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Dexter+ Returns To Kill Us All

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Starting with the most important point: Dexter will return for another season. I’m as certain of it as Michael C. Hall’s agent was when he recommended to his client that he make “Safe” for Netflix.

Dexter will haunt us again if no other reason than it’s going to be profitable for everyone involved.

Some of us have been fooled by fake promotional posters for the mythical Season 9 of Dexter. It’s easy to fool those who already long for such a scenario to be a reality. As for the studios involved, I can’t imagine that it wouldn’t be profitable for them to have a go at Dexter+ in the near future. I’m betting that it will be sooner rather than later. (Dexter+ is the name I’m recommending that the studios adopt.)

For the neanderthals walking among us, Dexter was a Showtime series featuring a likable vigilante serial killer in Miami.

In a testament to forgetfulness, I watched the entire run of Dexter again. First, I thought there were fewer seasons. Second, it’s undeniable that some seasons had some strange plot twists and contrived storylines. Good tv is forgiven the infrequent gaffe. Rewatching the show provided me with several instances in which I noted that the writers had dropped hints of possible futures for Dexter. None of them seemed relevant the first time I watched. Now that I’ve revisited Dexter, the infinite storylines available to great writers seems endless.

Now that I’m finished rewatching, my mind seems focused on the monumental things I’d forgotten – or had completely wrong. Many fans were incensed at the way the show ended. Lt. Batista never knew Dexter’s secret. Quinn survived, no matter how badly I rooted for him to get shot from a balcony. Debra, of course, is fish food.

I like to imagine Lt. Batista still at his desk, being the kind-hearted stereotype he always was. Debra, being eaten by the sharks in the bay as the currents move her back and forth. Dexter, sitting in his place in the Northwest, fantasizing about his next appearance in a Gillette commercial.

Of this I’m certain: there will be another season of Dexter. Showtime insisted that Dexter would survive the series finale, even as writers argued about whether it was realistic. His son Harrison would now be about to reveal whether he inherited Dexter’s affinity for mayhem. The story can pick up at any point in time, past or present and in any geographical location they choose. The real world still spins and no one substantive apparently suspected that Dexter was indeed a serial killer. His cover story could be amnesia or a mental break which rendered him incapable of returning to the life he was already leaving before Debra’s death. Lumen still lurks in the midwest. Hannah walks the earth, probably still free.

As with all good stories, the biggest obstacle is one of creativity on the part of those tasked with creating a new timeline for Dexter.

It’s inevitable.

Showtime, it’s your turn.

If you think you can shirk your duty to bring us another season of Dexter, you’re as foolish as Dexter was, each time he attempted to live a normal life.

The only trailer for the new season we need is this: Doakes at the boatyard, telling Dexter, “Suprise, m*********a!” No explanation, no cutaway, followed by a fade to black as the word “Dexter” enters and fades from view.
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Even If You Leave, You’re Not Going Anywhere

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I know it’s fashionable to say, “I’m leaving Facebook,” especially for the seemingly never-ending data scandals.

But for those who don’t know, Facebook (and most other media companies) can and will follow you across your life, even if you’ve never had a social media account of any kind. I’ve written so much about the unicorn of privacy that I find it impossible to believe that someone thinks they have privacy if they are using electronic devices of any kind.

If you close your social media accounts, it will have almost no effect on the quantity and quality of information collected about you. Your behavior and history are unflinching indicators of everything about your life. Even non-electronic information is being used, so unless you opt for a life in a shadowy cave, there’s no escape from being included in the heap of other consumers.

Yes, you might be leaving Facebook, but it’s not leaving you. And neither are any of the other companies watching you. (FB and Google directly control about 70% of the entire digital ad market.) Whoever you use for your internet is allowed to sell your history.

You might as well set fire to your own underpants.

We’ll film it and upload your fire dance to social media for you, though.

Amazon will show you an ad for burn cream or new underwear to let you know they’re interested in your well-being and business.

Kroger in Hot Springs

A word of praise: The larger Kroger in Hot Springs was both amazing and depressing.

Old age has its pleasures.

It’s awesome to see the shores of the Pacific. But it’s epic to find new delicious foods to shove into one’s gullet.

The Kroger in question was a sight to behold, in part due to the wide selection of food, both healthy and otherwise. There were at least 30 items that I would gladly substitute as my entire diet if I could.

It was depressing, though, because I knew I’d leave and come back to NWA, where none of the competition has such a spectacular cross-section of items, price, and quality. It’s true that I can visit 3 different stores and probably approximate what I’d buy in one visit to Kroger.

I know that a “super” Kroger isn’t common. But if you’ll permit me to dream for a moment, I’ll ask for world peace, total nonviolence among nations, and that Kroger builds a replica of the Hot Springs store near my house. I wrote Kroger to let them know how much I look forward to them building a store near me.

P.S. You can remove all the Walmart Neighborhood markets and relocate them to Nebraska.

Thanks.

The Most Beautiful Bird…

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Imagine the most exotic and beautiful bird your mind can conjure. You can picture its plumage, adorned with a prismatic array of colors, each a mystery to your curious eyes. As it moves, its feathers separate like a cloud of butterflies, producing a melodic and calming rustle. Its eyes shine with the brilliance of the promising universe which surrounds it.

That same bird now soars in the air and slowly descends upon on one of the outstretched limbs of a towering tree, it leaves a vivid green and the bulbous fruit hanging from the limbs make your mouth water with imagined anticipation and savor.

The bird stretches its elegant neck and takes one of the fruits and eats it, causing the scent of immense sweetness to burst into the air in a rainbow arc.

Now, imagine that fruit turning to what it inevitably must, passing through this beautiful bird and falling from its behind.

That’s what this peanut butter spread tastes like.

Because crap is crap.

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P.S. I wish you could have witnessed the look on my wife’s face when the flavor of this malevolent food touched her taste buds. She sat at the table, hunched over and smiling. Her face registered the hope of delight and the doubt of trying something new as the spoon touched her tongue. As the horrific flavor of this food invaded her taste buds, I could envision a dark sky filled with the corpses of plummeting angels, all decimated in flight from the unadulterated evil contained in the jar within Dawn’s reach.
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A Photo Puzzle Gift and Evening of Espionage

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My wife Dawn & I have decided that our nascent career in spookery and espionage has already faltered. Just attempting to quickly and efficiently exit the vehicle in an attempt to switch places was almost enough to do us in, never mind the furtive ‘chase’ across multiple lawns or the horrific sight of me as I ‘ran’ to escape being caught ringing a friend’s doorbell and fleeing.

While I scampered away to avoid detection, I imagined a neighbor calling the police and excitedly telling them, “There’s an old man wobbling through the middle of my yard. I think he might have done something he shouldn’t have, like have an extra serving at supper.”

By the way, we know our careers in sneakery are additionally suspect because it would have never occurred to us to attempt such a surprise under the cover of darkness.

I had spent an inordinate amount of time devising the perfect 1008-piece customized puzzle iteration, using a couple of hundred distinct pictures, and it arrived unexpectedly today. The finished puzzle is 20″ x 26″. It seemed like a moral imperative for us to drive over and surprise our unsuspecting friends with it. I think we had more fun devising our plan than actually being able to say “mission accomplished.”

Portrait Puzzles does astonishingly great work if you find yourself in need of a really, really complicated and personalized puzzle. They’ll customize the tin the puzzle arrives in, too, if you think that it’s advisable that the people intending to assemble the puzzle might need to know what the finished picture might look like.The one I had made will probably cause either partial blindness or intense bouts of spontaneous vomiting. It’s pretty complicated, is my point. At my age, though, getting to the point is more of a goal than a requirement.

Despite my strong desire to remove one piece from the puzzle in the gift tin, I resisted. I think I might have killed someone doing this a few years. How was I supposed to know her chronic OCD would flare up if she spent 22 hours assembling a puzzle only to find that it was missing one critical piece?

The friends getting the puzzle are two of the nicest people one could ever hope to meet. I didn’t get to know them until fairly recently, in part due to their wise aversion to hanging out with people like me. I lived a little of their lives with them, though, all these years later, as they trusted me to digitize thousands of pictures of their lives. It was an honor and I hope they get a little bit of the magic of the lives back as they relive it, piece by piece. I hope they have enough sense to go lie down for a moment if they begin to hallucinate from the effort.

To the residents who live over by Pin Oak, I apologize if you were unlucky enough to peer out your window while I was up to my usual shenanigans in your neck of the woods. I think I lost a shoe in one of your yards. You can keep it, though, to remind yourself that not everyone should run through wet grass or attempt to commit acts of sneakery in broad daylight.

Love, X

 

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Another Beautiful Wood Panel from Snapfish

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My latest 11×14 wood panel/picture, which Snapfish custom-made for me. Just in time for Season 2 of “The Handmaid’s Tale,” this picture will remind me of not only the perils of an authoritarian government but also the dangers of letting me have photo editing tools at my disposal. I must admit that I totally rock the dystopian red outfit, though.

When asked how my wife Dawn sees the future with me in it, she replies, “…with eyes closed.”

 

#handmaidstale  @handmaidsonhulu

Choward’s Violet Delights

 

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For those who want to dip their toes in the Tide Pod culinary waters, Choward’s Violet Mints are for you.

Most people agree that they have a strange soap flavor. It’s hard to believe that everyone isn’t clamoring for more violet-flavored candies in their diets. If ice cream were violet-flavored, most children would stop begging for it as the ice cream truck drives by. And probably hurl themselves under the nearest bed, just to be sure.

I ordered mine from Amazon, 3 packs of alien candies.

Strangely, I couldn’t resist sniffing the package, much like a German Shepherd trained to detect drugs at an airport.

I’m confident that most people would be repulsed by these, just like they might be if they bite into a boiled egg only to find that it has been filled with grape jelly and iguana blood.

These candies were once popular.

I speculate that they might be part of the reason that people once died so young.

I’m glad I tried them, though. I keep impulsively eating them, much like the compulsion to pick at a scab as it hardens.

I can’t decide if I actually like them, or if they somehow fulfill an unstated desire to punish myself for some unidentified crime.

I’m going to eat all 3 packs of mine, though. My breath will smell better than a fresh load of laundry, too.

Joe Kwon Do

Click link and button above to hear the latest ad I made for Joe, to compete with the Krav Maga system.

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Joe, a large friend of mine, someone who looks like a human Bigfoot, despises those Israeli Krav Maga self-defense courses. Not content with merely turning off the radio when a commercial comes on for the local version, my friend rips the entire radio out of the dashboard and hurls it across the freeway. Naturally, this costs him a lot of money. His point is that if he can yank the stereo out of his vehicle while driving, he doesn’t need a goofy martial arts course to show him how to pull a human arm from its socket.

If you know anything in life, other than “You do not talk about Fight Club,” the second rule is that you do not tell your friends what you despise, or you will see and/or hear it for the rest of your life, and probably nine times at your funeral.

Given my friend’s hatred for Krav Maga commercials, I had no choice¬† but to make 11 different versions of the same jokes for him.

You’re welcome Mr. Bigfoot. Stop ripping out your car stereos. Not everyone was born with arms that look like the back leg of a bull. PS: And if you try to whip my butt I will use those Krav Maga tactics I learned just from listening to the terrible ads on the radio.