#slightlyoffthemark

[ozma914]

The news that used to be print to fit

Someone recently asked me, "Has the world ever been crazier?"

Yes. Yes, it has. And to prove it, I dug up something I wrote eight years ago, when I found myself with a collection of little news items just begging to be made fun of. Keep in mind, this was 2012, but it still covers everything that made 2020 such fun: politics, death, and racism, not necessarily in that order.

Coming in December: Attack of the evil Santas.

          A video clip of Adolf Hitler giving a speech was recently used in a commercial to sell shampoo. Okay, did they even look at that guy’s hair? Did he ever use shampoo? The Stalin themed conditioner doesn’t seem appropriate, either.

          Speaking of inappropriate use of historical figures, The Abraham Lincoln Presidential Library and Museum in Springfield, Illinois, responded to a protest by pulling the bobblehead doll they were selling. It was a figure of John Wilkes Booth, the man who assassinated Lincoln. The figure carries a gun. It would be roughly equivalent to showing that Adolf Hitler commercial at a Holocaust Museum.

           An explosion in Georgia killed a man known for fighting to keep chickens on his property. Police list Colonel Sanders as a person of interest.

          A study of more than 222,000 people indicated that sitting too long can kill you. Four out of five of the researchers doing the study ... died.

          Another study found that eating red meat can be unhealthy, especially to cows. After all, zombies eat red meat, and they look terrible.

          Federal agents recently shot dead a man involved in a murder for hire plot. It’s perhaps ironic that they didn’t get a bonus for it.

          Nobody’s talking much these days about the US government’s “Fast and Furious” program, which sent thousands of firearms over the border into the hands of Mexican criminals. It’s nice to know the Obama administration’s doing something about our international trade imbalance.

           An Easter egg hunt in Colorado was canceled because of rude, selfish, pushy behavior – by the parents. In related news, fifteen years later a riot broke out among parents trying to be first in line to get the diploma at high school graduation. (Hey, we still have seven years to go--it could happen.)

          North Korea is downplaying the discovery that their “weather” satellite had lettering on it that translated to “Insert bomb here”. Top officials, speaking anonymously, are embarrassed that they forgot to insert the bomb.

           The largest known breed of rats in the world has been discovered invading the Florida Keys. Weird. I thought that state’s Presidential primary was over.

Wait. Is that a ... locust?

          Scientists recently announced that most of the Moon seems to be made up of material it got from Earth. NASA astronauts were immediately dispatched to serve the Moon with an IRS audit notice.

          The comedian Gallagher has retired after having a heart attack. Maybe if he’d eaten the fruit instead of smashing it …

            Speaking of retiring, another man is accused of sawing off his own foot in an attempt to avoid working. You have to admire his non-work ethic, but wonder about his lack of imagination.

           It was recently announced that liberal activist Jane Fonda will be portraying … wait for it … Nancy Reagan, in a movie. Also cast is Alec Baldwin as Ronald Reagan, and Newt Gingrich as Jimmy Carter.

           New rules say beach volleyball players will not have to wear bikinis at the 2012 London Olympics. This was followed immediately by the networks scheduling beach volleyball during prime time. Then they discovered the rule does not permit nude volleyball, and that in fact the players might actually cover up more. Beach volleyball is now scheduled in the 5 a.m. slot.

          Recently two asteroids, one the size of a tour bus, buzzed by the Earth on the same day director James Cameron made the deepest undersea dive ever. Coincidence? Or an act of self-preservation, by going to one of the most dangerous spots on earth to escape a possible collision, thus proving Cameron brilliantly insane? Probably coincidence.

          I recently read an article asking what might happen if all 350 million toilets in the United States were flushed at the same time. I can only imagine a humor columnist facing a deadline came up with that question. Unfortunately, the federal government got wind of it (ahem) and is now organizing the Department of Hydraulics (DoH), to mandate guidelines that will prevent any future mass dumping. I don’t think they should go up that creek. Especially without a paddle.

           Apparently the person who bombed Kim Kardashian with flour is a member of the People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals (PETA). No word on whether they were planning to bake her or fry her.

           Water ice was recently found on Mercury, the planet closest to the Sun. Insert Uranus joke here. Or maybe I just did.

           That’s the news roundup … generally everyone made it through unharmed, except for John Wilkes Booth fans. The sad part of that is that there probably are some.

But what ever happened to global warming?

http://markrhunter.com/ https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B0058CL6OO https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/"Mark R Hunter"

[ozma914]

When Healthy Food Meets Stupid

When I had my newspaper column, I regularly wrote about two things: My family, and things I screwed up. My family asked that I stopped writing about them. Luckily, I screw up plenty. But there are times when I do something so stupid that I hesitate to admit it to anyone. (This is what I don't like about the proliferation of cell phone cameras. I'd rather have some control over which embarrassment I share.) So it was recently, when I made a bowl of oatmeal. The simplest things can go horribly wrong, especially for me. Remember, I've been a volunteer firefighter for four decades, and was never seriously injured in that position, depending on your definition of "seriously" (not counting my original back injury, which didn't seem serious at the time). Yet I once pulled a muscle jumping over a mud puddle. As a teen, I gouged out a piece of my ankle while hauling trash to the curb. There's a reason why my wife doesn't let me use power tools. So it's no surprise that oatmeal almost did me in. In my quest to be healthy--yes, there is some irony here--I've been eating food that's supposed to help lower my cholesterol. So it was one morning when I came downstairs, in my usual post-sleep stupor, and decided to make a nice bowl of healthy oatmeal, to which I always add brown sugar because, hey--I've got an unhealthy reputation to maintain.

Cholesterol or not, no. Just ... no.

The brown sugar, to my surprise, had hardened. Annoyed and half asleep, I chipped out enough to throw into the food, where it softened and mixed just fine. Then I ate while watching a documentary about the first Americans: I'm one of those people who has to read or watch something while eating. I haven't eaten at the table since 1989, except at holidays. (In fairness, I've been researching for a story that involves the first Americans, so there. Spoiler: They didn't call themselves Americans.) Then I took my bowl into the kitchen, started to put the brown sugar away, and noticed it was white. Brown sugar is supposed to be brown. That's why they call it brown. At first I thought my wife must have spilled some powdered sugar in there while making something, which is dumb because both packages were sealed up. Then I looked more carefully. I'd never seen it on brown sugar, but I've seen it plenty of other places: Mold. I'd eaten a bowl of mold. Oh, and by the way: I'm allergic to mold. It didn't really seem that bad at first. I had a bit of a gut ache, which is to be expected, I suppose. I'm allergic to almost everything else, but I've never had an allergic reaction to food or medicine, so I figured maybe my body had just harmlessly digested it. And I guess it partially did, because my mold meal made it all the way into my lower digestive tract before the trouble kicked in. I see no reason to give you the details. For all I know, you're reading this while eating. What I can say is that my intestine is no friend of mold, and that the only real advantage of the whole thing is that I caught up on some of my reading while stuck in the bathroom. Also, I lost six pounds in a day. I would not recommend this as a diet, because once I got some 7 Up and soda crackers into me, I gained most of it back. The stupid part, of course, is that I didn't look into the bag and spot the mold before I put it into the oatmeal. It wasn't the oatmeal's fault, obviously. Just the same, for safety's sake, maybe with future breakfasts I should change over to donuts, or pancakes, or bacon. Or all of the above. After all, we must take care of our health.

I could just eat eggs. Nobody ever died from eating too many eggs. http://markrhunter.com/ https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B0058CL6OO https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/"Mark R Hunter"

[ozma914]

I Hear the Blurbing of a Newborn Book

As you probably know from the previous cover reveal, we've birthed a new book, and I didn't even take an epidural.

Kidding! It doesn't work that way, although sometimes it seems like it. Certainly gestation takes forever.

Print and website presence to come, but you can already pick up this infant book on Kindle:

https://www.amazon.com/Mark-R-Hunter/e/B0058CL6OO

But don't you want to know what you're getting? Okay, here's the blurb I wrote for the book I wrote about columns I wrote, and no wonder my fingers are tired. It's being added for sale in various places that you can bet I'll talk about, at least all through Christmas season.

Who would have thought the turn of the last Century would one day be ancient history?

In More Slightly Off the Mark, Why I Hate Cats, and Other Lies, former newspaper columnist Mark R. Hunter went back to collect his humor pieces from 2000 and 2001—the earliest ones to be put on a computer. In DOS format ... on a floppy disk.

The amount of change in just twenty years resulted in Hunter completely rewriting the columns, and inserting his present self (and his dog, Beowulf, through pictures) into the work—mostly to make fun of his younger self. Along the way Mark riffs on everything from history to health, vacations, holidays, housework, and of course technology. And weather. Because everyone talks about that.

In a more serious section Hunter also tackles the 9/11 attacks … because those were the times we lived in.

Some of the chapters include:

Advice From the Clueless

I Ran Out of Excuses to Write About Excuses

When Bad Cities Happen to Good People

Civil War, Summer Vacation—Same Thing

I Just Can’t Stand Intolerant People

The Next Big Step in Medical Disasters

And, of course: Age Ain’t Nothin’ But a Number, But It’s a Really Lousy Number

Mark R. Hunter’s humor column was published in newspapers for twenty-five years, and he notes there’s little than can be done to stop him from collecting more of them in the future … although state and federal laws are pending.

Mark R. Hunter lives in small town Indiana with his wife/editor/book designer/cover artist/supervisor Emily, their dog Beowulf, and a cowardly ball python named Lucius. Mark thinks he's a Hufflepuff, but keeps testing Slytherin.

[ozma914]

Yard Work for the Beat Down

I'm not as active as a volunteer firefighter as I used to be, because over the years my body has been beat down pretty good ... by doing yard work.

Other than a couple of back injuries, I've never really been hurt on that hazardous job. Firefighting, I mean. Yard work, now that's the task that leaves me moaning on the ground, and not in a good way.

You ever try to mow with this stuff on?

With firefighting, you wear tons of protective gear, which changes the most likely medical problems to heat stroke and heart attacks. With yard work, you wear shorts and a tank top, and in some cases hold a can of beer. In addition, with firefighting you tend to have the topic of safety going on in your mind:

"Say, I'm in zero visibility, crawling over a burned out floor, shoving a metal pike into the ceiling when I don't know if the electricity is still on." It's just an example. I've never pulled a ceiling while crawling on the floor, so don't sweat it.

When I'm doing yard work, I have other topics on my mind:

"I wonder how long I could let this grow before the lawn police arrest me?"

An action shot.

But the biggest reason for this seeming paradox is that fire just doesn't give a darn about me, while Mother Nature hates me.

Oh, yeah. Mother Nature is a vindictive bit ... being. She hears me complain. I complain a lot.

"It's too cold." "I hate bugs." "That's not rain: It's a cloud of pollen!"

Once, as I was mowing in the front yard, one of our trees bent down and beaned me with a limb. It had nothing to do with me not paying attention. It's also the only time in my adult life that I did a full somersault.

But recently I learned a new twist: My furniture is in cahoots with Mother Nature. Much of it is wood, after all, an increasingly expensive resource that doesn't just grow on trees. I'm always shoving furniture around, banging into it, and of course sitting on it. This axes of evil (see what I did, there?) recently tried hard to do me in.

I was mowing in the back yard, near the lilacs I've horribly neglected. If you were a lilac and your caretaker doesn't trim you or keep other trees from growing up in the middle of you, wouldn't you be upset? I don't know, either.

As I pushed the mower around one of the bushes, it reached it's driest, deadest branch out and clobbered me in the arm.

The evidence.

The above photo is my arm, just so you know. Now that I think of it, maybe this is what the far side of my forearm always looks like--I usually can't see it. But no, my wife takes great joy in pouring peroxide on my fresh wounds, and when they're old I don't scream like that.

The very next day, I noticed the TV remote was missing. (Just hang on, it's connected.) No big deal: It can always be found by sweeping a hand between the cushion and the inside of the couch's side. We put it on the arm, it slides down, and Bob's your uncle.

(That's just an expression: I don't mean to offend anyone who actually has an Uncle Bob.)

Now, the couch is only a few years old, and we really like it. It has two recliners, something that's always seemed like rich luxury to me, but boy, am I glad for them--especially on bad back days. But when you recline and unrecline and plop down on something all the time, there's bound to be some wear and tear.

As near as I can tell, a nail popped loose and just hung there, between the side and the cushion. Waiting. For me.

I swept my hand down there, just like I always do. What happens when something suddenly stabs into your hand? You withdraw your hand, don't you? Which I did, but the nail had already embedded itself into my finger. I'm pretty sure it bounced off the inside of a fingernail.

I'll spare you the photos.

Have you ever bled so much that you couldn't stop it even with pressure, elevation, and cold? It was just a finger, for crying out loud, which is exactly how I cried. Out loud. Luckily no one was home, but that meant I had to do the peroxide thing myself, and it's not nearly as much fun that way.

Two injuries in two days, on the same arm. And what swung that nail out to grab me? That's right: the couch's wooden frame. I got even by bleeding on it, but still. Also, I hurt my back again jumping halfway across the living room while waving my hand wildly, and later I had to clean up that blood.

Luckily I'm used to cleaning up my own blood.

Don't doubt the connection: The truth is out there ... and in there. Mother Nature is out to get me, and there's nowhere to hide. Today the couch--tomorrow the bed.

There's a thought to sleep on.

When I'm going to give blood, I prefer advanced notice.

http://markrhunter.com/ https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B0058CL6OO https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/"Mark R Hunter"

[ozma914]

Reading Potato Books to Your Pink Flamingo

This was originally on our newsletter, which you can check out and sign up for here:  https://us10.campaign-archive.com/home/?u=02054e9863d409b2281390e3b&id=f39dd965f0

You may have also seen it on Humor Outcasts. But I'm putting it out to everyone because it's about reading, which is important (trust me), and also because I had a lot of fun writing it, and we could use some fun right now. (And also because I've got my first sinus infection in more than a year, and I'm not feeling very creative.)

By the way, the newsletter version has a crazy cute photo of my granddaughter on it.

--------------------------------------------------------

September is a month dedicated to reading. I’m not sure why. Reading months should be in the dead of winter, when it’s too cold to do anything but curl up on the couch under a mound of blankets, pour hot chocolate over your head, and whimper about the weather. Or maybe that’s just me.

Or you could read, which seems more constructive.

But they didn’t ask me, and in fact they didn’t even tell me who “they” is, so September is both Adult Literacy Month and Read a New Book Month, which certainly do seem to go together. I don’t need to explain those, do I? If you don’t already know how to read, you’re probably not reading this right now, anyway.

September is also, according to the mysterious Them, Be Kind to Writers and Editors Month. Also related. As it happens, I’m a writer (thus this writing), and so I approve of Their decision. Since my fictional works have now been officially bought by editors, I also approve of editors.

So September is a month in which adults should read books written by writers, of which I am one. We writers shouldn’t let this go to our heads: It’s also Pink Flamingo Month, National Potato Month, and Save the Tiger Month. So They say.

Therefore, I’m going to start writing a new children’s book about a Tiger who gives up his Pink Flamingo diet and becomes a vegetarian devoted to potatoes. It’s working title:

Potato Tiger Picks Pink Feathers From His Teeth

That title … well, it’s a work in progress. Anyway, I recommend celebrating Read An Edited Writer’s Adult Literacy Month in October. Why not? It’ll be colder then anyway, and for those who’ve already read one book, this will be your chance to read two.

I recommend my books. Still available, mostly. 

Even Beowulf has a favorite book.

 In fact, I carry around a backpack full of copies, going door to door like a literary Jehovah’s Witness, only without the snappy tie.

Okay, fine– read whatever book you like, but please read one. I don’t get why I even have to ask people to read. I don't understood why people wouldn’t want to spend most of their time reading, with the possible exception of the late Hugh Hefner. And let’s face it, reading is way cheaper than sex, especially when you factor in certain prescriptions for someone who lived as long as Hugh. Not to mention alimony.

The irony is that I haven’t had much time in recent years to read; I’ve been busy writing. Stacks of books around the house tower over my head, ready to bury me in the most ironic death scene ever, and I’m not talking about just my own product. But by the time I’ve worked my full time job, then my second full time job of trying to get a fiction writing career going, I run out of time for my favorite relaxation activity. (I’m talking about reading – get your mind out of the gutter.)

So I dedicated myself to reading one new book every month, in addition to catching up on my magazine reading. (No, not one of Hef’s magazines … mind. Out of gutter. Now.) Frankly, I need the relaxation, and I began with a book my wife got for her literature class: Strong Poison, a 1930 mystery starring some guy named Lord Peter Wimsey.

Well, it was new to me. And more to the point, it happened to be on the coffee table when I learned this was Read a New Potato Novel to a Pink Editor Month. It’s shameful, really. I used to go to the Noble County Public Library and load up on the limit of books I could check out –

every month

– but that’s just another example of how grown up life lets us down. One book I can manage, these days. I challenge everyone else to do the same, and although I’d prefer it be one of mine, make it something you enjoy, something fun.

Stay away from Moby Dick, unless you’re a fishing fan.

Read to your pink flamingo, or read while feeding a potato to your tiger, or your editor, or whatever – but read. Let’s make this world literate again, in the way it was back when reading was fun instead of a chore. Oh, and be kind to the writers; maybe with a review, or a cup of hot chocolate. Be kind to editors, too … if they buy my stuff.

http://www.markrhunter.com/

https://www.amazon.com/Mark-R-Hunter/e/B0058CL6OO

https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/"Mark R. Hunter"

[ozma914]

Doggie DNA

Sometimes you just have to know where you came from.

But we don't have the money for that, so instead we decided to find out where our dog came from. So Emily found a doggie DNA test on sale and gave it to me as a Christmas present--I mean, she bought the test for me, to give to the dog--never mind. The point is, the results are in! It turns out Baeowulf (that's our spelling, get over it) is ... wait for it ... a dog.

That was kinda anticlimactic.

More specifically, Bae is, like most good Americans, a mutt. Or maybe I shouldn't say like  Americans, since it turns out he's 25% German Shepherd. I believe Emily and I both have some German in our ancestry, so ... coincidence? Well, yeah.

But he's 12.5% each of five other breeds, with a smattering of others. In fact, it would appear that his parents had a party: One was a German Shepherd/Old English Sheepdog/Siberian Husky, and the other was a Collie/Labrador Retriever/White Swiss Shepherd. So, just as my wife and I have Cherokee in us, Bae has Shepherd on both sides. Awkward family reunions.

I saw definite connections in some of what the company claims are common breed behaviors. For instance:

They say German Shepherds can vary from calm and watchful to energetic. This describes Bae: for instance, calm and half-asleep until the moment the mail arrives, followed by him trying to break the door down like a TV cop. He's completely guilt-free about it: "Dude, he came onto my porch. My porch! All I want is a leg."

Then there's the Collie, which like most of the others is described as intelligent. According to Wisdom Panel they're usually friendly, but can be wary of strangers. That fits: Bae is wary of strangers until the moment he gets that first pat on the head, then he's in love--as long as you don't mess with Mom Emily.

The Lab, in addition to meeting the other descriptions, can be very food motivated. Bae can be asleep in the other corner of the house, but if we even think about the kitchen he'll come running as if the postman is in it.

The English Sheepdog can be motivated by food too, and favorite toys, but he can be stubborn. Try to get Bae to take a pill or a shower, and he's stubborn as a politician guarding his taxes.

The Siberian Husky may chase wildlife. Bae will chase wildlife. And if it moves, it's wildlife.

Then there's the White Swiss Shepherd. Raciiisstttt!!!! The White ... um, let's call him the Swiss ... can be aggressive with other pets or people. Bae usually isn't, unless he and Emily are alone and anyone comes within a mile of her. Then they will be eaten, and killed. Hopefully not in that order.

Finally there was the "Mixed-breed" group, which made up the last 12.5%. Basically the DNA tests found evidence of those groups from way back in Bae's ancestry, just like I go Irish if you search back to the early 1700s. To paraphrase a line from "Stripes", we've been kicked out of every decent country in the world.

Part is the Asian groups, which shockingly are compromised of breeds from Asia--and the Arctic. That's Malamute, Shar-Pei, and Chow, for instance. They're often bred for guarding, which explains why even I can't approach my wife without getting Bae's attention.

Part is the Sighthound Group, which were old breeds often owned by royalty. You got your Greyhounds, you got your Wolfhounds, you got your Whippet--Whippet good. (You older music buffs, you'll get that one.) No, I don't know why kings and princes wanted fast dogs. To chase queens and princesses? There'll be a Disney movie about this.

Finally comes the Terrier group. I didn't see that coming. They were bred to hunt and kill vermin, such as mice, rats, and politicians. I guess I should have seen that coming, since all Bae has to do is smell one of those from a distance and he's in jumping and biting mode--came in real handy during the election. Still, I have a hard time relating a 95 pound dog to a Chihuahua.

Apparently they tested for 200-250 breeds, which is pretty impressive. We expected he might have some wolf in him, but that--they call it Wild Canids--came up negative, as did Companion, Guard, Hounds, Mountain, Middle East, and African breeds.

Just the same, I think he does companion just fine.

[ozma914]

Writing Bad, But Keeping It Happy

My wife told me the other day that I was writing too much "downer" stuff, which puzzled me. Mostly, I write two things: humor, and "buy my books!" Usually I try to combine the two, so people don't know I'm trying to sell them something.

Maybe I shouldn't have said that.

In any case, I try to be funny when possible, so I wasn't sure what she was referring to. Then she pointed out that yes, they were humor pieces, but lately they'd been humor pieces about everything going wrong. Winter--which is wrong by nature--for instance. Sinus infections. My epic fails in the area of holidays and anniversaries. That kind of thing.

And she doesn't even know about my two written but unpublished blogs, involving my misadventures with medical testing.

It's a good point, but I think it's often in the nature of humorists to write about bad things. In general, when good things happen it's just not as funny.

But I have blood stored on standby, just in case.

"Hey, we had my birthday party the other day, and everyone was happy and I loved my gifts and the food was great! How cool is that?"

"I cleaned my garage the other day and nothing fell and broke and I didn't get hurt!"

See what I mean? (By the way, buy my books!)

Last month I rammed my foot into a piece of furniture that's been in the exact same spot for twenty years, and thought I broke it. (The foot, not the furniture.) That's a story. It's not much of a story, until I embellish it the way I embellished the Infamous Exploding Lawn Mower Incident, but it's still a story.

If I'd gone by the furniture without injuring myself I'd have been a lot happier, but there would have been no story at all.

So I went back through my blog, and almost all my humor pieces were either about something bad happening to me, or me complaining about something. That's not the way I am at all in real life. If every thing I did led to something or someone getting smashed, I'd have been in a grave in my twenties. If I complained about every little thing that presented itself to me, people would run away every time I walk in the door.

Which some of them do, but I thought it was just my deodorant.

It's the same with my fiction. My first published novel opens with a tornado, followed by a cop getting into trouble for false arrest. My second started with another cop getting into a confrontation with a politician. My third started with campers being upset because of a drought, and at the opening of my fourth my main character hits a deer. These are not good things. And yet all those works have comic elements, or at least that was the plan.

Ouch! Paper cut!

Think of your favorite TV show, book, or movie. Chances are, not long after the opening something changes for one of the characters, and it's usually something that really shakes up their lives. Ever watch Doctor Who? He runs into most adventures happy, anxious to make discoveries and meet new challenges. By the first commercial he (well, she, now) is desperately trying to keep any more people from getting killed.

So, yeah, I'll probably keep writing about things that are downers. And I'll probably also keep trying to get you to buy my books, but at least I'll be funny about it. I hope.

(And remember: Every time you don't buy one of my books, the groundhog sees his shadow. Stupid groundhog.)

It's just a relaxing hike in the woods; what could go wrong?

http://markrhunter.com/