad."

He was about to get even madder. Now, my clearly freaked out wife said, "Guess what dude? You're getting another bath." Turning toward me, she added, "Is it too early for a drink?"

Let this be a cautionary tale for all. To paraphrase the great philosopher Willie Nelson: "Mamas, don't let your puppies fall in the sump pump."

Since our Thanksgiving went the way of the dogs, look out for other hairy creatures in the work place. Of course I'm talking about my black comedy/horror opus, Corporate Wolf, the only book that takes aim at corporate America through the lens of werewolf vision. It's complicated. Find out how so, here!

Illness Intelligence Quotient

As I write this, I'm on my seventeenth day of sickness. No, no, it's not because of the nauseating outcome of the election (that's an entirely different illness), but it's the same ol', same ol' sickness I've suffered since childhood.

I could easily self-diagnose myself and write my own prescription (I hope my wife's not reading this!). The symptoms are always the same: it starts with a sore throat (or a better description would be a "thick throat," the kind where it feels like your esophagus has narrowed with a wall of mucous closing in, sorta like how Custer probably felt on his "last stand"); then it migrates into my chest where it causes a hellish cough that lasts and lasts, producing a sorta devil-possessed, Linda Blair voice; alongside this--if I'm lucky--all sorts of pretty phlegm of the lemon-lime rainbow sort will be hacked up; and finally, the last symptom: rampant stupidity.

Okay, that last indicator was recently diagnosed by my wife, a medical professional. She laughed at me and said, "You know, when you get sick, you turn into an idiot."

Blink. Blinkity-blink. Whaaaaaa? 

If my brain had been functioning properly, I might've taken offense. But later evidence proved her right (Why does she ALWAYS have to be right???).

For instance, in vain, I reached out to my primary care provider to see if she would prescribe an antibiotic for me without being seen. As I'd said, this routine always goes the same for me: four days of thick throat, followed by respiratory infection and an earthquake-shaking cough. Her nurse basically told me, "You've gotta be kidding me."

I told my wife what I had done and she said, "Duh! Don't be an idiot." Let the evidence speak for itself, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. But it gets worse.

Then I told her, "the nurse suggested I could do a viral assessment."

At this point, my wife proclaimed my Illness Intelligence Quotient (IIQ) was extremely low.

I couldn't really disagree with her findings. I mean, anything viral was the last thing I needed, how I got into this mess in the first place.

"You mean a 'virtual' assessment," she said, laughing and shaking her head.

Later, when she came down with the same illness (who's laughing now, smarty-pants? Ahem!). I asked her, "are you still going for your haircut?"

She said, "yes, but I'll wear a mask."

Then I said, "are you still going for your haircut?"

"You JUST asked me that!"

"I did? What was your answer?"

Clearly, my wife's IIQ is higher than mine.

Anyway, flash forward to two weeks and some change later, when I finally managed to set up a "virtual" assessment and whaddaya know? The nurse practitioner prescribed me an antibiotic. DUH! It's what I said over two weeks ago!

Maybe my IIQ isn't as low as initially assessed. Nahhhh.

Speaking of idiots, check out my Zach and Zora comical mystery series, starting with Bad Day in a Banana Hammock. Therein, you'll find more madcap mystery, murder, mayhem, and the biggest idiot to ever headline a book series (alongside his capable, usually pregnant, very exasperated sleuth sister), then you'll ever want to read again. (Trust me on that. No, I really mean it...this series will make you NEVER want to read another book. I'm not proud of it, just stating the sorry facts.)

The Last, Worstest Nightmare Ever

Congratulations, America! You've elected an insane, mind-mushed, power-hungry, lying, raping, racist, convicted felon as the leader of our country! Yay! And he's got unlimited power, thanks to you, the American people, and his allies, the Supreme Court! Huzzah! 

I've been playing Chicken Little for some time now, while others around me have been saying "no way Trump's gonna win." But I knew it. Felt it in my craw (what exactly IS a craw?) like an annoying, persistent case of poison ivy. Or V.D., a more apt comparison.

Still, it's mind-boggling that some jackass could win the presidency on the "Stay Outta Prison" campaign.

Yep, it's the worstest nightmare, but somewhat inevitable, too, I suppose. Had Trump not won, it would not have been over, not by a long shot. This guy would've been crying "cheat!" for another endless four years. Wash, rinse, repeat, sigh.

Even though I suspected this tragic outcome, it still baffles me that anyone would have voted for him. Aren't you guys tired of him yet? Even when not president, the orange one dominated headlines over the past four years. He just. WON'T. SHUT. UP.

I have to take it, though, that's what America's all about. I guess. Even though Trump has blatantly said he's just going to be president to the MAGA worshippers, I still have to accept our country's decision.

And, gee, it's just been a couple of weeks, he's not even acting president yet, but let's look at some of his stellar accomplishments so far... hmmm... well...

Oh! Matt Gaetz has been picked as attorney general. Clearly, he's the right guy for the job as he's an alleged child sex trafficker. This just gets better and better!

Let's see...okay! We have a covid denier and an anti-vaxxer, please welcome RFK, Jr., the obvious perfect candidate for Secretary of Health.

Secretary of Defense? A natural! Pete Hegseth, of course, a Fox news commentator who's been accused of sexual assault, a fine choice.

The list goes on and on, a veritable clown car of MAGA acolytes and ass-kissers and billionaire buddies with no experience.

You guys asked for it. Now you're gonna get it. (My wife has a new slogan: "Let's make politics boring again!")

The title of this blog post is "The Last, Worstest Nightmare Ever." Why is it the "last?" Because the next four years could truly be apocalyptic. But, also, it's the last time (at least for the foreseeable future) that I'm going to rant about Trump. I give up. I concede.

How am I choosing to go forward? By ignoring the news. For eight years, I've been on the edge of my seat regarding Trump and his cronies' antics, hoping they would end. No such luck. So I'm going back to being blissfully ignorant. I was happier back in the day, when politics (or what passes as "politics") didn't bother me. I've heard what Trump says, read what he thinks, know what he's capable of doing, no need to doomscroll through it all over again. Until he blows up the world, it's no matter to me.

Last week, I got in an argument with a friend. I ended it by saying "fine, you just go on your merry way with your raping, racist president." After a long moment's silence, she says, "he's not a racist...he's NOT a racist."

Ain't it funny how she didn't negate his rapiness? As has over half our country? They're treating his rape allegations like a "character flaw."

And everyone I know who voted for Trump, always prefaces their choice by saying, "I don't like Trump. He's kind of a jerk. But, hellz yeah, I'm voting for him."

Huh.

How does that even make sense?

Whatever.

I'm done. Welcome to the new world.

Peace out!

The Agony of Marching Band

I despised marching band. I know not many people share my sentiment on that and everyone I ever meet has nothing but good, jolly memories of their tenure in high school marching band.

Not me. It was hell on earth. (Then again, I hated all of high school, so what do I know?)

Even before my freshman year started, we had to get up early every morning and go to band practice. But it was all outside and more like football than anything music-related (I was actually in football in junior high for three days...but that's a story for another time.).

On the field, in the blistering heat of the last days of summer, we were forced to learn how to march (like good little soldiers), and suffered drill after drill until we got it right. Me? Apparently, I wasn't ever a good marcher, because the cruel dictator band teacher had all of these teacher's pet band seniors tap you on the shoulder when they thought you were good enough to go rest. Invariably, I was always the last one on the field, marching to my own beat while the "band bullies" laughed at my efforts. (Overweight and not very graceful at that point, I was an easy target).

Let's back up a second... I hear some of you saying "band bullies? There are no such thing! Everyone knows that the kids in band were all geeks!"

True enough. But even band geeks had their hierarchal system where they would try to demean and beat down those they found even lower than them in the high school picking order. And bullying always runs down hill. Bullies originate from being bullied themselves. And I was the band geek's target. Shows you how much I ranked in high school! The meaner ones called me names, openly humiliated me, threatened me with violence (there was a particularly evil, pimply-faced drummer), while most just chose to ignore me.

But that wasn't even the worst part of band. During junior high, I was a relatively decent alto saxophone player. And it was okay. I didn't have to march and there, everyone in band seemed on a pretty even keel. But once the hallowed hellish halls of high school tried to suck me into its vast black hole of despair, marching made me truly despise band.

When the weather turned cold, there we were out on the fields every morning at 6:00 am, tromping through rain, mud, and snow. By the time I got off the field and into my first class, I'd be either freezing from being rain-soaked or from sweat or both. Probably not a pretty sight nor smell.

And the dictator who taught the class absolutely hated me. Why? Because I wasn't the "golden boy" my older brother was who he had loved when he was a "marching band star." The teacher even resorted to insulting me and calling me names as well. (Okay, sure, I missed the bus ride the band took one weekend for an out-of-town game and that pissed him off, but I honestly had the departure time off by one hour. An honest mistake....or WAS it?)

The following Monday the teacher confronted me (in front of the entire class, natch). There he humiliated me and ordered me to write a fifty page paper on a classical composer. Being the apathetic student I was back then, I didn't comply and flunked the class.

My dad was appalled. Having played overseas in an army band (saxophonist extraordinaire, of course), he just couldn't understand how in the world I could flunk band.

Finally, he took pity on me and let me drop it (under the pretense that my other grades would improve. They didn't, not for another year when I learned I was about to flunk out if I didn't turn my act around).

So let this be a cautionary tale to you, boys and girls! Stay far, far, FAR away from marching band. Don't give in to the terrorism of the band geek toughs! If you're a geek (who will eventually rule the world, you just have to survive high school), then get into theatre. There, if you're a straight guy (so a friend told me), you won't have ANY competition for the theatre girls.

Speaking of high school hell, check out my Tex, the Witch Boy trilogy. It's a supernatural, murder mystery, suspense, horror, comedy, romance, topical issues series that is often loosely autobiographical (excluding the serial killers and witchcraft elements, natch). You can find all the madness and fun here!

Anti-Easter Celebration!

With Halloween recently passed (and the nightmarish election having been held), I thought this would be the perfect time of year for a heart-warming Easter greeting.

Nah...not really...

But I have an old college friend, who is a card-carrying atheist, who every Easter conducts a ritual that warms the black cockles of his atheist heart. And it makes me giggle.

Each Easter holiday, my pal chooses to go to the Walmart in the most bible-thumping, Trump-fist-bumping Kansas county (and the selection is HUGE), and visits the Easter candy aisle. There he proceeds to turn all of the chocolate crosses upside down, thus giving Satan due diligence.

He has a routine--a well-practiced one--where he busies his free hand idly picking up something, while the devilish hand flips the cross. He prefers to finish the entire chocolate cross display (at least the candy crosses in front), thus making his definitive statement. And every time, he fervently hopes he won't be caught in the act. (I have to wonder what the punishment would be if he was caught? Who knows? In this redneck, bible-hurling, evangelical county, they might reintroduce the Mike Pence Gallows™.)

I truly wish I could be a fly on the wall when the holier-than-thou patrons (and employees) discover my buddy's annual holiday tribute to sacrilege. I wonder if the poor beleaguered manager is assailed by an angry mob who vows never to shop at his Walmart again. Or if they picket the store (because everyone knows that Walmart is EVIL anyway). I lay awake at night, chuckling, just imagining the various scenarios when the blasphemous chocolate display is discovered. Might they go as far as to bring out an Easter cam next year?

I don't know, but I hope my devilish friend keeps up the good work (by the way, he's also one of the nicest guys I know).

This got me wondering about the "true" meaning of the upside-down cross. My first encounter with it, of course, was the film The Exorcist in the 70's. There, Linda Blair kept having it turned upside-down over her bed by presumably satanic forces, not to mention *ahem* other unmentionable things.

Online, I found two wildly disparate explanations for the symbol. In Christianity, particularly Catholicism, the upside-down cross is meant to represent the humility of Peter, who wanted to be crucified upside-down because he wasn't worthy of dying like Jesus had. That's the pope's story and he's sticking to it.

However, popular culture, particularly in recent times, has adopted it as a symbol of anti-Christianity or Satanism. YOU be the judge!

So, if my pal ever gets popped into jail for his blasphemous anarchy, this is a surefire court defense. "Hey, if it's good enough for the Pope, it's good enough for me." (Then again, traditional back county Kansas Christians sorta always sneer at Catholics, so cue the Mike Pence Gallows™ again!).

While I'm waxing over all things satanic, check out my darkly comical horror novel, Demon With a Comb-Over. In it, a hapless stand-up comedian runs afoul of a demon by making fun of a demon's comb-over. Things go really downhill fast after that, so downhill, the tale ends in a confrontation in Hell. Check out all the macabre fun here!

A Mere Five Days...

That's all it's gonna take, a measly five days to determine if our country is going down the toilet or if we avoid a catastrophic disaster the likes we've never seen. And of course, at the center of this debacle is an orange-tinted, whiny, lying, childish, arrogant, stupid, convicted felon, raping racist.

Tough words, sure, but they can't be refuted.

I've had this growing pit of dread in my gut ever since Trump announced his candidacy (Even though he's been campaigning ever since he lost the last election.). I honestly can't imagine democracy will survive four more years of orange turmoil and chaos and hatred and divisiveness.

I have a Trump-supporting friend who says he doesn't like the name-calling of politics and is a "policy guy." There's absolutely nothing wrong with this in theory and it's admirable.

But...but...when it comes to Trump, I have to ask, WHAT POLICY? All the guy does is lie, rant, yell, spread anger wherever he goes like some demented satanic Santa Claus, and call people names. The closest Trump's ever come to discussing policy is when he said "I have the concept of a plan for health care."

Really? How decisive! THIS is the clown that over half the country wants to see run our country? Run it straight into the ground, maybe.

This is a guy who has no clue that his favorite song at his KKK rallies is a gay anthem by the Village People.

Let me just remind everyone of some of Donnie Trump's spectacular past adventures...

While in office, Trump suggested nuking hurricanes. Um...yeah, good thinking, Don. SCIENCE!

During the height of Covid (of which he downplayed for political reasons, indirectly causing the potentially avoidable deaths of a lot of people), Don thought injecting bleach would be a good idea.

To show support of those who died in battle fighting for our country, Don called the fallen "losers."

At a recent rally for racism, Don lost his train of thought and decided to sway his arms for forty minutes to music. So...so...sooooooo presidential.

He addressed a group of black journalists and managed to piss them off by suggesting Kamala Harris wasn't black. Talk about knowing your audience...

Trump wanted to build a moat between Mexico and the United States and populate it with crocodiles and deadly snakes. (This reminds me of the kid in sixth grade who ran for student council based on his promise to put Coke in the water fountains.)

This was the "president" who mocked a handicapped reporter.

Donnie constantly lies and his recent example of immigrants eating cats and dogs is a shining example.

Rape, sexual assault, grabbing women by the p@$$y...Sigh... Remember the "Big Controversy" over Jimmy Carter "lusting after women in his heart?" Hell, at this point, I'd even welcome back George W. Bush with great love.

Trump calls anyone who doesn't step in line with his fascist beliefs stupid and "an enemy" and he's threatened to unleash the military on them. Can detainment camps for "liberals" be next?

The list goes on and on, but remember, he's the only president in history who unleashed a dangerous mob on our nation's capitol based on his ludicrous lies and inability to accept defeat. Talk about a sore loser.

In five days, it's time to vote. The important thing is to vote. But I sincerely hope you won't vote for Trump. Frankly, I don't understand who would want to. Or why.

Not only is he a danger to our country, but potentially the world.

No wonder I drink.

VOTE.

The Roof of a Dog's Mouth

When I was a kid, our family would go "dog shopping (we never considered getting a rescue dog; I'm not sure if it was a "thing" back then or if my parents stubbornly refused to do so, because it was "low class," but we never did)." So we'd go into strangers' houses and look at their litter of puppies, always cocker spaniels.

First thing my dad did was wrestle a dog, wrangle its jaws wide open, and look at the color of the dog's roof of its mouth. Of course, the dogs never liked that one bit and the puppy vendors were always mortified.

My dad explained, "I heard that if the roof of a dog's mouth is black, it's a really smart dog. That guy there is our dog!"

Not sure how scientifically sound Dad's theory was, I came to doubt it based on the not very bright behavior of some of our dogs.

So I turned to my research assistant, Ms. Google, for corroboration. To which she gladly obliged...

Theresa, a cat vet of 19 years (and why exactly is she being quoted about a dog question?), says "the color on the roof of the mouth is just pigment. It has no meaning at all. It doesn't determine intelligence or breed, yet people in the past thought the more dark in the mouth, the better the breed, but this is just an old wives tale."

Okay, fair enough. But I started wondering just how in hell such a myth got started in the first place. Did a bunch of bored farmers' wives gather around the kitchen with their dogs to try to outdo one another?

"Say, Myrtle, look at the roof of my dog's mouth! It's black!"

"I swan, it sure is, Esther, but what in the world does it mean?"

"Why, Myrtle! EVERYONE knows that it's a sign that you gotcher self a smart dog!"

"Hmmph...I guess ol' Keester here ain't so smart after all. Lookee at the pink on the upside of his mouth."

(Later Myrtle and Esther were mauled--Siegfried and Roy style--by their dogs for wrenching their mouths open.)

While the origin of this ridiculous myth is "lost to the ages," a lot of people online have heard of it, especially hunters and old-time farmers. Of course, things could be worse: an Asian myth is that some dog breeds have blue tongues to ward off evil spirits.

Speaking of goofy myths and evil spirits, you'll find a slew of them in my horror story collection, Twisted Tales From Tornado Alley. And unlike the old wives tale about a dog's mouth, I swear to you that every tale in my tome is TRUE. Find out how true right here!

4Patriots!

Good grief! (Okay, so it wasn't necessarily "good," but this post is definitely filled with grief!)

The other day I was watching a pay streamer and was inundated with ads (and what's up with that, anyway? If I'm paying for a service, I don't expect to have to watch ads! You hear me, Prime and Max??? But I'm getting a heap of digression all over the place...). But this barrage of ads (over and over and over...) were of a particularly disturbing nature.

4Patriots! "We champion freedom and self-reliance!"

It's the dream website for wacko survivalists! Check it out! (But don't give them your personal info. You'll be sorry!) These particular ads were selling 72-Hour Emergency Survival Food Kits, and they're both delicious and easy to prepare! Best yet, they'll last for 25 YEARS!

I dunno about you guys, but I'm not eating anything that's 25 years old. And just how delicious do you suppose it could be after a quarter of a century?

The website further brags that "every kit contains delicious recipes your grandmother would love." These "stick-to-your-ribs" meals include "America's Finest Mac and Cheese (none of that foreigner mac and cheese either, nosireecatbobtail! It's made with gen-u-ine fake Amurican cheese, the kind that Gramma used to just love slurping down!)," "Creamy Rice and Vegetable Dinner (with Amurican rice, not that oriental stuff, nosir!)," and "Grammy's Sweet Oatmeal (improves by the year, yessir!)."

Yuck. If my choice is to eat this crap or get eaten by zombies, toss me into the zombie pit now.

This website is downright scary, ringing the alarm of paranoia that's becoming more prevalent in America these days, thanks to the so-called state of "political leaders" who're trying to scare you into voting for them. Otherwise, you're going to live in a country that's going to be overrun by fascists. Which is made even more confusing because both sides are calling their opponents "fascists."

What's a person to do?

Why, load up on 25 year old franken-foods and run for the hills, natch! I mean, that's what a true red-white-and-blue "patriot" would do, right?

"4Patriots" should be ashamed of themselves, pandering to peoples' very real fears perpetuated by the lies of politicians over the past eight years or so. Particularly disturbing is 4Patriots "But one, get one FREE generator event" to celebrate "National Preparedness Month (a holiday I hadn't heard of before; but if there's a Hallmark greeting card section of National Preparedness Month at the local drug store, sign me up NOW!)." Maybe it's just me, but...what can a second, unnecessary generator do that the first one can't? Is it just me? It must be just me... Lessee, where's my credit card?

4Patriot has everything that the true patriot could ever want! There's a "Patriot Pure Air Filtration Device" that helps weed out all that unwanted commie air! Dad gum! And don't forget your "Patriot Power Powder Blend," the next best thing to Captain America's Super-Soldier formula! Whammo!

Over the past controversial eight year course, the term "patriot" has become bastardized. According to the Oxford Dictionary, a "patriot" is someone who "vigorously supports their country and is willing to defend it against enemies or detractors." That's fine and dandy, I'm all for it and consider myself a patriot.

However, over the past decade, they may as well addend the official patriot definition to include "...as long as you step in line to the white nationalist agenda, because if you don't, you're a big stoopid face and wrong and a liberal fascist! So I'm taking my 72-hour Emergency Survival Food Kid and going home! So THERE!"

I wonder if when the zombie apocalypse comes, the zombies will eat white nationalists. Hurry up, zombies!

While yakking about zombies, I'd love to promote my zombie survival book (with a big twist, natch), Zombie Rapture, but alas, the publisher folded and the book is currently without a home. A pity, 'cause I really like the book (and I'm not even biased! Mostly. Kinda...)