Stuart R. West's Blog, page 9

"Just Like We Drew It Up!"

Well, the super bowl has come and gone and my hometown guys, the Kansas City Chiefs (nearly miraculously) won at the last minute.

That was pretty cool, but my favorite part of the super bowl was this tweet following the game...

Ha ha ha ha ha haaaaaaa! Take that, conspiracy crazies!

For a little background, check out my Taylor Swift conspiracy theory post from a while back. Go on. I'll still be here when you get back.

Yep, the far right conspiracy contingent thought that the nefariously evil liberal fascists were fixing the super bowl to go to the Chiefs so that at game's end, Taylor Swift and Travis Kelce could come out and announce their backing of Joe Biden for the upcoming election. (Which confused me at first because I thought "why would Kelsey Grammer endorse Biden since he's a notorious Trump thumper? And just why is Frasier dating Taylor Swift, Psy-Op Agent for Socialism?" Then it hit me...ohhhhhh, it's the other Kelce. I'm sure I'm not alone in confusing the two. They look identical. Okay, enough digressing and dumb jokes!)

Needless to say, the far right's conspiracy never came to fruition. But, it didn't keep President Biden from breaking out his "Dark Brandon" persona and dissing the nuts.

On a far more serious note, the shooting that happened at the Chiefs' victor parade was horrifying. And I had a deep fear that it may've been a conspiracy guy gone over-the-top. Not that it was any less awful, but it was merely idiots being stupid with guns. (Just one more reason why we need to deep-six the MAGA cult once and for all.)

Okay, say what you will about President Biden, but the guy's got a sense of humor. Unlike a certain orange troll whose idea of humor is taunting people with grade school bullying nicknames.

C'mon, people! I'll take 81 years of doddering experience any day over 91 criminal charges. It's not rocket science.

Don't make me come over there.

Speaking of idiots, check out my featuring one of the dumbest lead characters you'll ever find (excluding our current politicians, natch), a lunk-headed male stripper with a heart of gold and a banana hammock of yellow. And due to popular demand (okay, well at least my friend, author extraordinaire, Cat Cavendish), I'm at long, long last back to writing the fourth book in the series, Massacre of Mustaches!

Duel to the Death: Siri vs. Alexa!

Yep. It's come down to this. Who would win in the ultimate smack-down? Siri or Alexa?

In this frightening age of 3-D printers, smart everythings, AI everywhere you look, and phony, manufactured politician recordings, I think I'm not alone in wondering who would take the crown between those two bad-ass, all-knowing, intrusive, and ever-listening non-entities, Siri and Alexa.

First of all, let's give them physical manifestations. Now, most people choose to have the two electronic figureheads represented by a sultry female voice. I don't. I've seen how hot and sexy Siri has driven a good friend of mine crazy with unrequited desire. It's a desire turned bad. Once he told me, "I really hate that bitch."

So I've given my Siri the voice of a British/Indian man, the reasoning being I'm more apt to be immune to his charms. (However, he does have a British voice; have you ever found that British accents make everything sound more interesting? At least as a Kansan, I certainly do, otherwise, I would've never listed to a BBC radio show covering "Buttons.")

Now, seeing as how the only limited experience I've had with Alexa is when my mom briefly had it turned on, I'm probably going to envision her as the typical sultry-sounding radio DJ (who's probably not as attractive as her radio voice). Let's make her hot, maybe a brunette. 

(Side bar: My mom soon disabled her Alexa; she was worried that it was listening to her. Pretty sure she got this idea from Fox News. So my brother disabled that channel on her T.V. {Side-side bar: She may not be too wrong. Even when I'm just talking about commercial things in the vicinity of my phone, I'll sometimes soon receive ads for that very thing. Holy 1984!})

So. We've got a wiry, strong Indian man versus a sultry British Brunette woman. Who'd win in a knock-down, throw-down, duel to the death?

Is this such a hard to imagine scenario these days? Creative talent/scientists can make anything happen these days, real or not. It's a far jump from the days Ray Harryhausen entertained us with stop motion clay dinosaurs (and if stop-motion animators aren't the most patient people in the world, I don't know who would be).

Let's look at the facts. Clearly, Siri is utilized more than Alexa, with more people using "her" on a daily basis, I *think* as iPhones are more prevalent than Alexa.

Yet, a lot of "experts" prefer Alexa. While Siri offers a more "personalized" experience (i.e., tailoring ads to your tastes which I'm not so sure is a "plus"), Alexa excels at compatibility, ranging across a wide line of Amazon products.

And let's not forget a recent claim made by an Alexa commercial: "Alexa saved my life by telling me the house was on fire." Well, cool. I guess. But a fire alarm doesn't listen to you like Hal from 2001: A Space Odyssey. 

Really, it comes down to which giant world-eating conglomerate that's out to conquer the universe you choose: Apple or Amazon.

Me? I'd rather not see either of these two soulless mega corporations win as they're both filthy rich and powerful enough, perfectly represented by never-seen, but all intrusive electronic omnipresent presences. 

And wouldn't it be cool if all the world's violent disagreements and problems could be handled by a couple of AI images duking it out? 

I'm taking bets right now. In this cornerrrrrr, weighing in at 3 billion megawatts of artificial intelligence, we have...

Now that I've got that off my chest, let's bring things back down to earth with a nice, simple teenage witch boy. You betcha I'm talking about the murder mystery, supernatural, comical, touching and suspenseful adventures of Tex the Witch Boy (and friends and enemies). Get under his spell right HERE!

Swan Song Sung Sad

Some time ago, my wife and I were watching something on TV (doesn't matter what and I can't remember anyway), and someone's "swan song" was brought up. 

What exactly is a swan song? Well, the definition is a final gesture, performance or effort given by someone before death or retirement.

Yow! Talk about depressing! But really, I wondered why in the world would someone call it a "swan song?" I've never seen a yodeling swan on America's Kinda Got A Little Bit of Talent If You're Really Drunk or whatever.

Well, my research assistant, Professor Google, helped me suss out the reason. Get this: according to ancient beliefs, a swan sings a beautiful song just before their death because they've been silent all of their lives.

Well, huh. Maybe some "ancient beliefs" should go the way of disco. I mean, really. I'm pretty sure swans never sang, even in the face of the grim reaper belly-flopping into their pond. Yet the beliefs find their origins back in the days of ancient Greece by the third century BC (you know...where all the "great original thinkers" came from) and has been perpetuated since by philosophers and artists. Methinks they need a new muse. There're all kinds of anecdotes and sightings of singing swans throughout history and art, but they're much too boring to go into here. (If you're interested, go find your own Google assistant.)

And what's the deal with peoples' infatuation with animals making strange noises upon their death? You guys have heard of how lobsters scream upon being dunked alive into boiling water, right? Well, it's not true. They don't have vocal chords. The sound you hear is steam escaping from the shell. Apparently, they have a ganglionic nervous system and don't feel the pain as we do. (Of this, I'm not so sure. I mean, honestly, can any amount of science truly tell how they feel? And c'mon, do you have to boil them alive? Jeezus, you chefs are a sadistic bunch.)

Then there are the rabbits. Oh my lord, the poor bunnies! It's said they scream upon death. Professor Google somewhat corroborated this story, but didn't give me much comfort. Apparently, rabbits do scream when wounded. As if to put salve on the emotional wound, Professor Google was quick to follow up with "but rabbits don't scream when they suddenly die. However, any wound to a rabbit is generally fatal." Like THAT makes me feel better about the whole thing.

The deeper I dove, the more animals I found that scream and it's all kinda sad. Maybe we should quit killing the animals, huh? Geeze, if they scream, they can feel pain. So I don't wanna hear about hunting for "fun." And I'm thinking of having my people get in touch with President Biden's people to lobby for a bill to change the term "Swan Song" to "Dying Human's Song."

I'm pretty sure I'll get lotsa traction on this given the nature of our "lawmakers" these days and the way they allot importance to the right issues.

While I'm thinking of how mistreated animals are, why not give up some love for werewolves? After all, they're human most of the time, right? You can read all about them in my absolutely 100% true, tell-all shocking expose called Corporate Wolf . True journalism at it's most hard-hitting! Pow!

The Trap (and Welcome To It)!

Usually, Snapchat is utilized by my daughter, brother and myself for sending ludicrously filter-altered pictures of ourselves to torture our family and friends on a daily basis. You know...like God intended Snapchat to be.

But the other day, my daughter sent out a Snap, nothing in the picture but darkness, with this thought splayed across the blackness, "Waking up is hard. Don't do it. It's a trap!"

At first I thought, wait is this some sort of nihilistic emo-drudgery bull-stuff or maybe a cry for help? Then I thought how funny it was. And thought-provoking.

Waking up--and staying up--is indeed hard. (Just ask my wife who sets a barrage of alarms and triple snoozes them all. So does my daughter, actually, except her alarm is a horrendous air siren-like sound that could wake up the dead. Me? I wake up when a fly sneezes.) 

But how is "waking up" a trap?

Let's break it down...

We're all conditioned to wake up at a certain time throughout our life-cycle. As children, mean ol' Mommy and Daddy wake us up to go to the dreaded school. Same thing goes in high school and college, but by then, you're on your own, hopefully life's lesson having sunk in without perhaps not-so-mean-after-all Mom and Dad having to aid you in getting up by this time. 

 After school, you're definitely on your own. Or at least, I would hope you're waking up all by your big-boy self. Unless you're a millennial, of course, who's moved back in with your parents (16% of today's millennials have taken the horrific return to roost plunge).

Once you enter the work-force, it's all over. You have to wake up every day at a certain time. Or else you move back in with your parents. Therein lies the trap. Call it the "Parent Trap 21st Century Style."

And why are we subjected to The Trap? As I implied, the programming starts from childhood. In fact, even as babies, you're expected to go to sleep and wake up at a certain, predictable time (and we all know how well that works, right?). This early training prepares you for a life of drudgery in the work force where waking up is mandatory. This is the price we pay for living in a capitalistic country.

"But, Stuart," I hear you thinking, "are you trying to tell us that people in socialist and communist countries don't have to wake up at a certain time?"

Hold the phone, folks, put down the pitchforks and don't pack your bags yet! Of course said countries have to wake up at certain times as well, whether it be to go stand in bread lines or go to the factory or super-secret KGB training or whatever. In fact, it's one of the very few things (outside of eating and sex) that unites humanity across our great world: the forced trap of waking up.

Now, before you all start thinking that retirement is sounding better and better because you won't be forced to wake up at a certain time, I've got news for you... Hello, prostate!! Sheesh, I can't remember the last time I slept through the night without a nocturnal bathroom run.

Also--and here's the most unfair, ridiculous rub of all--once you get older, the ability to sleep late vanishes! Poof! Like an evil David Copperfield waved a wand over your shrinking, shriveling body and said "abra abra cadaver, I wanna reach out and wake ya'." (Apologies to the Steve Miller Band; not that I'm a fan, mind you, but I can never resist an easy joke.)

I remember all through college, when I possessed the preternatural ability to sleep until noon or sometimes even later (probably didn't help that I'd just gotten in about five in the morning). But once you get out of school, the sleep late gene begins to dissipate. By the time you're in your "golden years," you're up before the roosters.

I'm telling you, avoid the trap, heed my daughter's sage advice! Just get used to your parents' basement, you can adapt.

On that cheery note, y'all could probably use a laugh. If so, check out my Zach and Zora comic mystery series. The first title in the series, pretty much tells you what kinda humor you're in for. Hey! I didn't say they're great books, but if like me, your inner 12-year-old needs a release, have at it!

Knee Fun in 2024

My 2024 has started out with a bang. Or at least that's what it felt like to my knee. For over two months, I'd been suffering severe knee pain, completely jacking up my mobility and ability to do stuff.

It all started in mid-November. I woke up, thinking (more like mentally screaming), "Say...my knee sure does hurt."

For weeks I suffered. My wife watched me hobble around (finally busting out her antique collectible cane), shaking her head and rolling her eyes. She'd been down this path with me before.

"Do something about it," she said. "Go to the doctor."

For you see, going to the doctor is completely against everything I stand for. A) I hate it; B) it takes forever; C) things usually have a way of rectifying themselves; D) it sucks (did I say that already?); and finally, the Big E) I'm always worried about some life-threatening disease the docs may accidentally uncover. Why...I'd almost rather ask for directions when lost than go to the doctor. Almost.

At long last, one morning I woke up and it felt better! "Honey," I said, "I'm finally on the road to improvement!"

"Uh-huh," she answered.

Alas, the next day, the constant, agonizing pain had returned. With great sacrifice, I hauled myself upstairs to our bedroom and finally conceded. "Hey...I think I need to go to Urgent Care in the morning."

"Hallelujah," replied my wife.

Okay, the next morning, a Sunday, I found out when Urgent Care opened. My plan was to get there at that very moment, thus limiting the endless waiting time. Before the doors opened, I was there, banging on the doors with my cane.

The doctor saw me, a speed-talker, and gave me a quick cursory examination. "I don't think it's broken, can't say about torn ligaments, I doubt it, but we'll give you an x-ray anyway, take lots of Ibuprofen, ice it until we call you, next!" spat out Dr. Over-Caffeinated. 

Later that morning, the nurse called. "Um, yeah...Dr. Speed-Overdose says there's just some mild arthritis there. No big deal. Take Ibuprofen."

Translation: "Why are you wasting our time and resources? Stay home, you cry-baby, take some aspirin and shut up."

Yet...yet...the constant pain continued. One more month goes by. In absolute despair, I picked an orthopedist on-line and gave his office a call. After I left a message, two days later(!), a nurse calls me back.

"At this point, we're two months out from being able to get you in. You're better off getting into one of our walk-in clinics."

"Two months?" I railed. "That's worse than trying to get somebody to fix our fence. Have you ever tried to get someone to just mend your fence? I mean, it's crazy! They either want to replace the entire fence or...Hello?  Are you still there? Hello?..."

So. I gave in. It became decided. The next morning, my wife (who was working from home that day) graciously said she'd drive me to the clinic. (I actually think she likes to go with me on medical appointments because she realizes that I'm terrible with giving accurate medical background information). 

Of course, this was during the worst snow blizzard in years. Oh so carefully, my wife plowed through packed and backed up snow covered streets, the visibility less than two feet ahead of us with the wind blowing wildly. All the while, my knee screamed for relief, any relief.

Finally...finally...we made it. Not sure how. Naturally, we parked at the complete opposite end of the long-ass building we needed to go into. Limping through the blizzard, I traversed the snowy and dangerous winter lands until we landed in the right section.

After seemingly hours of electronic paperwork, I handed it back in. That's when the receptionist said, "Well, the clinic doctor isn't here yet. I hope she does make it in, but I'm not sure. I'll let you know."

"Gee...thanks."

Fortunately, it wasn't too much longer before she did make it in.

"Hmmm," the physician, not much older than the cheese I ate last night, said, "betcha what you need is a cortisone shot in the knee."

"Bring it!" Of course I'm no fan of shots, but anything to alleviate my suffering.

"It usually lasts about three months, then you'll need to come back for another one," she continued. "Does that sound like something you'd like to try?"

"Oh, HELL yes!"

After filling out some scary paperwork that absolved them of my accidental death, she brandished a hypodermic in front of me.

"Okay, when I put this in, you'll just feel a little prick."

"'A little prick?' Hah. I can handle that. Um...I don't mean I can handle a 'little prick', heh, if you know what I mean, I mean to say, AIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! The pain! Make it stop! How much longer is this going to go on???? AIEEEEEEEE! Oh! What happened to the 'little prick?' The pain! Boss, it is zee pain!!!!"

In the icy cold agony of the shot, I'd accidentally channeled Herve Villechaize from Fantasy Island. 

The process did seem like it'd gone on forever, like acid burning up my knee.

At long last it was over. I limped back through the storm to the car.

And by cracky, once night hit, I started to feel relief! Sweet, sweet relief! On top of the world, the next day, I actually went out and shoveled the sidewalk and driveway (of course it took me about five out-of-breath attempts, but I did it!).

Sadly, the shot's effects only lasted about two weeks and now I'm back to Ground Zero of Pain.

My wife's on me to call another orthopedist.  

"Been down that route already," I said.

"Try again."

Humph. I hardly see the point. I'm thinking of finding a nice witch doctor on-line instead.

While I'm thinking about witches, you'll find an entire coven of witches (along with other ghosts, spooks, beasties, and things that go bump in the night) in my book, Peculiar County. It's a wonderful place to visit (kinda), but trust me, you don't want to settle there.

Welcome to the Dog Pack

When I woke up that fateful morning, I had no idea we'd have a dog pack by the end of the day.

Let's jump into the Way-Back Machine for a minute. Several years back, my wife floated the idea of a new dog. I dragged my feet because...well, because I truly hate putting dogs to sleep when it's their time (which is kinda a dumb thing to write, since I doubt there's a huge contingent out there who enjoy putting dogs down. But...considering the nature of our world right now, you never know. But I digress.)

Long story, short: we ended up adopting two dogs because they were "bonded." That, of course, was Bijou and Mr. Loomis (which I've written about before). One is a Lhasa Apso, the other an inexplicable blending of Saint Bernard, Australian Cattle Shepherd, and about a dozen other species (Bijou had very randy parents!). But the dog we'd always wanted was a Cavalier King Charles. Alas, they're very hard to come by unless you want to shell out two grand (hello, Bijou and Mr. Loomis! Plus, adopting is the way to go.).

Mr. Loomis wondering what fresh hell we've brought into his home.

Skip ahead several years...my wife found a mix of a Cavalier King Charles and a Shih Tzu (we think) up for adoption, a puppy of one year. We jumped on it and the woman called us back immediately. She said, "You were the first interested people I was able to get ahold of."

Ta-dahhhhhh! Two days later, we set off in a very windy rain storm for a small town in Missouri about 2-1/2 hours away with our two O.G. dogs in tow for the big meet 'n greet.

When we finally--finally!--found the woman's house (a treacherous road full of hills and winds and heart-stopping gasps {at least from me riding shotgun}, the four of us entered into the Wild Kingdom.

A small house, it was packed to the rafters with animals of all sorts. An entire wall was jam-packed with cages of birds unleashing a maddening cacophony of tweets, squawks, and caws. A snake slithered around the inside of an aquarium. Somewhere, a cat rumbled his distaste for our intrusion. The woman went on to tell us about the rats she'd adopted (rats, for God's sake, rats!). Mercifully, they were sequestered in the basement. Bijou growled at everything. Mr. Loomis wandered around smelling various items and animals. And in the midst of all this madness, our new puppy ran scattershot, barking, wagging his tail, and avoiding the strange new quartet of people and dogs.

Things happened fast. Before I knew it, we were headed home with three dogs in the back seat, the new guy in the middle. (Side note: Of course we got lost on the long and winding roads {the convenience guy wasn't much help: "No problem. Hang a left at the church, go a spell, turn right at Fred's barn, go all the way outta town, then about a jot past that..."}, thus rendering our trip into three hours plus.) And what a journey it was. Our two O.G. dogs didn't know what to make of their new fellow traveler. Growls were exchanged, a few snips, uncertainty and no sleep whatsoever for all three wary dogs. By the time, we made it home, we were travelling in a rather pungent odor of poop.

Bijou ready for normalcy to return.

I'm writing this on the third day of our new dog pack. Gone are the mornings of ever hoping to sleep in again. Little time do I have to get anything done, for I'm wrangling dogs 24-7. Also, while I'd always wanted a little lap dog (Mr. Loomis was supposed to fill that role, but made it clear early on, he is above lapdom, while Bijou--although much too big--dearly wants that role.), the new guy has to be in my lap 24-7. This makes taking the trash out rather difficult.

And the accidents, oy, the accidents! We're going through bottles and bottles of enzyme spray keeping on top of it.

As for the dynamic between the dog pack? It's been rather tricky. Mr. Loomis--a cranky old veteran of 15 years (a dog after my cranky old heart)--chooses to ignore the new guy. Until he intrudes on his territory, then things turn snappish. And Bijou will not tolerate the little fellow coming close while he's getting attention from my wife or me. 

Today seems a little better. Bijou is finally playing with the new addition, although the little guy was terrified at first to reciprocate with the much larger dog. But today seems encouraging. Still gotta work on Mr. Loomis, but I doubt the old man will come around. Maybe with time. But, like me, he has a low tolerance level for impertinent young whippersnappers.

The new pup's name was originally Bailey. But we're working on changing it to...Bisquit. Behold, Prince Bisquit, newest member of our unholy dog pack!

Speaking of wild animals and packs, there are no dogs, but a slew of werewolves running rampant in my darkly comic horror novel, Corporate Wolf. Hey! It's just another day at the office! Check it out here.

"I'm so glad you survived your autopsy."

Over the holidays, the neighbors invited us over for wine. We commenced talking about our medical issues because...well, that's what people do when they get older.  (I know it sounds boring, but heed my word, whippersnappers, you'll some day be in the same boat.)

The problem is I'm not much of a medical guy. My knowledge of physiology pretty much comes from old Warner Brothers cartoons (Hey, you can learn a lot by watching Bugs Bunny torture Elmer Fudd!). So the conversation came around to our strange skin conditions, something that the male neighbor and I had in common. (I won't go into detail about my weird, necrotic, skin-eating rash because I've yakked about it in the past at great lengths and some of you may be eating breakfast. But thankfully, it seems to have finally resolved itself.).

I said, "Gary, I went to numerous doctors, allergists, and dermatologists, and nobody could figure it out. One quack said it was caused by the sun. I'm never out in the sun! They even did an autopsy on my back!"

Well... I was met with silence. Then the ridicule set in.

"I'm so glad you survived your autopsy, dear," offered my wife.

More laughs while I sat there helpless, turning fourteen shades of red. "Yeah, um...well...I think I need to go tend to my TV dinner I left in the oven."

Then things got worse. We moved onto my horrible knee pain, something that's still bugging me. "I don't know, guys, but the pain keeps me up at night. I might've torn my hibiscus."

Again, silence. Then the laughter erupted. Now, the one thing I know even less about human anatomy is flowers. Apparently, I'd told them I'd torn my flower. How was I supposed to know "hibiscus" is a flower? It's not like they taught that in school. They definitely didn't have Daffy Duck talking about the hibiscus flower.

Sheesh. If this is the way my 2024 is gonna go, I think I'll just go back to bed and sleep the year away.

Speaking of really dumb guys, meet Zach Cavanaugh, loveable, yet dunder-headed male stripper (but don't call him that!). Zach's got a problem: he can't help but accidentally stumble across dead bodies constantly. It's up to his long-suffering, usually pregnant, but very competent sleuth sister to bail him out. You'll find lotsa zany situations and characters in my Zach and Zora comic mystery series, but don't take my word for it!

"But:" The Great Qualifier

"I'm not a Trump fan, but he was our greatest president ever."

Well. Huh. 

Lately, I'm hearing a lot of statements constructed in the same manner: The sentence begins with a bold declarative statement. Then the word "but" always follows (kinda like the butt of a joke). And finally, a complete whopper follow-up statement that completely negates everything that's come before it. Whenever you hear the "but" sentence, you can always count on the speaker swinging high and big for full impact. And it always--ALWAYS--renders the first "I'm not a..." part of the statement totally irrelevant.

I find that the "but" sentence generally can be broken down into three sub-categories: politics, racism, and conspiracy theories. (And what do these three categories have in common? We'll get to that!)

These days, it's common to hear people defend Trump (even though they pretend to start out not doing so). (Yeah, I don't get it either. I am but a mere reporter stating the facts.) But whenever someone starts out with a "I'm not a Trump fan, but..." sentence, you can bank on their turning around and kissing his orange heiny.

Here's another gem I've heard during the last horrible four years: "I'm not a MAGA follower, but the deep-state, evil Liberal satanists eat babies."

Fun in the 21st century.

I tend to glaze over and tune out whenever someone hits me with the "I'm not a conspiracy theorist, but..." statement. You know it's going to be bad and there's no escape once they get on their conspiracy-painted soap-box. "I've got a TV dinner in the oven" won't work as an excuse to escape the conspiracy theorist once they have their hooks in you.

Here's a recent example:

"I'm not a conspiracy theorist, but Covid's nothing but a hoax."

"Um...yeah...about my TV dinner..."

"It's true! Fox News says blah, blah, blah, yak, yak, yak...."

The true origins of Covid are also big in the "but" world. "I'm not a conspiracy theorist, but Fauci created Covid on purpose to infiltrate the deep-state into.....zzzzzzzzzz..."

Finally, this brings me to the third and final category of "but" statements, and probably the most heinous of all: racism.  Here are a few nuggets of wisdom especially curated and culled from various family members over the years:

"I'm not racist, but Mexicans are dirty."

"I'm not racist, but the colored need to stay with their own kind."

YOW! Sometimes I think I was switched at birth.

I started thinking about the true underlying meaning behind the "but" statement. Since they always begin somewhat preemptively apologetic, the speaker has to be aware of how possibly controversial--and perhaps, out and out wrong--what they're about to say is. So why bother following through? Remember the semi-golden rule: "If you have nothing nice to say, then don't say anything at all." However, the "but" statement is tricky. It's set up to allow the offending speaker an escape hatch if necessary.

Finally, what do the three sub-categories of "but" statements have in common? Simple: MAGA. Politics, racism, and conspiracy theories are the bedrock "values" of this horrible cult. Since the advent of MAGA, "but" statements have been overflowing like lava spewing from a poisonous volcano. And the brunt of the blame has to fall on Donny Trump's orange shoulders. Since his followers see that he says whatever the hell he wants to and damned with the consequences, they believe they should follow suit.

I don't hate Trump...but he truly, truly, truly, really, truly sucks. Gotcha!

Now that I've kicked over my own soap-box of righteousness, let's get back to the silly-ass world of escapism: check out my Tex, the Witch Boy trilogy! Not only are they the first books I wrote, but they formed the bedrock of what was to follow in terms of characterization, humor, horror, suspense, and thematic substance. You're welcome!

Taylor Swift: Psy-Op Agent for Socialism!

Bigger than Elvis! More powerful than Oprah! Charging dupes a single ticket price able to aid third-world countries! And with more masterful secret mind power than Donald Trump! Yes, it's Taylor Swift, psy-op agent of socialism! 
And she's got a license to shrill!
It's come down to this. Thanks to those shrewd and integrity-filled investigative reporters at Fox news, newscaster Jesse Watters recently said, "Well, around four years ago, the pentagon psychological operations unit floated turning Taylor Swift into an asset during a NATO meeting. What kind of asset? A psy-op for combatting online misinformation."
To which I have to say, "Duh, took you guys long enough to figure this one out!" Watters further went on to elaborate on agent Swift: "She's all right, but I mean, have you ever wondered why or how she blew up like this?" Thank you, Mr. Watters for uncovering the truth! For some time now (and I know I'm not alone in this), I've pondered how this gawky little farm-girl mouseketeer could seemingly transform overnight into the World's Biggest Entertainer. Now we know why. It's because her meteoric success is due to the manipulations of rich, male liberals with an evil agenda to see that Biden gets reelected. The way of our country! (God forbid we should actually credit a woman for her own success.)
Former FBI agent Stuart Kaplan chimed in: "It's possible Taylor Swift, quite frankly, isn't aware that she's being used in a covert manner to swing voters." So...even Ms. Swift's evil machinations aren't her fault. At least these guys are consistent, giving credit where credit is due. (Makes me kinda wonder why Mr. Kaplan is a "former" FBI agent.)
When asked about this new startling conspiracy, pentagon spokesperson Sabrina Singh said, "As for this conspiracy theory, we're going to shake it off." Presumably, she was referring in a cheeky manner to Ms. Swift's deadly lyrics, but the nonchalant manner in which Ms. Singh "shook it off" betrays a callous and evil liberal intent to subvert voters over to the left. 
Now I've known that Ms. Swift has been evil for some time. You can't escape her gawd-awful, ear-worm, bubblegum pop nonsense from the radio to elevators to grocery stores. And now that her evil, powerful, subliminal, and totally terrifying mind powers plot has been unveiled, I'm going to need to stuff cotton in my ears, so I don't suddenly find myself thinking unwanted thoughts that maybe abortion is okay or whatever.
My daughter thinks that the villainous Ms. Swift's insidious plots don't end there. She believes that the nefarious Buffalo Bills have hired Taylor Swift to infiltrate the Kansas City Chiefs via Travis Kelce to wreck his game. And it's worked. Since they started dating, look at Kelce's less than stellar performance.
Yes, the true threat to democracy isn't MAGA or Trump. It's Taylor Swift. Don't let the Swifties For Socialism get to YOU, too!
This has been a paid advertisement from the Beyonce For President campaign.
Speaking of total nonsense, check out my rollicking comic mystery series of , the only series around boasting a lead character even dumber than today's politicians. I fully endorse this message!

The Mathematical Division of Household Blame

My wife and I have different duties at home which are pretty evenly split. However, this isn't the case when it comes to blame. For you see, I generally get about 90% of the blame for when there are food mishaps.

Why, I remember it like it was yesterday... (Cue the fuzzy blurred out swirly image for a flashback.) Wait a minute...it was yesterday!

"Your Chinese food leaked juice all over the refrigerator," hollered my wife from the kitchen.

"But...it was for your benefit," I explained.

Silence. Crickets. Even more crickets.

Finally, "How in the hell was that for my benefit."

I finally got off the loveseat to go plead my case in the same room with her. "When you went to bed, you forgot to put your leftover Chinese food in the refrigerator. So I had to move mine to make way for yours. Apparently, when I moved mine (to make way for yours, I'd like to reiterate), it of necessity became canted, thus dribbling out the juice. For your benefit."

"Oh, no," she said, "you're not putting that on me!"

"But it was for your benefit," I said, standing my ground. "So you should be the one to clean it."

"That's ridiculous. Okay...what if I was making cookies for you and I had a terrible flour accident. Would you clean it up?"

"No," I said. 

"'No?' Why? It's the same thing!"

"Because you would eat the cookies, too. Your baking would benefit us both." I mean, this is clear, clean logic, right? Just follow the logic. Perfect sense.

Then she hit me with, "Okay, fine. What if I was making you coconut cookies and flour exploded everywhere?" Aha, I thought. Now she's using the same, strong logic right back at me, for she has an aversion toward coconut and won't touch it.

"That's different," I said. "Coconut cookies would be to my benefit, therefore rendering me the responsible party to clean up the flour explosion."

"Yeah, right. Like you'd clean it up."

I said, "I would! Go make coconut cookies and throw flour everywhere and watch me clean it!" Gotcha, I thought. I didn't think her hatred for coconut would even allow her to bake such cookies.

"Yeah, I'm not going to do that," she said.

Well, even though I laid out a flawless, logical defense in "Kitchen Court," I still lost the case and ended up cleaning the spilled Chinese sauce. (At least the sauce that I saw without moving items, which resulted in yet another Kitchen Court later.)

I went back to the love-seat, while she was still banging away in the kitchen. Soon enough, she's in the refrigerator and hollering about all the food that's gone to waste.

"Do you hear me?" she shouted. "You've got to quit letting food go to waste!"

"How is this my fault? You eat the food, too."

"Okay, I'd say it's about 85% your fault and 15% mine. We share the burden of responsibility."

"Wait a minute, hold on a second! That's not sharing. That's still blaming me for the majority! Where'd you come up with that over-inflated equation? Trump's accountants?"

I need a specialized slide rule or something to dole out arbitrary percentages of blame to my wife the next time we enter Kitchen Court. Best to be prepared.

Speaking of horror stories, you'll find a lot of 'em in my collection of creepy tales, Twisted Tales From Tornado Alley. Check it out!