“Singer Isaac Hayes died in 2008 while exercising on a treadmill. I heard the news of his death on CNN while I was at the gym exercising on a treadmill.”

The universe is trying to kill us. Pollution, careless drivers, axe-wielding maniacs? Those are nothing compared to what’s in our gardens.
Botanists recently discovered that potatoes and tomatoes are among a growing category of carnivorous plants. Carnivorous plants? Pitcher plants and Venus flytraps eat the bad guys in old jungle movies, but now carnivorous plants are in kitchens across the world and they’re looking at our kids.
“Widely recognized carnivorous plants number some 650 and we estimate that another 325 or so are probable additions—so an increase of about 50 percent,” Dr. Mike Fay told the British newspaper “The Independent.”
Plants in our dangerous gardens catch insects in their hairy stems and absorb their nutrients.
Oh, great, if potatoes, tomatoes, and 973 other plants can do us in, what else do we have to worry about?
Things that kill you:
A: American alligators killed 12 people from 2001-2007. I’ve eaten alligator; I don’t regret it.
B: Batman, but only if you really, really deserve it.
C: Coconuts. Falling coconuts kill 150 people each year. Seriously. I did not make that up.
D: Driving. Anywhere from 39,250 to 47,087 people were killed on American highways each year between 1982 and 2004.
E: Exercise. Singer Isaac Hayes died in 2008 while exercising on a treadmill. I heard the news of his death on CNN while I was at the gym exercising on a treadmill.
F: Frankenstein’s monster. So, if vacationing in German forests, remember, reanimated corpses are grumpy.
G: Grizzly Bears. In 2003, a male grizzly bear mauled and killed a self-styled grizzly expert in Alaska. In 2005, a female grizzly bear attacked, killed, and ate two campers in Alaska. The lesson? Don’t go to places where a grizzly bear may eat you—like Alaska.
H: Hippos kill more people in Africa than do lions, crocodiles, and water buffalo combined. Better stay out of Africa, too.
I: Icebergs. The Titanic not only killed 1,517 people, the movie took three hours of my life.
J: Jason Voorhees killed more than 100 people since Friday the 13th Part II came out in 1981 and still teenagers keep wandering off alone in the dark to have sex.
K: Klingons. “yIlop. wa’leS chaq maHegh.” (“Celebrate. Tomorrow we may die.”)
L: Lightning kills an average of 58 people each year.
M: Martians. In Mars Attacks, martian invaders killed Michael J. Fox. In War of the Worlds, they tried to take over the earth. In Red Planet, space bugs tried to eat us. And that damned Face on Mars just keeps staring at me. I don’t trust it.
N: Ninjas. Don’t piss off—or loan money to—a ninja.
O: Oceans. An average of 36 people drown each year—just off the shores of Hawaii, not that any of them had been drinking. Worldwide, 15 people are eaten by sharks.
P: Pigs. Not only will pork raise your cholesterol, pigs are known to kill and eat children and very slow farmers.
Q: Quicksand.
R: Rambo. Rambo killed 438 people throughout four movies.
S: Stupidity. If it weren’t for stupid people, there’d be no reason to watch the evening news.
T: The Terminator. “It can’t be bargained with. It doesn’t feel pity, or remorse, or fear. And it absolutely will not stop, ever, until you are dead.”
U: Unicycles. Just look at them.
V: Vampires. Of course, you won’t stay dead for long.
W: Wookies: “Droids don’t pull people’s arms out of their sockets when they lose. Wookiees are known to do that.” Wookies are not cuddly.
X: XXX. Vin Diesel killed seven people in that movie. Depression from spending hard-earned money to watch XXX killed an estimated 4.2 million viewers.
Y: Yellow fever.
Z: Zod: But only if you: 1) get in his way, 2) live on the planet Krypton.
With all this hanging over our heads, now we have to worry about vegetables. Just don’t go to sleep in a garden, near quicksand, in bear country or on Krypton, and you might survive the night.
* * *
You can order Jason’s books on the paranormal, “Darkness Walks: The Shadow People Among Us,” and “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to Missouri’s Most Spirited Spots,” at amazon.com.

Our minivan pulled out of the gravel driveway, headlights cutting through early-morning darkness.

My wife and our two little people were going to the grandparents’ house in Texas for four days. The kids, strapped into car seats like fighter pilots, waved as the van cruised past the front of the house and out of sight. My wife was equipped with the cell phone, credit card, cash for tolls, and just enough optimism to actually make the trip.

And me? I was doing what every husband dreams of—staying home alone for four days. Four nap-takin’, sports-watchin’, gas-passin’ days. Sweet.

They had about a 10-hour drive ahead of them. I couldn’t stand the pressure, so I went back to bed.

Fort Scott, Kan., 9 a.m.: “My tummy hurts,” our two-year-old girl said just in time for my wife not to be able to stop her from throwing up all over her shirt.

Home, 9 a.m.: I rolled over.

McDonald’s, Miami, Okla., 11:45 a.m.: “Two Happy Meals, a hamburger, and large coffee,” the teenage cashier repeated to my wife. “That’ll be $11.90.” Our boy stood quietly next to my wife while our girl shook the cardboard Happy Meal toy display like it had taken her money.

My wife looked in her wallet—she’d left the credit card in the car. She paid for lunch the only way she could, with her toll change.

Home, 11:45 a.m.: I got out of bed. Hmm. Steak would be nice for lunch, uh, breakfast, um, whatever.

Tollbooth, McAllister, Okla., 2 p.m.: “We don’t take credit cards,” the booth operator told my wife, and handed her a slip of paper. “Present this at the next tollbooth and pay there.”

“Do they take credit cards?” my wife asked.

“No,” he said. “But there’s an ATM inside the McDonald’s.”

Obviously the tollbooth operator had never herded two children out of a minivan and expected them to go back in quietly without a Happy Meal toy. Or, maybe he had. Jerk.

Home, 2 p.m.: Halftime. Hmm. Time for a beer.

Tollbooth, Hugo, Okla., 3:30 p.m.: “We don’t take credit cards,” the tollbooth operator said, pointing toward a nearby service station. “But there’s an ATM inside McDonald’s.”

Grrr.

Home, 3:30 p.m.: Second game of the day. Hmm, I thought as I cracked open another beer. Some summer sausage would be nice. I briefly considered going to the grocery store and buying some, but that would take 10 whole minutes. So I yawned and scratched my armpit instead.

Side of the road, Arthur, Texas, 4 p.m.: “I gotta go pee,” the boy said.

“But you just went pee,” my wife told him.

He shrugged. “Yeah, but I gotta go again.”

She pulled over to the shoulder and he peed in the grass.

Home, 4 p.m.: I thought about taking a nap.

Side of the road, just outside of Arthur, Texas, 4:05 p.m.: “I gotta go pee,” the girl said.

Home, 4:12 p.m.: I decided it was too late for a nap and had another beer instead.

Grandma and Grandpa’s house, Paris, Texas, 4:30 p.m.: The kids ran into the house, my wife trudging after them.

Home, 4:32 p.m.: The telephone rang and I turned toward it. The crowd roared. Oh great, I missed a touchdown, I thought, setting the beer down and reaching for the phone. This better be good.

“Hi, honey,” my wife said. “We’re here.”

Five minutes later I’d heard everything that happened: the vomit, the money, the tollbooths, buying a Coke at the drive-through window with the credit card just to get cash back so she wouldn’t have to unstrap the kids. Once you get them out of their car seats, they never go back in the same way—it’s a lot like folding a road map.

I missed a blocked punt.

“How was your day?” she asked, exhausted, sounding like she’d just sat through a Congressional hearing.

“Rough, honey,” I said, pulling another beer out of the fridge. “My day was pretty rough.”

* * *

You can order Jason’s books on the paranormal, “Darkness Walks: The Shadow People Among Us,” and “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to Missouri’s Most Spirited Spots,” at amazon.com.

Women Don’t Know Anything About Guys

I knew something was wrong when I walked into the bedroom.

Men don’t sense much, like emotions, subtlety, or the passage of time after high school, but we do realize when something un-guy has happened. And it happened to me.

A free video rental card, a dollar I’d found on the street, and scraps of paper that, at one point may have been movie tickets to “The Empire Strikes Back” sat on my dresser (guys don’t clean out their wallets—ever). Someone, I’ll call her my wife, had violated something more private to me than childhood memories, my fear of clowns, or my prostate. She’d gone through my wallet, a genuine cowhide wallet with real money in it. (While devalued to the point I couldn’t use it to buy a tamale in a poor mountain village, but the last time I checked, a dollar still counts as “real” money.)

“Uh, honey,” I began, words dropping out of my head like rocks. “Why are my ‘The Empire Strikes Back’ tickets on the dresser?”

“I went through your wallet,” she said, like Jeffrey Dahmer confessing to police, but not realizing killing people and eating them was wrong. But she knew. Oh, she knew.

Did her parents teach her nothing?

“Let’s use this money to (insert something I didn’t want to do),” she said picking up my dollar, oblivious to the fact that I was in shock. She had broken Guy Rule Number One: never go through a guy’s wallet.

After I regained consciousness, I wondered what other manformation she wasn’t privy to.

10 things women don’t want to know about guys:

1. A guy’s wallet is more personal to him than the first time he did anything. It’s a sacred place, home to an insurance card, 42 cents, a football schedule from 1997, and a Hooter’s receipt we don’t want you to know about. Stay away from the wallet, don’t touch the wallet, the wallet doesn’t really inhabit your reality.

2. Football games, even Pop Warner football games played by kids we don’t know, are more important to us than birthdays, anniversaries, open houses, Pampered Chef parties, your family, and weddings—unless there’s an open bar; and then there’d better be a TV and it had better be on.

3. Men don’t like romantic comedies, floral patterns, shopping, or window treatments. If your man likes any of these, or actually uses the term “window treatment” when he means “curtains,” don’t expect children.

4. We lie to you more than we tell the truth. If you ask, “Do you mind going to my parent’s house for dinner?” the answer “yes” is a lie. If you ask, “While my sister’s staying with us, would you please not mention her divorce? You know how much that upsets her,” the answer “yes” is a lie. “Did you see that trashy blonde in the halter top?” will also demand a lie.

5. We don’t like meals that don’t include meat. The perfect man meal is beef and alligator wrapped in an entire pig.

6. We don’t like to talk about our day because it’s over. We’re ready to talk about something else, preferably in one-syllable words while holding at least one beer.

7. We don’t like the same music as you (see No. 3).

8. We don’t really enjoy having people in our house. Frankly, having people in our house makes us unhappy because we can’t walk around in our underwear.

9. Clint Eastwood is a religious figure. Don’t speak badly of Clint Eastwood and don’t look directly at Clint Eastwood. It’s a scientific fact men are incapable of moving off the couch during a “Dirty Harry” movie. Please subscribe to TV Guide to plan our social calendar.

10. We don’t remember things not related to our daily routine. The fact that you’re claustrophobic might push out some vital piece of manformation, such as how to run a band saw or who has the right-of-way at a four-way stop. And, yes, sports trivia is vital information. That’s how guys establish the social pecking order.

* * *

You can order Jason’s books on the paranormal, “Darkness Walks: The Shadow People Among Us,” and “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to Missouri’s Most Spirited Spots,” at jasonoffuttbooks.blogspot.com.

There are people who treat budgeting like guys treat going to the doctor—it’s not serious until they slip in all the blood. My wife isn’t one of those people. She treats budgeting like she was the doctor, specifically, a proctologist.

Therefore our household runs successfully and happily—I stress that, happily—on 42 cents a month. That’s not what’s left over, the 42 cents is what our budget allows us to spend. It gets kind of tricky at the grocery store.

There is, she’s found, an inexpensive way to get through life. The occasional coupon is nice, as are yard sales, auctions, pawnshops, the 30-minute pizza delivery rule (especially if you’ve given your neighbor’s address then claim you didn’t), regifting, and watching movies by peeping through people’s windows.

OK, so she’s not like that at all, except the coupons, yard sales, auctions, pawnshops, and regifting. I won’t let her read the rest of this, she might get ideas.

But, as much money as she saves buying expired canned goods and bulk asparagus, I’m right now putting a stop to one of her money-saving practices—haircuts.

“I need a haircut,” I said one day—out loud, apparently after experiencing a head injury that made me forget Husband Rule No. 1: Don’t talk, ever—ever. Nodding and mumbling are good enough to get you through most situations in life. “You think you can do it?”

She smiled.

There are only four types of haircuts in our family:

1) My two-year-old daughter’s haircut, which is imaginary. My wife is content to allow my little girl to look like a Sasquatch when she wakes up because cutting her hair would be against some religious tenet I’m not familiar with. I can’t tell you what my daughter looks like, only that I’m sure she’s cute.

2) My four-year-old son’s, who goes to a stylist and gets the kind of haircut girls on The CW programs would squeal over.

3) My wife’s. I can’t complain. No, seriously, I can’t and won’t complain. I’m not that stupid.

4) Mine.

“Sure. I can do it,” she said and, much like a teenage girl at a “Twilight” movie, I cried like a baby. And that was before she started. After the first cut, things got worse; I cried like a Frenchman.

At first glance, the sheep shears (picked up no doubt at a Mennonite garage sale, or barn sale, or wagon sale, or whatever) did a pretty nice job. Oh, sure, I don’t think I’d have gotten a blue ribbon at the fair, but the haircut was passable. My hair was short—really short—but that was fine. And … then I noticed the rest. Damn those mirrors.

“Aaaaaaaaaa,” I screamed.

The area around my ears looked a lot like a European map during a war, and not a particularly popular war at that.

“What’s wrong?” my wife asked in a way that sounded like she had no idea one side of my head was completely bald whereas the other side had a smiley face cut into it.

“My ears.”

“Oh, yeah. I hoped you wouldn’t see that,” she said. “But it’s OK. Those spots are on the side of your head.”

Well, I thought. (I wasn’t going to say anything out loud. She was still holding a sharp object.) Some people are going to look at the side of my head and ask what punk band I’m in. Maybe I should tell them “The Screaming Wussies.”

Early in our relationship—before the marriage, before the kids, before the monthly 42-cent limit on spending—my wife wanted me to give her a nickname. Well, I did. From here on out, regardless of any improvement in hair-cutting skills, regardless of convincing me to ever let her approach me with something sharp ever again, regardless of how drunk I get, she’s not just my wife, she’s The Butcher.

At least my haircut fit into our budget. It was free.

* * *

Jason Offutt is an award-winning humorist who also writes stuff scary enough you’ll wet your pants. You can order Jason’s books on the paranormal, “Darkness Walks: The Shadow People Among Us,” and “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to Missouri’s Most Spirited Spots,” at jasonoffuttbooks.blogspot.com.

Exercise Is Bad. Enough Said.

There’s a bike in my basement. A big, full-sized 10-speed bicycle with tires that still hold air and a clip that would hold a water bottle if I hadn’t lost it. There was a little dust on the bicycle, sure. But it wasn’t like it had a banana seat and a big flowery basket on the front. It was only a few years old.

And it was calling to me.

Summer’s an odd time when those highly respected in your life—sitcoms, doctors, your family, commercials, strange voices in your head—encourage you to do something as alien to today’s American as not going to the drive-through at McDonald’s. They want you to exercise.

At one point in my life, I exercised and I liked it. I had a weight bench, I could run three miles without once stopping for a beer, and I looked like one of those guys who doesn’t look like me.

Then things like my job, the riding lawnmower, and lunchtime naps got in the way. Now I get winded walking to the car. Hey, for your information, there are four steps on my porch. Four.

Walking into the basement, I heard a noise. A slight noise, but it was a noise. The bike was laughing at me. Buckling to the popular opinion that exercise is actually good for you, I pulled the laughing bicycle out of the basement and started riding it every morning.

I used to love bicycling. As a kid, I’d ride all over town and not break a sweat. Now, as I looked at yet another hill, its 45-degree incline hazy from all the sweat in my eyes, I realized two things were different than when I was a kid: 1) my hometown was flat, and this town was as flat as Machu Picchu; and 2) at 43, there’s a whole lot more wheezing involved in riding a bike than I remember. It must have something to do with the air quality.

OK, so I guess I actually realized three things—I now know why serious cyclists stand while they pedal. I always figured it had something to do with using your body weight to generate more speed. Nope, that’s just a side benefit. Cyclists stand because their butts hurt. Whenever you’re forced to drive slowly on a busy highway because you’re stuck behind a line of cyclists, don’t get mad. Just smile and wave as you pass, content in the knowledge that each one of these cyclists has hemorrhoids.

Later, rasping like a sailor in a downed sub, I lie on my living room floor wondering why it looked like the ceiling fan was giving me the finger. I would have been upright, but my knees were no longer up to the whole standing thing.

I wondered, in my pool of sweat, why people say it feels good to exercise. I didn’t feel good. Heck, I didn’t even feel good enough to feel bad. And then it came to me. Oh, it might have been because of the lack of oxygen to my brain, but it seemed clear enough at the time—exercise cannot be good for you. The sweat, the pain, the time wasted on walking tracks when you could have been eating fried chicken. Yeah. Something was wrong.

If exercise isn’t good for you, what else have sitcoms, doctors, your family, commercials, strange voices in your head, been lying about all these years? The dangers of red meat? Smoking? Sugar? Is it all a great conspiracy from the vitamin/Bowflex/exercise video cartels to keep the American public sweaty, sleepy, and exhausted? Yes. We can’t revolt if we can’t stand.

People, listen up—drop the yogurt, get off that treadmill, light up a Lucky Strike, and head to Dairy Queen. Then, after your burger and fries settle and you cuddle up to the dessert menu, I want you to tell me which feels better, a morning of searing muscle pain or chocolate-laced ice cream.

We’re on to you, Big Brother. Oh, yeah, we’re on to you, and we Americans will never be sweaty again.

* * *

Jason Offutt is an award-winning humorist who also writes stuff scary enough you’ll wet your pants. You can get Jason’s books on the paranormal, “Darkness Walks: The Shadow People Among Us,” and “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to Missouri’s Most Spirited Spots,” at www.amazon.com.

My daughter pulled a videotape from a box in the basement.
“New Kids on the Block?” she asked, looking at a faded VHS tape cover featuring five kids who looked like they needed better parents.
“It’s not mine,” I said, sounding strangely defensive. “I’d rather own ‘ABBA Sings the Blues.’”
“Whatever,” she said in the way 17-year-olds do to show they own the planet. “I bet you danced to this.”
Yeah, and I sing “I Write the Songs” while drinking beer with the guys.
“No, dear,” I said. “There are only two people in this house who were alive during the five-minute New Kids reign, and I was the only one too busy listening to actual music to notice.”
“Sure, Dad,” she said, patting my shoulder. “I’ll just keep digging. I’m sure I’ll find Hanson.”
Oh, or maybe even Nelson.
The lesson here? Go through your video/DVD/audio collection before someone finds something you’re embarrassed to own. Well, unless you have “New Kids on the Block: Hangin’ Tough.” My wife was actually excited to see it again while I was trying to make fun of her.
But if someone finds your copy of Ratt’s “Out of the Cellar,” don’t worry, you’re not alone.
I’m sure Ice-T has “Ice Ice Baby” on his iPod. Dick Cheney probably has Richard Simmons’ “Sweatin’ to the Oldies” on Air Force Two. And I suspect Chuck Norris hops into his jammies and cuddles with a bowl of buttered popcorn to watch “Grease” at least once a month, but I can’t be completely sure because anyone who’s seen him do it is most certainly dead.
My embarrassing recording doesn’t include episodes of the original “Star Trek.” It’s not the last episode of “Cheers” and it’s not the first episode of “The Lone Gunmen.”
I own a copy of “Footloose.”
I don’t know how I got it. I don’t know if I’ve watched it more than once-and if I did it was probably because of a date, a dare, or too much cough syrup. And I don’t recognize anyone in the movie except Kevin Bacon, that bald guy from “Third Rock from the Sun,” and some blond girl.
My crime is the fact that I’ve never thrown it away.
“What else do you have in here, Dad?” my daughter asked, poking around tapes full of “The Simpsons” episodes and 10-year-old NFL games I’ll never watch again. “Something in black and white with ladies water dancing?”
“No,” I said. “All you’ll find in there are movies with Clint Eastwood, ‘Terminator I, II and III’ and maybe something with talking chimps.”
She stopped searching through the sea of out-of-date VHS tapes and pulled out a black plastic rectangle of blackmail.
“‘Footloose,’ Dad?” she said, grinning like … well, grinning like she’d just found a copy of ‘Footloose’ in my VHS tapes. “You’ve got ‘Spice World’ in here, too, right?”
I can change the oil in my car, I can fix a toilet, and I can belch like a cartoon rabbit, but none of that manly stuff matters when you’ve got “Footloose” in your video collection.
I hang my head, and please, don’t tell Chuck Norris.

The Over-40 ABC Book

The Toddler dropped a book in my lap. Although I realized a long time ago that the most important accessory to any father’s wardrobe is a cup, I was unprepared. I’m just glad I have good reflexes.
“Read it, Daddy,” she said in her sweet, two-year-old voice, which, by the time it reaches my brain, sounds like Arnold Schwarzenegger saying “Hasta la vista, baby.” Like most sensible fathers, my daughter scares the hell out of me.
The book was a typical children’s alphabet book. A is for apple. B is for ball. C is for cat. D is for Division of Family Services. The usual.
As I sat there, reading about the wonders of Elephant, Frog, and Goat, I realized there are books like this for age ranges except adults. Where’s the 20-something ABC books of Antipathy, Beer, and Centerfolds? The 30-something ATM card, Business meetings, and Children? And the over-40 …
Well, at least I can help with that one.
The Over-40 ABC Book
A-Aches and pains. Remember when you could move without stabbing pains in your joints? You don’t? That’s probably for the best.
B-Bifocals. When you realize you can’t tell a picture of Jessica Alba from one of Albert Einstein. And yes, there is a difference.
C-Colonoscopy. Vacation pictures from the lower intestine. You won’t see a polyp like that at Disney World.
D-Depends. Eww, was that you? Depends.
E-Ensure. When scotch and soda no longer count as dietary supplements.
F-Flatulence. No excuses. No guilt. It’s expected. Life goal achieved.
G-Grouchy. What you are while driving, when the gout’s in your big toe, and when the president talks during your favorite TV show. “I don’t care about the stupid economy when Jack Bauer’s shooting terrorists.”
H-Hemorrhoids. What you get when a lifestyle that prevents you from walking decides to prevent you from sitting.
I-Incontinence. The best excuse for going home early. “Oh, I’m sorry, were those your good shoes?”
J-Jars. I hoard quarters, lug nuts, one-cent stamps, and finishing screws in mayonnaise jars. Don’t try to find them. I buried them in the yard and I have a pellet gun.
K-Knees. You know you have them because of the arthritis; you just can’t see them anymore.
L-Lounge chair. A chair, a couch, and a bed, all in one. I could sit here all day. Oh, wait, I did.
M-Memory loss. …
N-Nothing’s as good as it used to be. Darn tootin’.
O-Orneriness. You can now get away with anything. “Who put the dead squirrel in the cheese dip? Oh, Uncle Jim. You are so funny.”
P-Prostate exam. At least when gangsters finger somebody, it’s quick.
Q-Quiet. Everything’s too loud-except conversations.
R-Rambling. Some stories don’t have a point. “When I was your age youngsters went to school, held two jobs, and wore garlic in their trousers because the Democrats gave vampires the right to vote. Now I remember this one time …”
S-Senior discount. The coffee’s cheap; now if I can only stay awake long enough to drink it.
T-TV trays. The greatest invention known to man, next to the lounge chair. No, really. It’s right next to my lounge chair under the TV Guide. (Which, of course, is a viable alternative “T” because it’s the book that tells me what time Jack Bauer’s going to shoot terrorists.)
U-Underwear. Once it was tight, once it was white. Now it starts high and hangs to my thigh.
V-Varicose veins. Cheaper and surprisingly more aesthetically pleasing than tattoos.
W-Wattle. When your neck keeps moving long after you’ve stopped. Who’s that in the mirror? Alfred Hitchcock? Oh, wait, it’s me.
X-X-ray. The inside of your body’s been mapped better than Google Earth.
Y-Yelling. See Quiet.
Z-Zipper. Is my fly open? Pfft. I just don’t care anymore.
* * *
You can order Jason’s book of ghost stories, “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to Missouri’s Most Spirited Spots,” at amazon.com.

I called my wife before I left work. I’m not sure why I did this. Maybe it was out of courtesy. Maybe it’s a habit my mom beat into my head when I was a kid. Or maybe I’m just not that bright.I think it’s the last one.

“I’m going to the store on my way home,” I told her.

That was simple enough, right? In the Western world, a guy saying “I’m going to the store” usually means “I’m out of beer.” Everyone knows that. Well, everyone but women. Read the rest of this article »

Everyone stared as I pushed my shopping cart through the store … ker-thump, ker-thump, ker-thump. You know, foreign automakers should start building shopping carts if only to force the American cart industry into upgrading that one bad wheel.

But it wasn’t the thumpy wheel or that I was trying not to be seen that made people stare like they recognized me from some Internet police database. People were watching because, despite all the beef jerky, beer, and drill bits bouncing around the basket, they knew I was really at the store to buy feminine napkins. Read the rest of this article »

The smell was horrendous … and I grew up on a farm.

My wife’s friend stuck her head through the crack she made peeling open our bathroom door and whispered, “Psst, psst, psst, psst,” like she had a secret.

She didn’t.

This wasn’t a secret to anyone in the house and maybe, just maybe, to people the next block over. She’d stopped up our toilet—again. Read the rest of this article »

I brought home a half-gallon of ice cream from the grocery store. The list from my wife read, “four bananas.” Period. No milk, no eggs, no ice cream. Just bananas.
Normally, to me four bananas means four bananas, but I didn’t write the note. My wife wrote it and I was sure ice cream was hiding in there somewhere. Read the rest of this article »