The Things I Learned From My Dad

Now if you read the title of this blog, you may get the impression that that I am honoring my father who passed away a couple of years ago. Perhaps you are thinking that this is a way for me to remember my dad because I have been missing him lately. Well, I do miss my dad and I am honoring him in my own way. I’m not sure that’s how he would see it.

My dad, John Romig, had many gifts. He could take apart an engine and put it back together. He was so good, he didn’t even need to use all the parts that were in it in the first place. He was also able to design all kinds of interesting things without a blueprint or even a plan. At the moment, I can’t think of any that worked, but I’m sure some of them did. Then there were the things I learned and still laugh about them to this day.

Blogger’s note: I admit that I occasionally exaggerate occurrences in my life for the sake of humor and a much more interesting story than ever really happens to me. These stories are factual with no exaggeration needed, and I have a brother and two sisters who will back me up on this.

To this day, I don’t like meatloaf thanks to one experience with Dad’s Meatloaf of Death! (death, death, death – imagine an ominous echo) Mom had to go into the hospital for a few days and Dad was to be responsible for the normal house duties including cleaning, laundry and (pause for dramatic effect) cooking. Dad had a memory of something his mom would make when he was a child called German Meatloaf. It was a simple recipe. As far as he could remember, it had a pound of ground beef and a pound of ground sausage. Dad, being a dad, didn’t look at his ingredients too carefully and made it with a pound of hamburger and two pounds of sausage. Okay, not perfect, but not a disaster…yet. Dad liked his food spicy. He was the one who would salt and pepper everything before he even tried a bite. He thought he would kick the meatloaf up a notch. To this day, we are not sure what he put in the meatloaf. Cayenne pepper seemed to be one of the first choices. We were pretty sure that there was a pound of that in there, too. There was also Tobasco sauce, extra salt, Worcestershire sauce, and wherever else he found in the cabinet. When he placed it on the table, the four kids each took a fork full of meatloaf, placed the bite in our mouths, and spit the ghastly stuff back onto out plates in a way that is usually reserved for the movements of synchronized swimmers. Dad was initially hurt by our reaction… until he tried it. Even he could only take a couple bites.

I promise I am not making this next part up. The dog would not eat it! Yeah, the dog, who licked his own butt and ate poop, would not eat the meatloaf. The cat ate a few bites of this dangerous stuff. Apparently, it caused either so much physical or emotional pain in our cat that the feline decided life was not worth it. Our cat ran out in front of a car the next day. We all blamed the meatloaf. It was carefully wrapped in aluminum foil and placed in the refrigerator. Someone (not me) put a little flag on it that said: “Dad’s Meatloaf”. I thought the skull and crossbones was a nice touch. Eventually it disappeared from the frig. Rumor has it that someone decided to set it free in the back yard because we were fairly sure this was a new life form. The next day, my brother’s turtle disappeared. Coincidence?

The lesson I learned: Don’t make meatloaf. It kills pets.

On the Fourth of July, my dad and his friend were setting off fireworks for the family. There were little missiles, Roman candles, bottle rockets and fountains. One of the fountains turned out to be a dud. It was a sad moment for us because it was a really big fountain that promised to shoot sparks high into the air. My dad and his buddy were sitting there in the darkness, trying to figure out what to do. Dad took his cigarette and stuck it down the top of the fountain.

The lesson I learned: Don’t smoke. It is hard to put your pants out when they are smoking. The cigarettes aren’t so good for you, either; even when they aren’t in your mouth.

One last disaster my dear, darling Daddy dared to do. My father loved motorcycles. I enjoy them, but he had a love that bordered on obsession. To be fair, his affection was across that border by a good ten miles. He got me to race motocross on a little bike when I was young. When I was first learning to ride on the dirt track, Dad wanted to show me how to do it. Okay. No problem. He knew how to ride and how to ride on a dirt track. Did I mention that I was young? Pre-teen young? The dirt bike was a Kawasaki 80. The smallest of the racing motorcycles. Dad was 5’ 10”. You see where this is going, right? He started the bike, revved the motor, dropped it into gear, and released the clutch. For a little bike, it could really move! It moved so fast that it shot out from under my dad. That would have been funny all by itself.

When you’re waterskiing and you fall, you let go of the rope. When you rev up a dirt bike and it shoots out from under you, you let go of the handlebars. Dad didn’t get that memo. A full-grown adult running behind a small dirt bike, trying to stop it without breaking anything on the bike or the man, is really funny to a kid.

The lesson I learned: Do not do something stupid on a motorcycle when you son is watching. He can crack his ribs laughing and rolling around on the ground, begging for air.

Those little incidents helped me learn what not to do. Now if you will excuse me, I have to go prepare this dish my mom used to make for us. I can’t wait for my son to try my version of her haggis. I think my addition of the chocolate chipotle sauce will make it a meal to remember.

Black Bean Cooking, or How to Clean a Colon

When I was married I prepared about 95% of the meals. Cooking is something I enjoy. There is something about the looks of satisfaction and the words of praise that appeal to the instant gratification side of my ego. And I got lots of praise. There were times when my ego would get to the point it wanted to take on Top Chef and show those clowns how to really make mac and cheese. We won’t mention the rule we had around the house that was proudly displayed over the stove: Anyone who fails to praise the meal, cooks the next three. Did I mention all the praise I got?

I’m not one of those typical single guys who makes everything in the microwave. I have a stove and know how to use it. Honest! My made from scratch chicken and dumplins has been glorified by all who have tried it. The spaghetti sauce in my kitchen does not come from Prego, Ragu or Hunts. It has real ingredients. My pancakes are made from flour, baking powder, salt, sugar and love. I still get lots of praise for my cooking. (I got the sign over the stove in the divorce.)

This leads me to the experiment. While spinning the lazy-susan in my kitchen, it jammed up. It would not spin forward or backward. For those of you who don’t know, a lazy-susan is a corner cabinet that has a couple of spinning shelves that allow you to use and actually reach the stuff in the back of that corner cabinet. When something gets underneath it, jams occur and you have to reach up and under and around – any way you can – to get it un-jammed. While performing some of the basic movements of advanced contortionism, I was able to discover the jamming culprit. It was a bag of dried back beans I had bought a few months back and totally forgotten about. The main reason I forgot about them had something to do with them being under the spinning shelf. Instead of putting them back in the lazy-susan to fall back down and jam things up, I placed them on the counter.

For a couple days, they just sat there. They were looking at me with a smug look that said, “I made it this long. You don’t have the balls to make anything with me. It’s not chili season. Muahahahahahaha!” Beans with that kind of attitude are not tolerated around my house. The moment they started acting like that, I got out the colander and rinsed those bad boys off. “Now who’s laughing?!” I declared to a bunch of beans. Yeah, I cook like that. Placing the rinsed beans in the big stock pot, I began to add water… and stopped. I seemed to remember a movie about campfire beans that had whiskey in them. As I looked in the liquor cabinet, a smile crept across my face. Even though I couldn’t remember the movie, I did remember it was bourbon. I had some! It was promptly added to the soaking mix.

Did you know that letting beans soak in water and whiskey makes going into the kitchen a buzz-worthy experience? I found myself checking on the beans frequently. My son caught me with my head all the way in the pot, sniffing the delicate bouquet of black beans and bourbon. I explained that I was checking the beans for sobriety. He just shook his head as he walked away, saying something about beans singing How Dry I Am. I listened carefully and he was right. That boy has better hearing than I do.

After twenty-four hours of vigilant soaking (I checked them every fifteen minutes), the beans were ready to cook. Draining the black bean-infused soaking solution down the drain (my tears also followed the whiskey), I began to fill the pan with more water… and paused again. When I make my praise-worthy chili (remember the sign), I use a beer or two. Porter beer is the best for chili, but almost any beer will do. I got a couple cans of light beer and added them to the beans. Also I tossed in garlic, an onion, and just about every spice I have in the spice rack. It was going to be great!

After three hours of my kitchen smelling like a brewery, the beans were tender and ready to taste. They were AMAZING! Flavorful and balanced. Delicious and nutritious. Healthy and full o

f fiber. I had two large bowls. Since I was not expecting anyone to stop by, there was no concern about the amount of methane that would be produced. There is a scene in Blazing Saddles where a bunch of cowboys are sitting around a fire, eating beans and farting. I could have been an extra on that set. But I didn’t care. The beans were so good, I had some for a snack later.

The next morning was a different story. Do you remember me mentioning that they were healthy and full of fiber? About that fiber… it works. While contemplating the pros and cons of a black bean omelet, I felt a certain fullness in my lower abdominal area. OMG! My system emptied everything that was in my large and small intestines. I feel fairly certain that I passed things my mom ate while pregnant with me forty-some years ago. Sadly, I know how my dad felt that time he ate several helping of kidney bean salad. I laughed at him for days after. It’s not near as funny when you’re on the other end and it’s your other end doing the work.

An Arino Interview – Sort Of

This morning I was sitting at my computer, uploading files to the all the right servers so they would be ready for the book launch on the 20th. There was a ring at the door that surprised me. Most of my friends don’t stop by without at least texting. Knowing my recent luck with drop-ins, I had a bad feeling as I headed to the door. I just knew it was going to be Tone and Zeke visiting at the same time to check on my work. I flung open the door…

Doug:   Guys, I’m in the middle of…

My voice suddenly decided it wanted to go somewhere else as my eyes focused on the beauty at my door. She had long, flowing, midnight-black hair, a wide smile that made me feel warm from head to toe, and eyes with traces of amber dancing around them.

Arino:   Hello, Doug. I’m Arino. May I come in?

Doug:   Uhhh…

Arino:   Can I take that as a yes?

Doug:   Uhhh…

Arino:   Let’s go sit down. You look flushed.

Doug:   Ummmm…

Arino:   For a writer, you don’t seem to know many words.

Doug:   Uh huh.

Arino:   Please sit down before you fall over. Let’s pretend I showed up at your door and you said something quite charming and witty about having a healing angel visiting, invited me in, and we sat down for coffee. Sound good?

Doug:   Okay.

Arino:   A semi-real word? Good job. Can you make a sentence for me now?

Doug:   Maybe.

Arino:   One word sentence? That’s progress. How about I talk for a while and let you remember where you left your vocabulary?

Doug:   Sure.

Arino:   Getting better. Nicely done. I really just stopped by to see how the work is going on New Fallen. I know you are under the gun to get it finished.

Doug:   Almost done.

Arino:   Two words! Yea! This was also my chance to say thank you for increasing my role in New Fallen. I had so much fun in Angelcide. This book has me in almost every chapter. That was so sweet of you. Stop blushing so brightly. That shade of red is not your color.

Doug:   You’re welcome. I liked… ummm… something.

Arino:   Awww. You almost had two sentences there. I am curious about the next book. Zeke told me you are calling it Demonize, right?

Doug:   Yes. You’re in that one a lot, too.

Arino:   Great. I love working with Zeke and Tone. So what is Demonize going to be about? I’m guessing there are demons.

Doug:   Yes. Demons trying to take over the Spiritscape.

Arino:   That seems unlikely. How are you planning on that?

Doug:   Well, there is a character that I introduce in New Fallen who will be a major player in Demonize.

Arino:   Your words are all back. That sounds like fun. Now you have me wondering who is in New Fallen that we will see in Demonize.

Doug:   It’s a secret. But the prologue of Demonize is at the end of New Fallen. It will give a hint.

Arino:   That’s a good idea. Sounds like something Zeke may have suggested.

Doug:   Both Zeke and Tone were insistent that I start work on Demonize. It wasn’t pretty what they threatened.

Arino:   I’ll keep them off your back as much as I can. Just don’t take too long.

Doug:   I’ll work on it. I promise.

Then I was in my kitchen all alone, as if I had been by myself the whole time. The kid from next door was staring in the window. He had a strange look on his face. It was like he was watching a mad man talking to himself. Kids these day. What are you going to do?

An Interview with an Angel

Having just recovered from my impromptu meeting with Tone, I had just set down to work on my new book, Reunion, when I looked up and my heart almost stopped. There was this thing in my kitchen. It was golden and shiny, bright and sparkling, beautiful and breathtaking. It had a cup of coffee and sat down beside me. My first thought was, “Great. First Tone, now Zeke. How am I supposed to get any work done with figments of my imagination interrupting all the time?” Then I realized that they are not interruptions as much as storylines. Since my hold on reality is somewhat tenuous on any given day, I decided to go with this.

Doug: Hey, Zeke. Do you mind toning it down a bit? My sunglasses are out in the car.

Zeke:  How did you know it was me?

(He took on his human look. I really wish I had those eyes. The babes would love that.)

Zeke:  Thanks. I like to think they are my best feature.

Doug: Huh?

Zeke:  My eyes. You were just wishing your eyes looked like mine.

Doug: Uh, yeah. I didn’t say anything.

Zeke:  Uh, angel. You don’t have to. I know what you’re thinking. Plus, I am in your head anyway.

Doug: Oh yeah. I forgot. So what brings you here today?

Zeke:  Just checking on you. I know you are under a lot of stress right now and was making sure you are staying on track.

Doug: Uh huh. Right. You just want to make sure New Fallen is ready.

Zeke:  Well, I was mildly concerned about your well-being, too. If something happens to you, it could put a damper on my lifestyle.

Doug: What lifestyle? You’re an angel. You don’t even have a life!

Zeke:  Fair point. Okay, my spirit-style. I like what you are planning for Arino and me in New Fallen. It is way outside the box for the angelolgy you created.

Doug: Angelogy? The study of angels? I like to think of it as Angel-mythology. A whole new way of thinking about angels from my twisted little mind.

Zeke:  Call it what you like, it works for me. Now, let’s talk about this whole bad-boy-angel thing you have in mind for me. How much of a bad boy do I get to be?

Doug: Well, the book is done except for my final read-thru. You push the limits in New Fallen and will go even farther in Demonize.

Zeke:  Demonize? Is that the next one? Not sure I like that title.

Doug: Like it or not, that’s what I’m calling it. Don’t worry. You are not the demonizer.

Zeke:  Is that even a word?

Doug: It is now. I’m a writer. I make up words all the time. Anyway, I’ve got you playing close to the edge. You like?

Zeke:  I like. Now, what about a love scene between Arino and me?

Doug: I already have your spirits merging. What more do you want?

Zeke:  Well, there was that hot tub thing that Tone mentioned…

Doug: That was a joke.

Zeke:  Was it?

Doug: Yes. It was Tone making a joke.

(Zeke’s eyes glowed golden at this point.)

Zeke:  Was it?

Doug: I’ll see what I can do in Demonize. Is that good enough?

(His eyes returned to hazel.)

Zeke:  For now. So when are you starting on Demonize?

Doug: Not you, too! Tone has already been here harassing me about it. I’ll write a prologue today. Okay?

Zeke:  For now. I’ll be watching. Don’t take too long getting to it. I am, after all, the bad-boy of the angels.

Doug: Noted. Can I get back to work now?

Zeke:  Well, there is one more thing.

Doug: What now?

Zeke:  You really need to take better care of yourself. We had a meeting.

Doug: Who had a meeting?

Zeke:  Well, let’s see. Arino, Tone and I were there from The Spiritscape Chronicles. Then, Abby, Jonas, and Seneca were there from your Chilton/Lange series. I even met Keira from the Storytellers’ Guild.

Doug: Wait a second. I haven’t even told people about Seneca or Keira. What were they doing there? And, why wasn’t I invited? I made all of you.

Zeke:  Don’t get all high and mighty with me, Mr. I-Created-All-Of-You. We just want you to get some more exercise and take care of yourself. You do that and we will keep talking to you. If you don’t…

Doug: Then you will go on strike and not talk to me and I’ll get writer’s block. Blah, blah, blah.

Zeke:  Blah, blah, blah is all you’ll be writing if we won’t talk to you.

Doug: Okay. Okay. I’ll get more exercise. Anything else?

Zeke:  Now, about your diet?

I made a loud groan which caused my son to check on me. I told him it was something I wrote. He just shook his head, walking away. I didn’t want to scare him with the truth that an angel had just stopped by for coffee.

An Interview With Tone

I was sitting in my kitchen, editing New Fallen, when I looked up and saw Tone sitting there making faces at me. For most of you, a person from a book appearing next to you would be a little disconcerting, to say the least. For me, it’s just another day at the office. I decided to interview him since he was distracting me from getting any real work done. What was I thinking?

Doug: Hey, Tone. How are you doing today?

Tone:  Well, I’m gassy if you really need to know.

Doug: I already knew that. (gag, gasp, turning green)

Tone:  I’d say sorry, but you know better. That is a very cool shade of green you’re turning. Is that chartreuse or more of a seafoam?

Doug: No more chili dogs for you! (cough, cough)

Tone:  Like you could stop me. So am I going to be heroic in the new book? Do I get the girl? I’m going to save the day again, right? Do I get to fart a lot?

Doug: Well, there is a farting scene.

Tone:  Cha-ching! I really don’t care about all that other stuff. Farting! Farting! Farting!

Doug: Uh, yeah. So, what is the best part of being in the Spiritscape? Is it the beauty? The grandeur? The excitement?

Tone:  I get to fly butt first.

Doug: Butt first? Not the amber-hued mountains? Not the battles with demons?

Tone:  Nope. I guess that stuff is okay. But there is nothing like the Spiritscape on your butt to make you feel alive. It’s better than a really good poop!

Doug: Poop? Really, Tone?

Tone:  Hey, you made me up. Don’t blame me. Think about it. I get to say anything that crosses your messed-up mind! All those stories I get to tell about my childhood are really things that happened to…

Doug: On another topic, what is it like working with Zeke.

Tone:  Hold on. Let me get out my cue cards. Ehem. Working with Zeke is a great pleasure. He is always …psst. What’s that word?

Doug: Professional

Tone:  Yeah. He is always professional and loves a good joke… Do I really have to say this next part?

Doug: This is your interview. Say whatever you want.

Tone:  Really? Cool!

Doug: Oh crap.

Tone:  Here’s the deal. He is too cool for words and he has loosened up a lot in New Fallen. I think there is something going on between Zekey and Arino. Let me just say, I caught them making googley eyes at each other several times. It was cute in a make-me-wanna-puke kind of way.

Doug: Zeke and Arino? Really?

Tone:  Dude, you wrote it. Why are you acting surprised?

Doug: Just trying to be a good interviewer.

Tone:  Yeah. About that, stick to writing fiction. So, what do you have in mind for me in the next book? Superpowers? Turn me into an angel? Give me my own pudding-filled hot tub?

Doug: Well, the next book is going to be called Demonize. You are going to meet up with some old enemies.

Tone:  Demonize? Is that the best you can do? Okay. I guess it works. So when are you going to start on it?

Doug: Who is interviewing who here?

Tone:  I’m interviewing you, now. Answer the question before I’m forced to fill your head with images of me dressed up like a belly dancer wearing nothing but bologna in strategic spots.

Doug: NO! Not that! Please, I need the brain cells that would destroy. I’ll start on Demonize as soon as I finish Reunion and Interpol.

Tone:  Okaaaay, that doesn’t work for me. You need to start on it tomorrow. Here is an image of me belly dancing.

Doug: AAAAAARRRRGGGG!

Tone:  So when are you starting it?

Doug: Today! Today! Just no more!!

Tone:  Thank you. Now, about my love life…

That was when I passed out.

No Refunds or Exchanges

A few days ago I posted a blog about stupid warnings. After reading that, a friend of mine stopped by to show me an interesting list. She had been shopping and received a long list entitled: We Do Not Offer Refunds or Exchanges For. You may be thinking, "What an insensitive business! We all have the right to return our purchases, regardless of the reason. Walmart taught me that!" Before you get upset and start picketing this fine establishment, please read on. Did I mention she was shopping at the animal shelter? Yes, they needed to make a list of reasons that is inappropriate to bring your pet back. Sad, isn't it?


I have listed a few of my favorite reasons you are not allowed to bring your pet back to the animal shelter. These are real reasons on a real piece of paper from the Young-Williams Animal Center in Knoxville, Tennessee. I am not making these up, but I really did LOL while reading some of them. 

• Dogs that bark.  Yes, they really had to make this a policy. Makes you wonder how many people brought back the dog saying, "Yep, this here mutt barks. Didn't know a dog would do that."
• Cats that scratch. I am not a cat person due to allergies, but even I know that cats will scratch. They don't like to be baptized either. I still have the scars from when I was 5 and tried that. The dog didn't mind as much.
• Children taunt or tease the animal.  How is this the animal's fault? What you need to do is take the shock collar off the dog and put it on the brat who is pestering the pooch. Then make them run back and forth over the shock line in the lawn. Once they wake up, the shock treatment should have cured them of their antisocial ways.
• You receive/buy/adopt/breed another animal and you return this one. Even my twisted
  
  mind is going, "WHAT THE (fill in the blank with your favorite word here)". Do people really get a cat and decided they want to trade up, so they take the old one back? I write about serial killers and even I wouldn't think of doing that with my worst villain. 
• Divorce.  Yes, there is sometimes a custody battle over the pets. When my parents got divorced, there was more debate over who got the dog than the kids. In my divorce, I got the dog and the kids half the time. Sounds like there are times when no one wants the cat. I can hear it now, "Your honor, I will take Captain Fuffywillycomes if that cheating (again, please fill in the blank) will pay me $1,200 a month pet support for the Yorkie. Kind of makes you wonder who gets the pet python.
• Animal ran away and you can't find it. Wouldn't it be really embarrassing if you went back to the animal shelter to get your refund, and the dog was already at the door, trying to claw its way back in? I don't know about you, but it would be really damaging to my self esteem.

There are other reasons the animal shelter won't take animals back like too big, too small, too old, too young, and too Pekingese. Okay, I made that last one up, but they should really consider adding that. I once heard about a boy who wanted to teach the family Pekingese how to catch a Frisbee. Apparently, you can knock out a dog and squash the nose of a Pekingese even farther with that little flying disc. The trick is waking the dog up before your parents get home. Not that I have ever done that no matter what my sister says.

Arguing With My Characters

If you have read my book, Shrink, then you have met Abby Chilton. She is the emotionally damaged FBI profiler who has an attitude about… well… everything. Sitting here, working on Reunion, Abby is talking to me. Unfortunately, she doesn’t like what I’m writing about her. She can be such a pain in the buttocks. Abby and I have gone back forth about Jonas, her love interest in the first book. She is mad that Jonas is off doing his Interpol stuff, leaving her all alone. I tried to explain to her that he is in his own book that I’m writing. Our conversation went something like this:

Doug: Abby, it’s ok. Jonas has a job to do and he’s in Europe.

Abby: Why does he have to go there? Can’t he be working in America for a while?

Doug: It’s not in his character to stay in one place for long. He’s in demand all over the world. I’m even giving him his own book.

Abby: Are there women in his book?

Doug: Of course there are. He’s in Europe tracking blue diamond smugglers. Who do you think likes the blue diamonds? Guys don’t care about diamonds, unless they are giving them to women.

Abby: I see.

Doug: Why does that make me nervous?

Abby: Because you know that I will run away if you put too many women out there to temp him.

Doug: You can’t run away. You’re in my head.

Abby: Ever heard of writer’s block?

Doug: You wouldn’t dare. Would you?

Abby: …

Doug: Abby?

Abby: …

Doug: Abby? I’ll make him be as good as he can.

Abby: That could be taken many ways. Do not play games with a profiler. I can see right through your little word play, buster. Don’t make me hurt you. I’m in your head. I know where the blood vessels are.

Doug: You are scary.

Abby: No, that would be you. I’m just a figment of your imagination. But I’m watching how you write about Jonas. He’d better behave for the most part.

Doug: How about I bring him back in Reunion for a chapter or two?

Abby: You would do that for me? How sweet of you.

Doug: Anything to keep my brains intact and my characters happy.

I may need some therapy.

Smart Answers to Dumb Questions

While watching TV, I heard an announcer ask a victim of a tornado what it was like. Really? What was it like?! “Well, there was wind going around and around and then suddenly my ding-dang house was gone. I think the roof was headed to Canada. I even saw a woman riding a bike turn into a witch on a broom. I’m pretty sure that was my mother-in-law.” The truthful answer would be, “I was so scared I wet my pants.” Just once I want to see someone answer a reporter like that and point to their damp crotch.

In the interests of doing my best to make fun of myself and others, I have made a list of dumb questions that I have been asked, heard asked of others, or made up from my fertile imagination. Some of them may be questions I have asked, but I won’t tell you which ones.

 

Q: Do you suffer from depression?

A: Well I don’t enjoy it, but it’s better than being an idiot who asks about it.

Q: How much wood could a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?

A: Just as many moose as a mini mouse could move if a mini mouse could move moose.

Q: Do these pants make me look fat?

A: Yes, the pants are an evil entity that has expanded to make your butt look bigger than it really is. Bad pants. Bad pants. Come here and I’ll spank them. (This one kind of got away from me. Sorry about that.)

Q: What are you thinking?

A: I was just pondering a way to make a stable cold fusion reactor out of paperclips and duct tape while contemplating the best way to create a wormhole to link us with countless other moss-based life forms in civilizations throughout the cosmos. I was also thinking about pudding.

Q: You don’t get out much, do you?

A: My mind is free to wander as far as it wants. My body can’t go anywhere until it get back. Please tell it to come home. The butt promises to fart less so it won’t be as tormented by noxious fumes.

Q: Are you ready for summer/winter/spring/fall?

A: No, and I would appreciate it if you would hold it off until I have had time prepare.

Q: Do you believe in love at first sight?

A: No, I’m love blind.

Q: How old do you think I am?

A: Woman: Twenty-four. (It is a safe guess. Anyone under 24 will be flattered that you think that look that mature. Anyone older will be flattered you think they look that young. My grandma said I was “a creative person whose canvas involved using fecal matter of a male bovine” when I said that to her.)

A: Male: Does it matter? She is still too young for you since you’re not George Cloony.

Q: Don’t you have anything better to do than write a blog about stupid questions?

A: Yes, but this is called creative writing that allows me to delude myself into thinking I am doing something worthwhile, when in reality I’m just procrastinating editing my new book.

I hope these help you as you face the mindless many who madden you. Just remember: Only you can be sarcastic when someone asks you a question.

Don’t Try This At Home

I was watching an old episode of Mythbusters the other day. They always begin the show by saying, “Don’t do what you are about to see at home.” Then they add, “Ever!” Personally, I’m a little insulted by that. I know that I am not supposed to blow up a huge concrete truck with more explosives than most third world countries have in their entire arsenal. I would never try that even if I could get my hands on that kind of ammonium nitrate without the friendly neighborhood agents of Homeland Security showing up at my door with a one-way ticket to Cuba. Everyone knows that C-4 works better.

The reason that disclaimer is on there is to protect the lovable goofs on Mythbusters from being sued by

Bubba’s next of kin, who thought that he too could make a model of the Hindenburg that would ignite without blowing him up, too. “Your honor, Bubba should have been warned that filling a tiny blimp with highly a combustible combination of hydrogen and moonshine could result in blowing his double-wide from Deerkill, Tennessee to a suburb right outside of Denver.” The show would be canceled immediately and the guys labeled as bad influences on the stupid amongst us.

I feel it is time that we get some laws out there to protect us from stupidity. I am hereby issuing a challenge to Congress to pass a law against suing because someone was stupid. I am calling it the “Survival of the Fittest Legislation”. Consider, if you will, a woman watching a show on Brazilian waxing. (My personal opinion is

that should be called an Australian Wax since it is getting rid of hair down under.) Since she is too cheap to pay someone to get rid of the hair down there, she goes to the Dollar Tree and buy fourteen candles and two rolls of duct tape. And hour later, she has third degree burns and an issue with wax in places that should never have wax. Dollar Tree and the TV show about waxing would be out millions in pain and suffering damages. Unless there is a law to protect them. With the “Survival of the Fittest Legislation” those fine institutions would be protected, plus the woman would not be interested in reproduction any time soon.

Another time this law would be applicable would be for any car commercial that depicts their vehicle doing something on “a closed course with a professional driver.” Of course it’s a closed course. A normal car can’t change lanes like that without being slammed around like a pinball by a SUV, two VW Beetles, a Yugo and a Pinto that bursts into flame. Anyone who wants to try to stand there, as car fly past at speeds nearing Mach 2, deserves what happens.

Now, of course this law would not apply to situations where there was a logical reason for the person to perform a feat that was displayed on America’s Got Talent. I don’t care what they say, I was really sure I could have my buddy, Jim Bob, break that concrete block on my belly with the twelve pound sledge. I’m going after millions since they encouraged me to try that.

On an unrelated topic, does anyone know someone who is a chest cavity donor? Mine has a hole it in.

To Tweet or Not To Tweet

As an indie author, I understand that there are certain things that I must do. Networking with other writers who have humor to complement and compliment mine is always fun. Yes, there are other people like me. I will dance the happy dance while you curl up in the fetal position, sucking your thumb and begging for an end to the visions of people like me invading your home, eating all your pistachio ice cream, wearing your socks on their noses, and doing the hip-hop version of “Singing in the Rain” to kazoo accompaniment. Well, I may be the only one who wears the nose socks. Networking is fun.

Another thing I have to do it keep up with my Facebook stuff. I know what you’re thinking: why is he still using Facebook. It is a great way to … ummm… it’s for… aahhh… I just do, okay? Chatting with my friends is a very important part of my day. Just ask my son who is sitting across the room. We chatted on Facebook for two hours. He even went to the kitchen and got me a drink. I’m trying to remember if we have actually heard each other’s voices today.

The thing that is making me lose sleep is Twitter. I have expanded my influence and following to include people from places like India, the UK, Russia, Senegal and some places I’m pretty sure I read about in The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. I think I tweeted with a Vogon yesterday. I’m pretty sure she was a Vogon because she liked my poetry which is some of the worse in the galaxy.

The problem is I try to say thank you to everyone that follows me. I was raised in Texas and we have manners down there. Even though I now live in Tennessee, those manners that mom drilled into my psyche are still part of me. Dad just threated to use a drill on me if I was rude, which I found loaded with irony. When I only had a few new followers a day, it was easy. I just said “thanks for the follow” and then made some kind of comment about their page. Now it is getting harder and harder to be a good Twitter citizen. I started losing sleep, wondering who I had forgotten to thank and would they be offended when they saw I thanked someone else and ignored them. Then I came up with a spreadsheet where I could keep track of everyone I thanked and then I could go back and catch the others I had forgotten. It was intricate.

All of that was on my mind, taking up my time, making me more neurotic than usual. I worked until noon yesterday, then I remember that I had forgotten something. I hadn’t written anything of substance (yes, I do count this as substance) that morning. It was at that point that I understood what I had heard on a podcast about limiting yourself on social media or it will take over your life. So what if my friends have more followers than me. It is not a competition. Really, it isn’t. Nope. Not at all. It doesn’t matter if they hit 2000 followers before I do. It has nothing to do with them being better than me.

My hands are shaking. My foot is tapping. I’m sweating. Arrggg! I’m losing the race. Gotta get back on Twitter!!!

The Greatest Scientific Breakthrough

Some people will try to list the greatest discoveries in the history of humanity. As I was channel surfing the other day, I saw a show on the History Channel about the wheel. It was tracing the origins of the wheel back through time as the narrator proclaimed it to be the greatest invention in the history of the world. Since I had to choose between Elmer Fudd tracking that wascally wabbit and the wheel, I never found out whether it really was that important.

One man was on the television the other night declaring that the computer was the greatest technological breakthrough of all ages. As he demonstrated all the things that can be done with the computer, it was beginning to make sense to me. I felt that this man must really have a point when he declared he had a dream to see computers in every home, not only in America, but also in the entire world. Of course, some of the people would need electricity first. All of this sounded like the work of a caring visionary, until I actually looked up from the Internet game I was playing and saw that I was listening to Bill Gates. So much for the credibility of that theory.

As impressive as those may be they cannot hold a candle to the greatest discovery of all time: Beano. This amazing medicine makes a preemptive strike against the natural gas found in the people who are always given the middle seat on flights of two hours or more. I cannot tell you how often that little pill has saved me from embarrassing moments. Before I discovered Beano I often found that I was sitting alone in church in my own pew. But now I have a pill that keeps flatulence at bay.

Looking back at my childhood, I wish I had known then what I know now. More accurately, I wish my father knew then what I know now. He had several foods that he loved; however, there was one food that he loved more than all others combined: Kidney Bean Salad. We called it Skunk Surprise. I lived in fear for two days after that. There was one thing my Dad would say that would make maggots for miles around squirm away to the perfume of a poop pile. He would point at me and say, “Come here and pull my finger.” After years of therapy I can once again bear the sight of an index finger without going into hysterics and falling on the floor in a fetal position, sucking my thumb and begging for the green clouds to go away. But I digress.

Thanks to a team of psychiatrists, a skilled nasal doctor and several surgeries, I recovered from my childhood trauma. Nevertheless, there are still children out there - mostly in Alabama - who still suffer from a father who can make himself levitate in ways that David Blaine never dreamed. With the proper precautions, they can avoid the hardships that so many of us endured during that less technologically advance age. First thing you kids need to do is to go to any store with a pharmacy. I’d recommend looking for a store with the word PHARMACY written on the side of the building. That is usually a good clue. Once you have entered the store, go to the section where they keep the Pepto Bismol. Get some of that to take care of your churning stomach from dad’s antics after the double-bean burritos he ate last night.

Now look a little further and you will see Gas-X. This is NOT what dad needs. That, kiddies, is for someone who is having gas pains and needs to find some way to get rid of the methane within. Just remember: you are the one in pain. Dad feels really good! Near the Gas-X you will see two little bottles with the name Beano on it. This is your Ark of the Covenant and Holy Grail all rolled into one, Indy. There is the smaller size that has only 30 tablets. This is fine for someone like you who may have an occasional toot. For dad you need the 60-count size. I have sent a letter to the Beano people requesting a slightly larger size for exceptionally gassy people. I received a rather terse and narrow-minded reply. They said that 50,000 pills is not a feasible size for shelving purposes.

Now take your purchases to the counter. You may notice that the Beano is roughly the same price as a year at Harvard Law School. Don’t worry about that. If you do not take care of the toxic fumes at home you will not live long enough to be rejected by Harvard. After taking out a student loan to pay for the Beano, take it home and hide it someplace safe. I’d recommend putting it where you put the cigarette loads you occasionally sneak into dad’s cigarettes and blame it on his best friend. By the way, never put three in one cigarette. I tried that experiment one time and discovered that those loads also work well as facial reconstruction implements. Perhaps facial demolitions would be a better description. Don’t worry, it only blew up while my parents were entertaining their new friends. Now that I think about it, I never saw those people again.

The next time your mother decides to punish you by fixing your dad her infamous New Orleans Red Beans and Rice casserole with boiled cabbage on the side, you will be ready. Take some of the Beano and palm it in your hand. The directions recommend three pills; however, I’d recommend using the whole stinking bottle for that explosive meal! If you have siblings you can trust - or who are suffering from the same maltreatment as you - have one of them cause a distraction. Some so-called experts in the field of distraction will tell you a spilled glass of milk is sufficient to distract everyone at the table. That has a slight chance of working, but dad may not even think it is worth crying about and will not even stop the scoop shovel going to his mouth with all of those beans and cabbage. I recommend a fire at the very least, but a small tactical nuclear warhead in the living room in even better. Little things like fires and massive radiation will get his attention and make him get up from the dinner table. While he is gone, put all the Beano you can into his beer. (Of course he is drinking a beer with this meal!)

The Beano uses space age technology to stop the flatulent one before he can become armed and dangerous. I think it uses enzymes, parasites or some kind of nano-technology to stop the gas. Just think of the pain and suffering we can stop with this life-saving piece of technology. No more children must suffer needlessly at the hands of a sadistic father who…Wait a second! That chili I had for supper is getting to me. Hey son! Come here and pull my finger.