Posted on

What It’s Like To Have A Panic Attack

He was unusually quiet that evening. The words from his dinner companions passed through his ears, but once inside his head they fell apart into disconnected vowels and consonants. “I’m sorry, what did you say,” was an oft-repeated phrase he spoke throughout out the meal. His pulse quickened, and a slight discomfort scratched at his chest. He began to withdraw from the reality of the gathering, and once he had his fill of pasta and chicken with cream sauce, he excused himself, went outside to the back yard, and lit a cigarette.
As he paced and dosed himself with tobacco, short, staccato moans punctuated his breathing, and a slight unsteadiness assaulted his balance. He became conscious of his breathing, short rapid cycles followed by deep gulps of the warm, humid night air. His mental perceptions tilted a degree or two but not enough distort his memory of the feelings and physical reactions that were occurring. They had happened all too often in the past that their imprint would be with him forever. It had been years, however, since they had so aggressively made their presence known. He was unprepared to feel them again; he had stopped looking over his shoulder.
The illuminated pool water glowed an eerie blue, a fitting backdrop for the world into which he had slipped. Standing in the shadows, he watched his wife and friends inside, chatting about France and relatives and plans for visiting the Brittany coast in two years time. Inside his head, a liquid language was rising, and small-craft warnings echoed along the shore. “Jump in the boat and ride it out,” he told himself and re-entered the house.
“Are you OK?” they asked.
“I’m fine,” he lied.
They drank wine, and he plugged his ears with lemonade. He stood and said, “I need to lay down for a minute.” The living room was only a few paces away, and he made it easily, and then stretched out on the leather couch.
“Are you sure you’re OK?” they asked again.
“I’m fine.”
He was not fine, but at least he was now prone and with his forearm draped across his eyes it made being not fine easier. Ever since he was a child, he had known that demons would not hurt you if you don’t look at them. With his vision arrested, his nervous system attacked him from within. It sent out small, electrical hand grenades, causing his hands to twitch and legs to spasm. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he chanted to himself, hoping to curse the demons into submission. It was a mantra of frustration, a song of sorrow, and empty linguistic talisman that had never worked before, but he clung to it like a holy relic.
The sound of chairs at work, the movement of familiar feet, his wife and friends were coming into the living room for more comfort and conversation. He knew they could see the spasms, hear the occasional low moan, but they also knew his past and left him alone.
The words, the electric tics, and the mind slips became too much, and he went back outside to stand in the pool glow. He hugged a wooden gazebo post like it was his mother, cheek on grain, longing to be an uncut block of wood. Crickets complained loudly about the night heat, raccoon patrols noisily made their evening rounds on the other side of the fence, the moon smelled of ginger. The sliding glass door swept open, and the woman he has lived with forever stepped out into the night world and said, “Do you want to go?”
He does want to go, but he is trapped inside himself. “No, I’m Ok,” he says. She doesn’t believe him…she knows.
The hosts come out, and he tries desperately to quell the riot in his head. Sitting at the patio table, he is asked a question. He knows it is a question, but has no idea what it is about. A garbled hand full of words escapes his mouth, but he doesn’t understand them. His mind is now fixated on a dog, and he begins to cry. He hates crying. Embarrassment and humiliation pool on the ground in front of him, and he asks himself, “Why now?” It’s been so long. Why now?”
He should know better; he gave up asking “why” long ago. “I think it is time to go,” he sobs, I’m very sorry, but I need to go unconscious.”

(c) Mike Hood 2017

Posted on

Religious Comics Lead Dangerous Lives

Jesus, Buddha, Yahweh (aka Allah), the Pope, Zeus, Odin, and Mohammed walk into a bar…. You don’t hear too many jokes that begin this way.
Religious icons have been fodder for humorists, comedians, and novelists for centuries, even though a lot of the mockery has been underground until the 20th century. Good-natured a bad-natured humor directed at prophets and gods could, and often did, result in the death of the person so bold as to find hilarity in buffoonery of moral edict dictators. Religion, for the most part, frowned upon funny, unless of course, it was directed at heretics, apostates, infidels, or insurance salesmen.
Of the holy people listed in the opening sentence of this essay, the two that stand out as being the most humorless come from the Middle East: Yahweh (Allah) and Mohammed. Yahweh (Jewish), Allah (Muslim) is the same character worshiped by Christians, who called him God. In the holy books of all three religions, God is a pretty humorless, nasty character, a serial killer in fact. Early stand-up comedians found out quickly that making fun of God would get you and your whole family cast into a fiery pit or some equally appalling torture. Crack a joke, and God would fuck you up.
As time wore on, I think people got fed up with all the gratuitous violence that God had perpetrated or supposedly commanded to be perpetrated in his name, and decided to write a sequel to the holy book. It was called the “New Testament,” and it reinvented God into a more pleasant guy named Jesus. The Jesus character eschewed violence, liked wine, hung out with hookers, and wasn’t above cracking a joke or two. Nevertheless, after Jesus dies a particularly gruesome death, his followers started reverting back to Old Testament rhetoric, and the sequel ends with horrifying scenes of beasties, blood, and mass killings. Humor was one of the first victims of the last chapter.
People seemed to like all the mayhem and strict dogma of their old God and forgot about Jesus’ teaching. However, they formed a religion based on Jesus, and for a couple thousand years they seriously kicked the asses of anyone who dared jest about that religion.
Eventually, most of the Old Testament people and the Jesus people decided, “What the hell, we can take a joke,” and they stopped whacking people who made fun of religion.
A few hundred years after Jesus took his last bow, a new holy guy named Mo arrived on the scene in the Middle East. Mo proclaimed himself a spokesman for Allah and ripped off parts of the old holy book, added a bunch of new stuff, published it, and it became a best seller. The new book had a lot of nice and peaceful stuff, but also a lot of the same old kill, smite and misogynistic doctrine as the old book. (Gotta give the people what they want.)
After Mo cashed in his chips, his followers did pretty much what Jesus’ posse did, and put the scimitar to the scrotum of anyone bold enough to joke about their religion, which in this case, was known as Islam.
Followers of Mohammed (Muslims) and the followers of Jesus (Jesims) tolerated each other for a while, but had no sense of humor about it. Eventually, a Palestinian comic named Rasheed made one too many jokes at the Jesims’ expense, and Europeans sent crusaders and anti-Muslim comedians to stamp mockery of their religion in Jerusalem. The Muslims fought back, and the people on both sides enjoyed a great religious bloodletting. When you’re not allowed to poke fun at things, I think it breeds savagery.
Religious savagery has continued right up until today, but in the modern world, the comedic overtones are freely expressed. Unfortunately, is seems the vast majority of Muslims have decided not to enter the modern world.
If you make a joke or write a parody about the Pope, it is unlikely Catholic ninjas will be dispatched to blow up you and your family. If you expose a bloated televangelist for the corpulent weasel he is, the likelihood of you being burned at the stake is small. You can joke about Jesus, write a limerick about the Buddha, or draw a caricature of Zeus with a tiny penis, and it’s doubtful you will suffer slings and arrows. But, mention Mohammed in an unflattering light, and you’ll have 18 million fanatical sheep bleating for your death. It wouldn’t be so bad if the sheep would just bleat, but a lot of them are armed and will point their weapons wherever the sheepherder tells them to.
I expect a lot of people are saying, “That’s bigoted; you are prejudiced against Muslims.” Given today’s climate of appeasement to even the most radical elements of society, I am not surprised that people might say this. The truth is, I don’t give a monkey’s scrotum about religion. I am prejudiced against stupid, intolerant and humorless people. We all have our prejudices; those are mine.
So, Jesus, Mohammed and Buddha walk into a bar. Jesus asks for a glass of water so he can turn it into wine. Mohammed asks where the virgins are. Buddha sits back and laughs his ass off.

(c) Mike Hood 2017

Posted on

The Hardest Test in the World

Last night, as I lay in bed surrounded by five softly snoring dogs, I decided I was going to take the test. Unlike the tests I’ve seen posted on various Facebook posts, the test I was going to take would be able to tell me far more than what percentage hermaphroditic-gypsy arborist I was. It would go far beyond telling me if I was a cartoon character, a liberal spelunker, or a well-regulated sexual gymnast. This would be a test that would absolutely define me in all aspects.

The test promised to inform me of things known and unknown to me. The test would tell me about my character, my health, my prejudices, my desires, my fears, and my altruism. I would find out if any of my actions have led to the death of another person or enriched someone’s life. It would examine the good in me…and the evil. It would evaluate my perceptions, it would test my loyalty, and it would see how well I dealt with joy and tragedy and stress and pain and pleasure.

The test would be long, but there would be a time limit. Many of the questions would be repeated over and over. I could go back and make some corrections, but I still had to beat the clock. There are a lot of study guides available for the test, but many of them are contradictory, so, at best, they are unreliable. You are not allowed to speak with anyone who has taken the test, and from what I understand, it probably wouldn’t do you any good if you could. There is really no way you can cheat on the test. You can lie, but that’s part of the test. No, this test is a solo effort.

I couldn’t sleep last night; I kept thinking about this test I was going to take. I got out of bed at 3:00 a.m. and went into my office to prepare for the test. The dogs followed me. When I sat down in front of my desk with a hot cup of coffee, I glanced over at Roxie, my canine friend that is dying. She was doing well this morning, and as I looked at her she walked over and put her head in my lap, hoping for a morning head rub. As I looked at her, something began to dawn on me: I was already taking the test.

The test, of course, is Life. I couldn’t tell you how well I’m doing; I have no idea who is scoring it. I just hope I don’t run out of number-two pencils for a while.

(c) 2017 Mike Hood, patheticbob.com

Posted on

The Secret to Happiness–Illusions And A Dog

The last couple of days, both Bob and I have not been in the full writing mode, so I offer this story–an addendum to Voltaire’s Candide–I wrote and sold 10 Years ago. I think it holds up. –Em

Eight years had passed since Voltaire abandoned Candide, his wife Cunégonde and their companions on a small farm not too distant from Constantinople to “cultivate the garden.” Cunégonde had grown uglier both of countenance and temperament, and Dr. Pangloss, as hard as he tried, could not free himself of the philosophical pursuit of the nature of good and evil and the best of all possible worlds. Old Martin, the philosophical Mr. Hyde to Pangloss’ Dr. Jekyll, would tend the radishes, beets and the olive trees with care and pessimism, quite sure each harvest would be ruined by an unforeseen devastation.
The old woman, daughter of Pope Urban X, still served the household as Cunégonde’s lady in waiting and keeper of the linens, but her missing left buttock and the infirmaries of old age had slowed her considerably and added to her ill temper.
Cacambo, Candide’s steadfast, traveling companion and confidante had grown weary of hauling produce to the markets in Constantinople, and his lust for adventure was beginning to rise. He dreamt of red sheep and El Dorado.
Brother Girofleé, the ex-clergyman turned Turk and his on-again-off-again paramour, Pacquette, the winsome whore, remained at the farm and settled into roles as tempestuous lovers and garden tenders. Although they found delight at the bounty the earth offered up, the sordid and dangerous lives they once led would seductively call to them with regularity.
The noble Candide—a witness of horrors, a victim of church and state, a  seeker of truth, and man of his word—had thrown himself headlong into the agricultural world, for it was there, in nature, he found the simple cause-and-effect that had eluded him in his illusionary search for understanding. “The truth is in the dirt,” he would often say to his companions. But, Candide had forgotten his nature; Voltaire had created him to be naïve, and naïve he was. Truth, he would soon find out, was not in the dirt.
Candide was naïve, but he was not stupid. His mind may have been in the vegetables and fruits that thrived on his farm, but his ears would rise above the stalks and stems and vines and he would hear the complaints and regrets floating on moist breezes that cooled the garden. He loved his dear companions; they, like he, had suffered greatly in the past, and he wished them the peace and comfort the dirt had brought him. Before the dissatisfaction of those around him grew too strong, Candide decided to seek advice from the famous dervish who lived in the neighborhood. Although the dervish had once rebuffed Dr. Pangloss for his questions about good and evil and pre-established harmony, Candide had come to realize the wisdom of his neighbor’s actions.
“Master,” said Candide, “the people on my farm grow restless. Weeds of disharmony are springing up in the good soil, and my companions are unsatisfied with the truth in dirt.”
The old dervish bade Candide enter his inner chamber and had his daughter bring them mint tea. Murriado the dervish stroked his long, white beard and stared reflectively at Candide. At last, he spoke. “There is no truth in dirt,” he said. “Dirt is dirt. Although I suppose asking people to believe in dirt makes more sense than asking them to believe in invisible people, dirt is still dirt, and it won’t speak any truths to you. In fact, there are no truths, only illusions.”
“But master, if there are no truths, how can one be truly happy, how can they be satisfied?”
“There are only two ways to accomplish that goal,” said the old man, with a smile. “First, believe in illusions.”
“And the second?” asked Candide.
“Get a puppy.”
As Candide walked back to his farm, he cradled an eight-week-old beagle in his arms

Posted on

Grief Wrapped In a Robe

 

Helen’s cotton robe felt cool in his hands as he lifted it from the hook on the back of her closet door. He turned toward their bed and brushed the soft, linen-colored material against his right cheek; memories bloomed, emotions stirred.

The bedroom was a minimalist work of art, decorated by Helen. Earth-colored pastels and low-key lighting bathed the room, and a hint of Gia Flora perfume lingered in the air. It was their modern castle keep, a place where the world was held at bay and life began.
He undressed and, with some difficulty, he gently slipped into Helen’s robe. She was petite; he was not. He walked to the bed and sat on the left edge, resting his hands on his knees, trying not to think. He closed his eyes and listened to the low murmur of the air conditioner; “womb noises,” he thought. A body ripple ran through him.
He lay back on the bed and gathered the hem of the flowing robe in his hand, swiftly bringing it to his face, and covering his head. Helen’s fragrance danced through his nostrils and into his brain, igniting pain and pleasure in his being. He cried dry tears as Helen’s robe held him.
Hours passed, a night of sleepless hours. When the morning broke, he returned to Helen’s closet and disrobed. “One day at a time,” they told him, “You just keep on one day at a time.”
He put on Helen’s little black dress and went grocery shopping.

Posted on

Coffee, Badgers, Lunacy, And A Spear

I was sitting on a stool at the counter, coffee smoke, mixed with cinnamon and hazelnut, drifting to my nose when the bell rang on the door, and Perdue Raft and his wife Gia walked in. Approaching the front counter, Perdue glanced to his left and spied me. I offered a lazy smile and a nod. A smile and a nod would not do for the large, outgoing Serb; he moved toward me and grasped me in a bear hug,

“It’s good to see you, my badger, my friend,” he bellowed. “I heard you were in the hospital.”

“I was,” I said.

“Well, you look good. Was it your heart? Cancer? Prostate problem?”

I laughed. “No Perdue, my inner lunatic escaped again and rather than drive down the freeway on a tractor in the nude, I thought I ought to go in for an oil change and a lube.”

Perdue roared. “You are a funny guy,” he said in a heavy Slavic accent. “Come on man, you can tell me. You had some kind of operation, right? I had my spleen rebuilt two years ago after I fought a badger.”

“Sorry Perdue, no operation. I was in a mental facility, a nut farm, a bat-shit weasel ranch.”

‘But I know you my friend, and you are not crazy. You are shit bulling me.”

“Nope,” I said. “Crazy covers a lot of ground Perdue.”

The aroma of my coffee was calling me back to my solitude and morning newspaper, but Perdue didn’t want to let me go.

“Why haven’t you told me you are crazy before now.? You are my friend, and I find out just now. This is not a thing I should just find out.” His voice was becoming a little too accusatory.

“Perdue,” called Gia, “leave Em alone, he just wants to drink his coffee.”

“But Gia, this man is crazy and, he did not tell me. Is this something a friend would do? I think not.”

I was tired and becoming irritated. “Look, Perdue, I’m going to drink my coffee and read my newspaper; maybe we’ll talk about this later.”

“But I want to talk about it now,” he insisted.

To my left, resting against the counter, was an item I purchased earlier that morning–A native American Indian spear I found at a garage sale. I grabbed the spear and walked to the back of the shop, turned and chucked it at Perdue. It penetrated his throat, and he fell heavily on one of the tables.

“That’s for the badger Perdue. Now, shut the fuck up.

Posted on

Ed Toad Watches A Death In The Backyard Jungle

Ed Toad witnessed an assassination.

The moist heat of the day was relentless, and Ed sought relief in the cool tropical garden, camouflaged by lush elephant ears and giant ferns. He was dozing beneath the green glow of the plant canopy when a house fly landed on his forehead. It was a small irritant, but enough to cause him to lift his drowsy eyelids and brush the pest away.

As Ed watched the fly retreat, his peripheral vision picked up movement by the pool. A quick turn of his head and a series of blinks drove the drowsiness from his eyes, and he spotted the victim-to-be. The victim seemed edgy; he would walk a few paces and then stop, turning his head back and forth, as though he was checking to see if he was being followed. Ed brushed a palm frond to the side and scanned the area. He could see no one else but the victim in the vicinity. His gaze returned to the doomed soul.

Ed thought about making a noise, just to let the victim know he was there, however, he decided it might prove to startling so he remained silent. As Ed watched the starts and stops of the victim, he speculated on the reason for the obvious nervousness. Perhaps the victim is a spy, thought Ed, and he’s here to meet his contact. He also considered there may be a romantic tryst about to take place, and the victim was anxious about a jealous husband. All sorts of scenarios played out in Ed’s head.

As Ed constructed possible outcomes, the assassin waited, frozen in position, and cocked with a hair-trigger. Patience, speed, and mercilessness were his strengths, and he used them often. If you were to ask him he would say he didn’t particularly like killing, but he might add he didn’t particularly not like it either. It was his nature, and he didn’t question it.

The assassin watched the victim’s cautious movements, planning the timing of his strike. It’s a dangerous world, thought the assassin, but no matter how cautious you are, if I want you dead, you will soon be cold meat.

A sweet, soft wind rolled through the garden. The victim paused, sniffing the damp air. Ed Toad watched and conjured up another possible story to account for the victim’s being there in the first place. As the wind rustled the vegetation, the assassin struck with speed and savagery. Death was almost instantaneous. The assassin carried the body away, perhaps as proof of the deed or to hide the evidence.

Ed looked on, neither surprised nor frightened; he had seen it before. As calm and quiet returned to the garden, Ed emerged from his cover and walked over to the scene of the crime. A damp red spot littered with small, green bits and pink viscera were all that remained. Ed shook his head. “Someone really ought to stop that cat before he kills all the lizards in the garden,” he said to himself, and then hopped back into the plants.

(c)Mike Hood

Posted on

In Wales There Be Dragons, Castles, Cudgels, And Hot Women (Maybe)

Wales is an interesting country with an unpronounceable language that has a long and long history. You might find some interesting folklore on Wikipedia, but the good stuff comes from the dead Welshmen (or Cymru). So, I sent Pathetic Bob to see what he could find out about this mysterious

country. His report follows.

“Jeez Em, why couldn’t you send me to find out something interesting in, say. Florida? Anyway, the coolest thing about Wales is how it got its name. In the first century, a group of Japanese whalers sailed into the Irish Sea, and a sailor named Carl ipsofacto cried out in alarm, ‘There be wales.’ Which of course were not Whales (Carl was a notoriously bad at spelling they were cudgel fish, a large herbivore with two sets of cudgels protruding on each side of its head,

“Carl was sent home in disgrace. After a turn around a large rock outcropping Hito, the ship’s entertainment director, called out, ‘Here they be Dragons,’ and damned if there weren’t dragons…thousands of them. It was a scene out of The Game of Thrones.

“The Japanese ship was not equipped to slay dragons, so it turned and headed for Florida Keys, minus four crewmen who could see the potential in dragon flights for beachside tourists. But, the sailors had no idea how to tame a dragon, and they were quickly immolated by dragon breath.

“There were, however, a group of Cymru who tamed them and used them to deliver groceries and burn their enemies houses down. As dragons died off, the badass dragon wranglers moved to North Wales and rented their dragons out for deforestation. Wales didn’t have a lot of forests to begin, and soon most of the land became useless for farming. However, the dragon became the official symbol of Wales, not Whales.”

“Dragons and Whales? Is that it, Bob?”

“Not on your ass,” my dead dog reported. “Castles.”

“Castles?”

“Yeah, Whales…uh…Wales had more damn castles in the United Kingdom than anyone. Castles dotted the Welsh landscape. Even the poor and downtrodden had a castle. It’s something to do with national pride, I think. Another thing I found that the Walsies really dig is ‘cudgeltalia.’.”

“I hate to ask what that is”

“It’s a sport at which the Welsh excel at. It seems you pry off a cudgel from a dead cudgelfish, and polish them up real shiny. Then, two teams square off and use the cudgels to smash into each others’ genitalia until only one man is standing. Matches would go on for hours. It can’t be said the Welsh don’t have big balls.”

“So, Wales has dragons, castles, cudgelfish, and a weird language, is that about it.?”

“Not quite. It’s said the Welsh women are the most beautiful in the world…however, no one knows for sure.”

“Why not, it would seem obvious.”

“Well, it’s colder than Donald Trump’s heart, and the women never get naked. The wear sheepskin hajibs and cover their faces with surgical gauze. Once in a while you can get a glimpse of an ankle, but that’s it.”

“I think we’ll find out about Florida next time.”

Posted on

A Lost Christmas Letter From Peanutbuttergirl

<i>This is s Christmas letter from my cousin in Backwoods, North Carolina. I’d misplaced it in a stack of of mouse receipts<i>

 

Hi everyone, and Merry Christmas,

Well, just to bring you up to date on the family and friends, the past year had its ups and downs. 2016 started off pretty good, Franklin won $10,000 in the scratch-off lottery game. Unfortunately, his damned fool cousin Tiny talked him into investing all of it into a carbonated perfume scheme, and the money was soon gone. You live and learn, I guess.

Kevin finally graduated from high school, just two days short of his 31st birthday. I’m really proud of that boy, he decided to go into medicine is currently a test subject in seven different clinical trials.

Veronica Jean is still working over at the smelt factory; my how she loves those fish. Her and Spike are still living in sin together, but I guess that’s kinda the way it is these days with kids. Spike told me he’s getting her a burro for Christmas. She’ll be so pleased; she’s wanted a burro ever since she was four years old. By the way, Spike’s mother, Francis, got paroled in August. She’s living in Watsonville with a clergyman named Ralph. I sure hope she stays off the crack this time.

I don’t know if yall remember the twins—Andrew and not-Andrew—who lived next door to cousin Leonard, but just last month, Jennifer Lopez’s bodyguard beat the hell out of both of them. I heard she was filming a movie over by Canker City, when those boys dressed up like lemurs and tried to steal her underwear. Guess what? She doesn’t wear underwear. Can you imagine? Anyway Andrew was hospitalized with a broken anus, and not-Andrew had multiple lacerations on his thorax.

Grandma Purdy turned 89 in September, and she’s as spry as an 89-year-old leper can be. We went up to the colony and took her some rum cake, the kind she likes. Franklin kept rushing me to leave cause he just can’t stand old leper flatulence. It don’t really bother me, I mean Franklin ain’t no rose to live with.

I got my hip replaced back in March, and so far I’m doing ok. We’re still real upset at our insurance company because they wouldn’t pay for a real human hip, so I had a llama hip put in. I have a little hitch in my walk, but Franklin thinks it’s kinda sexy.

A bit of sad news to report, my sister Buttergirl is dead. She was run over by a tractor at Ted Fleem’s soybean farm. It is still a big mystery as to why she was at Ted’s farm and how she come to be in front of a tractor. I guess God just wanted it that way.

Well, that’s is for now. I hope all of you have a great Christmas and New Year.

Love,

PeanutButterGirl

Posted on

Out with the dead, in with the Bob

You may have noticed at the top of the web page, “dead dog writing” is no longer there, Pathetic BoB has taken its place.

The website and blog pages on the internet are subject to the guidelines from search engines–google being the most used. All of these search sites have complicated algorithms that search posts with meta tags, other tags, interest in the site and how many times a meta tag appears in the post. They also consider content.

I just wanted a site where Pathetic Bob and I could write humorous stories and hoped that would be enough to beat a path to the site. I was a dumb ass. My brilliant nephew Brian, has been the webmaster since dead dog started. He is a professional, who creates and runs several webpages, and he does it for money, of which I have none. So, he is spending hours trying to get me up to date so I can become competent and run this site. (he’s got an uphill battle on his hands).

We decided to chuck the name deaddogwwriting in favor of patheticbob.com. You won’t notice much difference, but you will have to change your subscriptions to patheticbob.com, the comment section will go to the new site as will my comments to those who write. As soon as we add Pathetic Bob to the masthead, the change will be complete.

I hope each of you will visit patheticbob.com for the same kind of silliness you’ve come to expect. We will also add some stories you might not be acquainted with. I am committed to providing absurdity across the internet, and I hope you will follow me on the journey. As you may have noticed, we don’t try to sell you anything–not yet anyway. Please take a little time and enjoy a story or two.

All I ask of you is to keep loyally following our quest to find a place on the internet where people who read can find a niche they can spend time getting a chuckle or two.

I deeply appreciate your support.

MIke Hood (Pathetic Bob).