tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-89147462008-07-22T12:01:44.499-05:00Howardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17745394055448870711noreply@blogger.comBlogger63125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8914746.post-34320523160812675732008-07-22T11:58:00.002-05:002008-07-22T12:01:44.518-05:00

Old novelty songs. Gotta love ‘em. Really you do. And you gotta wonder what was going through the writer’s head when he/she put them to paper. They’ve been around forever, some funny, some even a bit cruel and definitely not PC. (“Slap her Down Again, Pa” anyone?) There’s “Does Your Chewing Gum Lose its Flavor on the Bedpost Overnight?” Ok, anyone out there in the habit of sticking their gum

Howardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17745394055448870711noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8914746.post-49191261624308233892008-07-09T12:32:00.001-05:002008-07-09T12:35:11.817-05:00

I’ve spent too much time getting hit in the head growing up. Some who know me will say that explains a lot. It started at a young age, three, I think. I was not the most graceful of tykes. At an age when my head was still a little soft (ok, ok, stop that snickering), I toddled my way right into the edge of a door jamb. I don’t recollect the incident but I am told I knocked myself out for a few

Howardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17745394055448870711noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8914746.post-42375043042342505512008-07-01T15:02:00.000-05:002008-07-01T15:04:46.220-05:00

I’m wondering about some things… No, not why don’t chimps use toilet paper. Um, how do they…nevermind, that’s another piece altogether. I am pondering deeper, more philosophical things. Such as why are Apple Jacks called Apple Jacks? They don’t look like jacks. Assuming anybody under my age even knows what those are. For those who don’t, they are some sharp little metal toys you grab by

Howardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17745394055448870711noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8914746.post-50140335019984523172008-06-25T11:21:00.000-05:002008-06-25T11:23:22.865-05:00

Last week I talked a bit about how I wasn’t in line when the “Fix it” gene was passed out. Well, I must have missed signing up for a few other lines that day because I didn’t get the “Build it” gene, either. Oh, I can break things pretty well. I have quite a talent for that. Just ask any of my unlucky friends with model airplanes. I can’t hit a nail with a hammer to save my life—unless my thumb

Howardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17745394055448870711noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8914746.post-81927473123473081112008-06-23T13:27:00.002-05:002008-06-23T13:31:00.727-05:00

THE CHLOE FILES #1: Ashes to Ashes Chloe's inaugural adventure kicking Evil's butt is now available at Barnes & Noble, Borders and other fine online stores. A silver locket said to have belonged to Joan of Arc and a children's nursery rhyme... A 600-year-old monkey with an attitude and a mysterious supernatural symbol on a Caller ID box... A deadly plague reemerging in the seaside town of New

Howardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17745394055448870711noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8914746.post-91083282905343125292008-06-16T13:55:00.001-05:002008-06-16T13:58:11.987-05:00

I was born without the “Fix it” gene. Seriously. Most guys I know can fix things when they break, but me, I am mechanically retarded. Oh, I can change a tire, assuming some idjit didn’t pneumatically tighten the lug nuts to the point where it would take a jackhammer to get them off. I tried changing a car battery once…it was the 80s, so it was a good ten years too late for me to jump on the Afro

Howardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17745394055448870711noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8914746.post-11663802891245037702008-06-03T15:49:00.000-05:002008-06-03T15:52:50.752-05:00

Anybody who knows me knows how much I love going to the dentist. It’s right up there with getting my fingers caught in a car door or sitting naked on one of those spiked pads cops lay down to stop high-speed chase cars. The hygienist always says the same dumb thing too: do you know your blood pressure is 180 over 105? Well, no, pumpkin, I didn’t know the exact number but I could tell from the

Howardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17745394055448870711noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8914746.post-25330190437577424592008-05-15T12:30:00.001-05:002008-05-15T12:34:32.330-05:00

For those of us who grew up as fans of ‘60s and early ‘70s TV there are just some things that should have been kept secret. It’s probably lucky we find out about these things as adults because by then it’s a bit too late to taint our nostalgia, but just the same… Take for instance Greg Brady. Super groovy cool big bro of the Brady brood. Now did we really need the revelation the eldest Brady boy

Howardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17745394055448870711noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8914746.post-52957708065447649062008-05-05T12:09:00.000-05:002008-05-05T12:11:16.992-05:00

I’ve been wondering about cheese. People love cheese. Extra cheese on my pizza, please. Load those nachos up with double cheese. But it’s a love-hate kinda thing, isn’t it? Because when you think about it, some not so pleasant things are associated with the word cheese. When folks say something is cheesy, well, it is generally not meant in a positive sense. When we get mad some of us get

Howardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17745394055448870711noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8914746.post-16557558931857159762008-04-20T14:55:00.001-05:002008-04-20T14:58:07.284-05:00

It feels good, doesn’t it, guy? Your knuckles smashing into her face, bloodying her nose or mashing her lip. You love the sense of supremacy and domination your strength, your violence gives you over her. It’s gratifying to see her cower, tears streaming from her eyes, sobs shuddering through her body. It makes your heart sing and your ego blaze. She’s weak and YOU are mighty. All powerful. YOU

Howardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17745394055448870711noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8914746.post-24749417417989555802008-04-14T14:25:00.003-05:002008-04-14T22:12:50.944-05:00

I’ve seen some weird things in cars lately. I mean people behind the wheel, driving, whilst doing something else. The other day I was stuck behind a teenaged girl trying to parallel park—while she was yapping away on her cell. Was she asking OnStar for instructions on how to squeeze into the space? Um, yes, miss, two more inches to the right, now straighten your wheels…nope that grinding sound

Howardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17745394055448870711noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8914746.post-72231197792676873052008-04-07T11:45:00.002-05:002008-04-14T22:10:51.300-05:00

Have you ever noticed how the best things in life come in cups? You know where I’m headed with this, right? If you’ve read any of my previous DBs you probably think you do, because I am addicted to certain things that come in cups. And this can apply to either sex, in a way, so not to worry. But of course my focus is on those two wonderful mounds of goodness I can’t seem to get enough of. Such

Howardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17745394055448870711noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8914746.post-53915328578102130482008-03-31T12:10:00.000-05:002008-03-31T12:12:00.184-05:00

It’s time to rock the trolls. With the first hint of spring it’s happening. Everywhere. You’ve seen them, perhaps even cringed at their very presence. Yeah, you know what I’m talking about. Lawn gnomes. That’s right. Those evil little steroid-hopped leprechauns. Shiver. They stare at you with their painted beady eyes and there’s darn sure no pot o’ gold at the end of their rainbow. They come

Howardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17745394055448870711noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8914746.post-62265813409524971562008-03-24T21:42:00.000-05:002008-03-24T21:44:23.798-05:00

Today’s Dark Bits comes with an adult content warning. And a warning that, yes, sex can be dangerous… Ok, you were warned. In some of my blogs I mentioned spending some time living at my doctor uncle’s place. His medical office was part of the house, in fact took up most of the basement. And as a kid that was always sort of like walking through death row…with all those awful doctor offices

Howardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17745394055448870711noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8914746.post-46588681217335145222008-03-17T21:26:00.000-05:002008-03-17T21:29:42.824-05:00

Monkeys don’t appreciate being dressed as Leprechauns. A bit back I mentioned as a kid we had a red macaque named Porky who wasn’t a terribly big fan of Christmas in general and Christmas trees in particular. The little turd had a pretty nasty temper too when he didn’t want to do something and any article of clothing, from the diapers we cut a hole in for his stub tail and tried to get him to

Howardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17745394055448870711noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8914746.post-29290897099573681422008-03-13T21:20:00.000-05:002008-03-13T21:22:55.244-05:00

I swear if we get any more snow here in Maine I’m going to paintball Frosty the Snowman. I’m pretty sure it’s his fault. Yeah, yeah, he dances around in that big ole black top hat of his singing about winter magic and all that poop, but can you really trust a guy not wearing any pants in zero-degree weather? I kinda doubt it. I’m thinkin’ we got lucky enough the only carrot on his chubby white

Howardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17745394055448870711noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8914746.post-48166469759938916462008-03-10T22:08:00.002-05:002008-03-10T22:16:12.345-05:00

I mentioned a few blogs back that my uncle ran a “spiritualist” or psychic church. I should say church of sorts, because though they called it that it wasn’t really like any church I’d ever been to. I was an adolescent and it was almost like this weird secret society thing, so when I got curious enough I decided to attend a few of their “séances” and spiritualist meetings. I am not quite certain

Howardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17745394055448870711noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8914746.post-57364434051067063762008-03-03T12:34:00.000-05:002008-03-03T12:36:54.587-05:00

Why does it sometimes seem everyday has to be “one of those days”? You know it’s gonna happen. The alarm doesn’t go off, or, worse, goes off too early. Or some kaka-brained solicitor rings the phone and jerks you right out of a Jennifer Love Hewitt fantasy (ladies, insert your favorite male celeb here, please…) Mr. Phone Surveyist got an ear full about that, lemme tell you. I pretty sure he

Howardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17745394055448870711noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8914746.post-7325992672209192202008-02-27T22:50:00.000-05:002008-02-27T22:52:24.112-05:00

In a previous blog I mentioned my own experience with what might have been a ghost a short time after losing my grandmother. I also mentioned my uncle and his experiences with otherworldly phenomena. And that he was a spiritualist minister (and a fantasy-driven personality) and ran a spiritualist “church” out of his house every Friday night. I’ll get into some of the things that went on during

Howardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17745394055448870711noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8914746.post-45574539568134024032008-02-20T16:27:00.000-05:002008-02-20T16:28:54.299-05:00

I think I might be addicted to the smell moth balls. Both kinds. Really. The kind that smells like those toilet cakes and the original scent. I will refrain from any jokes about the size of the moths those balls must have come from, because let’s face it liking the scent of those things is bad enough. But I do. I don’t know why. And it goes back a long way. When I was but a wee toddler my

Howardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17745394055448870711noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8914746.post-65032160227294001942008-02-16T10:55:00.001-05:002008-02-16T10:58:05.771-05:00

For those easily offended, skip this one…really. Last warning. Naughty stuff. Ok, you had your chance… I’m sure it’s tough being a three ta-ta gal in a two ta-ta world. That’s right, since so many have asked, it’s time to expose my aunt, her of the extra utter (do they even make bras for that? I’m thinkin’ nah…) Aunt McSlutty, we called her (and I’ll call her here since using her real name

Howardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17745394055448870711noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8914746.post-1011183610060543682008-02-08T16:17:00.000-05:002008-02-08T16:18:36.950-05:00

This time in Dorkville we’ll pick a few TV shows. Not that these are dorky shows; in fact, us dorks consider them more worthy than some of the usual horror suspects. You just gotta be careful what company you’re in when you admit to it. Some diehard will go all Saw on you. 1) Mentioned this under the movie section but Dark Shadows deserves a second mention in its true arena—TV. Not just the

Howardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17745394055448870711noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8914746.post-27433608434383004182008-02-03T12:23:00.000-05:002008-02-03T12:29:36.890-05:00

So you're a dork and you like horror movies. No, because you're a dork, like your writer here, you haven't seen Texas Chainsaw Massacre a hundred times. But Santa Claus Conquers the Martians just might squeeze into your holiday scare marathon. That's OK. Really. Be proud of your dorkiness. I am. Dorks unite. With that in mind, this is the first in a series of lists for the discerning dork about

Howardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17745394055448870711noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8914746.post-8580787169428898542008-01-31T14:23:00.000-05:002008-01-31T14:25:37.817-05:00

I hate Super Glue. I really do. It’s made by some sadistic folks who have nothing better to do than dream up ways for dorks like me to permanently stick things where they are not supposed to be stuck. First they tell you to stick the pin in the opening, knowing full well the moment you do the stuff it going to spurt out and you can’t frickin’ wipe it up because by the time you get a paper towel

Howardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17745394055448870711noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8914746.post-20894587588730254832008-01-23T12:20:00.001-05:002008-01-23T12:23:38.271-05:00

As I mentioned in my exploration of my uncle’s “experience” with those enigmatic Men in Black, a related incident occurred with my cousin and his second wife a few days later. The alleged happening occurred on September 24th, 1976, and at face value seems even more incredible than that of my uncle’s, Dr. Herbert Hopkins, encounter. My cousin’s name was John, his wife’s name Maureen (we called

Howardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17745394055448870711noreply@blogger.com