Friday, February 16, 2018

Missing: Hipster Refrigerator Fix-It Guy

Oh, Daniel, I hardly knew ye...
Have you seen me?
Last Tuesday, Daniel the hipster fix-it guy, ambled into my home and heart. Backpack slung over his shoulder, he carried with him a sense of confidence rarely found in the appliance trade. I admired his carefully nurtured facial fuzz. I envied his clunky, yet trendy dark-framed glasses (the kind that people used to make fun of you for wearing), while he rambled on about frig gizmos and sensor what's-its and electrical doo-dads. All very technical, all very boring.

But Daniel was far from boring! Bromance was in the air! (Or maybe that was the musty smell coming from the refrigerator.)

After Daniel'd finished his examination, he casually leaned over our kitchen counter and explained how messed up our refrigerator was.

"But...but, Daniel," I said, "the refrigerator shouldn't be freezing food, right? I mean, correct me if I'm wrong, but freezing food is the freezer's job."

With a sigh, Daniel explained more technical bla, bla, bla and other excruciating nonsense. I nodded as if I understood him, because I didn't want to appear dumb in Danny's eyes. (By this time, I'd advanced to calling him "Danny," such is the power of male bonding over appliances). 

Bottom line was our refrigerator had been hit by a faulty sensor. Or something close to that.

"Huh," I said. "Does that explain why the light goes off when we open the doors, then turns on again when we shut them? Like in Bizarro World?"

Through narrowed eyes, he glowered at me. Extremely unamused. Somewhere our burgeoning bromance had taken a wrong turn. Finally, he pitched up bony hipster shoulders and broke the agonizing silence. "Can't really tell you what's causing the light thing, man."

His answer didn't exactly instill confidence. But his coolness certainly did.

"I guess we need to put that sensor in," I said.

Danny typed in some numbers on his phone, handed it to me, and said, "$180 bucks. I don't have the part on me so I'll need to order it. But you gotta pay first, dude."

"Okay." I paid. "Um, can I get a receipt?"

"Sorry, dude, everything's electronic now. See you next Tuesday."

"Ah... But--"

Too late. Danny rushed out of the house and out of my life.

For good as it later turned out.

Tuesday rolled around again. No sign of Danny. I called the fix-it, what's-it company.

"Where's Danny?" I asked.

"I wish I knew," said the woman. Hardly an encouraging sign.


"Daniel's gone missing. We haven't seen or heard from him in several days."

Stunned, I opened the refrigerator and stared wistfully at all of the frozen food. " he missing or, you know, missing-missing? Like vanished?"

"Missing-missing. Sorry for the inconvenience."

Immediately the smell of skullduggery stunk up the place. A mystery of epic, Encyclopedia Brown proportions! Clearly, Danny was either dead or had absconded to Mexico with our 180 bucks.

If you'd like to read about an entire bread and breakfast's worth of skullduggery, check into the Dandy Drop Inn! An acclaimed horror thriller to warm up your cold, winter nights: Click here for Dread and Breakfast!


Guess who comes knocking at the door the next day? Yep, Daniel (He's back to being regular "Daniel" now as he never calls, never texts, never shows up...). He mutters some lame excuses about how his phone stopped working, then he got sick. Hmph. He called it a "communication malfunction (kinda like a "wardrobe malfunction," I assume, only with words instead of bared flesh)." I didn't buy it. Too little, too late. I officially declared the bromance OVER!

(I realize this was hardly an exciting endto my tale of suspense and bromance, but sometimes truth is, um, more boring than fiction. Don't judge Dread and Breakfast by the pedestrian conclusion here!)

Friday, February 9, 2018

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.


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!

Friday, February 2, 2018

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:

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."

Friday, January 26, 2018

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!"

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.


Damn kids, what do they know?

Friday, January 19, 2018

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."

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! 

Friday, January 12, 2018

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.

Friday, January 5, 2018

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.


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