Thursday, August 21, 2014

Fasten Nation

Given just the accidental food palette of mucilaginous messes that I retrieve nightly from my bib alone, I’m amazed at the number of ways I can stick stuff together when I really want to. Oh sure Superglue is the top glutinous glop fastener but it’s too expensive to eat so I stick with paste for most meals. My wife prefers I give Gorilla goo its due since it better befits my personality, monkeyshines, and bad habits of breaking ‘hard to glue things’ like bread and wind.

Since they take so long to grow, I rarely nail anything except for the flies that try to ride astride my hide. I prefer using screws whenever possible if working with dense wood - though it’s true as I've been accused, that a few have come loose in my head. Though I’m good at stringing people along, I was never a Boy Scout so I am not skilled at tying knots except in extension cords, earbud cables, and mobile phone charging dongles.

I flip over staples instead of clips because even though I like trigger clicks, I prefer lots o' butter over guns, especially if I have to store them for long periods of time. Zip tied bread bags and those fancy ZipLoc leftover storage sacks are useful as hats, but often they make me breathless and blue when diving for snacks. Sadly breaks in pipes won’t disappear even when I try transparent tape instead of solder, so I usually use the opaque duct stuff to do the job yet oddly the mend still leaks water. 

Is it any surprise that I’m vexed by Velcro especially when it comes to keeping my shoes on tight during shock therapy and my white jacket straight and linty free? Zippers, Pins, and Clasps can be helpful too but more often get hung-up or de-railed instead of doing their job – I guess I need a more detached attorney firm. Since I push them so often, clearly buttons still fastenate me for shirts and Polo tops, but I despise them on garments further down South since they ‘pop’ n' drop at inopportune times and often cause mouths to DROP!

Thursday, August 14, 2014

Map DEAF Jam

It’s widely known that I am a GPS fan who uses high tech mapping devices daily to navigate from bed, bath and beyond. So even with a few flaws and some occasional misdirection worthy of a slide of hand magician, it takes a lot o’ poxes for those l’il black boxes to get on my Ox-cart’s bad side. But this week I had the (dis)pleasure of trying to navigate with a new-fangled voice-programmed satellite map instead of the old fashioned punchy numbers go-car-go show. 
No doubt it’s fun technology to be able to yell back at the GPS and finally force an inanimate robot screen to listen to me be mean after so many years of being ignored by the rest of my family. But the problem is the thing just glows and knows I can’t punish it for misinterpreting everything I say and seizing up unexpectedly anyway. Is it that my rust-bucket car is too noisy or is it my sloppy speech is so slurred that the command ‘Highway’ stops traffic and really sounds in a way like ‘Hives n’ Whey’?
At least when the alive members of my tribe ignore me or are coma-bound they try to LOOK moderately interested as they turn pale and their eyes glaze over easy to sound. The irritating dash-top roadie doesn’t worry if I’m in a hurry, it just drones and bleats, objections to my questions with constant repeats. Who pays hundreds of dollars to coax a stupid machine to berate and badger, when spouses will happily do that job for free but louder?

Though it’s true the blackend box made me blue, it DID eventually route me to where I needed to be, still witless, mapless, and no worse for the wear. I honestly think I can already do all that stuff too but better on my own, since I take up little more real estate while sitting on the dash and don’t need plugging in so long. I just hope when my gray matter gets even softer and my ear canals miss more calls 'bout boatloads of free eats for geezers, my friends and family will be as patient with me as I am with this deaf and dumb GPS with frequent seizures.

Thursday, August 7, 2014

Glue Finger

I’m often amazed at the number of ways I stick broken stuff together around my kennel without intending to. I admit, I might tend to the slightly sloppy which dots skin through shirt with sweet savory sauces and thick n’ sticky soups du jour. Even when lurking in dark alleyways I never miss sticky guano-spots when skulking for trash-can treasure, though my cave-gait alone should repel all but the most emboldened of beady-eyed bat beasts. 

With all that Grey Poupon farmed from my smocks and sandals I should be one handy homeowner armed with more than muck, luck, and duct tape to keep my cardboard hut full-up with working stuff. But alas it takes more than hope and a whole tub (no I didn’t forget the ‘e’) of shoe glue to keep my décor un-smashed and always at the ‘thrift-shop’ ready.  So like most folks I must buy overpriced messy mix epoxies and pin-pointy topped bottles of sticky store elixirs, to mend my gaps and furniture fixers .

The type of goo doesn’t matter as long as it sticks to dirt and smells like acrid saucy Sriracha flowing freely, like water, at a Songkran weekend wingding. My only real complaint is that colorful glue concoctions of today all seem to be so specialized and custom designed to adhere to just one specific thing. I have so many bins stuffed with half-used tubes of crusty-capped, brain-shrinking aromatic glues that I could even make ol’ Elmer, the handsome mascot bull, believe he’s just a flying pig wearing waterproof lipstick.  

What I need is a universal donor cement for the average Joe like Negative blood Type O, so that beyond the recyclables, I don’t have a garage crammed full with more blobby bottles and gunky cans. Even though I live in a ‘CRACK-ing house’ I’ve borrowed from the bank, it’s high time I get on the stick and find a grabby true-glue friend to nix my flophouse fractures and fix ‘em up quick. Too bad I won’t lift a finger to help my crib-complaints flee, since apparently one thing ALL glues do well, is adhere thin-skinned fingers to rump, nose and ME.

Thursday, July 31, 2014

WOW: Witless Old Waiter

I have to admit I am not all that good at waiting. Oh sure I can sling hash if I have to and toss tasty trenchers at toothless townies when needed, but I’m talking about the kind of waiting one does unwillingly in doctor’s offices with lots of patience. It’s not that I am better than others or that my time is more important, it’s just society should succumb and willingly appease ME, the def-initely dumb and incorrigible geez.

Since I often must cry for sanctuary when I skulk among the masses, I usually do most of my waiting without interaction from others anyway. Frequently I just stare at my computer and devise awful evil things I want to do to that endless centipede circle cheerfully spinning while it secretly loads malicious malware. All of the exhibitionistic plants in the house seem to grow bashful when I watch them and even pots of gruel refuse to drool unless I walk-away so it can boil blissfully to black on my white hot cook-top.

Invariably when I paint, fingerprints of varying depth and definition will remain on surfaces for all eternity as fossilized evidence of my frequent ready-testing gets the best of me with every coat. At BBQ’s whose got thyme to harangue meringue  and anyway everybody loves crunchy chips n’ snacks so what’s wrong with a little ‘snap’ from the mac in your salads and cheese? If it weren’t for impatient folks like me society might never know the convenience and merits of nose-hole ready carrots, fingerling potatoes or underwhelming hot-pot coffee at overpriced mini-marts.

Weak peeved geezers of my ilk could probably learn to cope a bit better if society would provide TRUE and accurate estimates of time regardless of task. Why is it so hard to have the gas tank in my car actually BE empty when the gauge confidently says so on the dash? If infuriating wait times for customer care or take-offs on tarmacs are 10 minutes at most, why then turn twice that or more with me up-ended babbling helpless to my selfness banging head to floor? It’s no wonder with credentials like mine, I’ll earn eligibility for witless wheezer n’ geezer protection in time - as long as I’m willing to wait, in a very long line.

Thursday, July 24, 2014

Microwave Missionary

Although spies like microwaves for a completely different mission, hungry for something hippos like me only use the common cooking nook appliance to bombard electrons against cold pizza and occasionally chilly FEET-za. What better way to give my beltline a bulging boost than with a pushbutton box that takes frozen pasty pablum and turns it into bold tasty hot n’ tots. Of course the fridge is still my secret kitchen-mistress though unlike ‘mikey’ she is cold-hearted and always wreaks of feet even after a thorough scrubbing .   

As a fan of the ‘wave’ I’d like to see a mini-micro in every spare pigeon-place in my home and car, since all should heed my call to count down their next mandatory fragrant bacon injection. Who wouldn’t benefit from a transformer family van with a magnetron on board ready to jump start a bun in the oven or toast your toes during a cold commute. At least the built-in blocky clocks would keep better time than the tinny Timex hanging from the Rear view mirrors in both my car and bedroom. 

My only Radar-Range recurring issue is whenever I stuff something rank inside, half of it boils over and spits out onto the walls and falls on the sides of the box yet the remaining food left on the plate is still stone cold? I have enough trouble cleaning my OWN steel can much less the one that surrounds and scorches my supper Tupperware too. Don’t worry I solved the problem by just covering stuff with gold rimmed china – not only is there no need to scrub crusty crud but I get a feisty fireworks show too.

Honestly what kitchen occupant other than the microwave has truly revolutionized cooking, unless you count ME with a potpourri of popcorn and pork rinds revolving around my ample roll-hole. Even that spice queen I ride hard in the corner called ‘lazy Susan’ is mostly just a pepper flake and easily replaced with a rack if it gives me flack. Too bad my wife probably feels the same and would jump at the chance to show me the mesh-lined door of ‘merry-Mike’s’ dizzy core for a quick SIT n’ spin if she dared. Except  the spouse would surely grouse that the clean-up risk is far too great, since so often I’m stuffed brim-up with lots of hot what-nots on my plate and dangerously round-throne prone to SEAT-sickness!