Thursday, December 29, 2011

Resolv-olution!

Hey what’s the big deal with resolutions and New Year’s Eve? Honestly last time we hung out with EVE didn’t we learn anything after that little ‘apple incident’ back in the days of Eden? Wouldn’t you know it though, like everyone else, just before that big dumb glitter ball drops, I can’t help it – I want to start resolving stuff too!

The problem is that one minute into the New Year and I immediately begin to lose my resolve to actually follow through with those lofty-topped resolutions. I mean it’s tough trying to keep my vows and stop eating my own weight in chicken wings – especially since the farm ‘chicks’ I hang out with are never ‘down’ with that. Oh sure it would be nice to replace our clog-prone commodes with those bowls that will swallow buckets of golf balls; but whose got that much time to pilfer from the driving range?

We don’t need some arbitrary end-of-year date to tell us what to do and how to better change our ways. Anyway, isn’t December already kind of packed full of holiday hoe-downs and expensive excesses without the added burden of tired self-reflection and relentless regret rituals? Maybe my first resolution this year will be to dissolve the resolve of New Years Day and start a ‘Resolv-olution’ of sorts!

Just think how great it would be to face the upcoming year guilt-free while wearing any ol’ quirky lampshade you care to slip on? Even that fat, pink n’ ‘nekkid’ sash-ensconced New Years baby could eat anything and would appreciate the freedom from making hefty life decisions so early in the year. Without lofty goals or high-brow standards to get in the way, I could do darn near anything today and worry about those nagging consequences and restrictive resolutions tomorrow. Or better yet how about next month, or maybe next YEAR during some memorable & special event in time? Hmmm … why not when they drop that shiny New Years ball at Midnight – now that’s a revolutionary resolution solution!

Thursday, December 22, 2011

Conephobia

Ever since I donned my first dunce cap in a dark n’ dreary corner at grade school, I have never been a fan of cone shaped objects. Think about it, whenever cones shows up outside a party it almost ALWAYS means trouble - or at least a lot of traffic congestion. Yeah, it may be hip these days to condone garden gnomes and worship Harry Potter’s talking wizard topper, but let me tell you nothing good (especially my grades) has ever come from pointy-head geometry.

Oh sure you can use your Cone-dome to single-out South East Asians who truly love their Mekong rice-paddy hats to keep and look cool all at the same time. Remember though, not so far away pimple-popping Pacific peaks freely spit-up lava in your face, like a bad baby brimming with gut-gas and a craw full of over-ripe pineapple pablum. Yep, the only comely Cone-y that a big APEx like me will pony up to at a table, is one slathered in mustard, onions, and oh so fashionable neon-green relish.

Also, what ‘dim-tin-tin’ dog of a marketing ‘goo-roo’ decided that ice cream is far more fun in a pencil tipped ‘sugar cone’ rather than in the confines of a safe, sane, and POINT-LESS ‘cake cup’? Does this waffling world of ice cream wimps REALLY need two types of edible receptacles; especially when the one with the bayonet for a body makes us dig a hole FIRST before we can sit the drippy mess down?

Double ditto for phony-coney coffee filters – after all these years, other than the Easter Bunny and his marshmallow nougated ilk, what’s the ‘prob’ with packs of flat n’ happy BASKET cases? Remember though, since I’m from the Midwest, you have to slice me a scintilla of slack. Because around these parts, both alley dwelling funnel clouds and funnel cake blowhards like myself have been known to run amok on occasion which often leads to great damage of both the tree-line as well as my waistline!

Thursday, December 15, 2011

My Dickens Christmas traditions

Except for the stuffed and mounted Santa & sleigh on the wall, my family has a few oddball Christmas traditions too just like everyone else. Mind you I’m no Scrooge-dude, but over the years I have assembled a slightly warped array of holiday harbingers & habits to help herald n’ Hark the angels ‘BARK’, albeit a bit off-key. Oh sure our gaggle of odd ducks still suck nog and exchange gifts of cheap & waxy chocolate covered cherries and brickyard fruitcake, because Christmas is nothing if it isn’t about quality.

Anyone can buy gaudy and poorly made 3rd world ornaments for their family but I insist on contributing to our nation’s constant need for landfill refuse by making my own. Yes, nearly every year I try to show my Mother the meaning of ‘true love’ with a homemade or recycled ornament creation of hanging JOY. Who can resist some of these decades old deformed beauties when they are made out of rare Christmas finery like waffle batter, peanut shells, melted soda bottles, or my favorite art medium – dryer lint?

My wife’s siblings and parents prefer to exchange ‘gag’ gifts every year instead of the obligatory stacks of lifeless gift cards. It makes sense since doesn’t everyone love a holiday meal graced with a giant restaurant-sized can of pork n’ beans donning a glittery Santa hat at the head of the table? Not to be out-done, my own Father spreads a healthy helping of Christmas cheer too by annually competing with his Army buddies to distribute the ‘UGLIEST’ Christmas cards they can find and dare send.

So judge me not for my inner ‘hum bug’ and forgive my assault upon age-old holiday traditions. Clearly I am one pinched loaf short of a bread pudding and my lameness should remain blameless due to my family’s BAD genes AND taste. So now you know my relatives may see quality differently, but we TOO try to keep a Dicken’s Christmas “well’ – it’s just that we’re a 'tiny Tim' more ‘SCROOGED’ up than you.

Wednesday, December 7, 2011

HillBILLY 'Grinchmas'

Hey just because I’m always scratching, walking around with spinach in my teeth, and usually hairy doesn’t mean that I am some hillbilly Christmas Grinch. The only issue is that as I get older I would prefer if all the holiday ‘Hul-la-ba-WHO’ would just get over with a tad quicker, that’s all. Far beyond the gallons of Nyquil I brew n’ consume from the still daily; effectively from one second after Halloween through New Years day, life compresses and besieges me as one big, bimonthly burr-blur.

Oh sure it’s easy to act all high & jolly and kiss random elves & animals when mistletoe, rum-laced nog and choco treats race to the brain to free my inner ‘DOPE-amine’. But I really don’t need any more excuses to do LESS work or accost my remaining un-institutionalized friends or their laundry, with good CHEER and random acts of Christmas. Anyway, who wants Santa’s stinking perpetual pine scent all over my trusty rust-bucket and bounty of hoarded stuff for one sixth of my entire life? As long as my wife, a.k.a. ‘Mrs. Claws’, gives me permission to goof off and keep intravenously beefing up my already well powdered and sugar-coated ‘gut-muffin’, every day IS MY holiday Right?!

Yeah I grouse and whine but it’s all in good ‘ol bum-country fun. Actually my inner ‘Grinch’ is rather endearing when I start to pass ou..t - uh sorry?, … the roast beast feast to my cousin, mother, and step-daughter - who all happen to be the SAME person. While city-folk rage over the age-old quandary of ham OR turkey, ‘round here, at our ‘Road-Kill rally’ we can score BOTH, cooked over a roaring Firestone tire fire by the ‘up-chuck wagon’. Usually by Christmas though, not only has my ‘Grinch-initesimal ‘ heart abruptly enlarged, but my beltline and the pan full of cat litter under my Lazy Boy has swelled thrice its size as well.

So you coastal dwellers and holiday snobs can keep all of your fancy long drawn-out traditions, seasonally-lighted houses with the wreath adorned doors, and fake snow on your window panes. In the Midwest we NEVER take down our lights without a court order and we drive around with REAL deer and bloody antlers stuck to our pick-ups. Yes, in the ‘Zarks, we can count on the pleasure of genuine snow and frigidity to brighten our toothless smiles far beyond just the months of November and December. Gee I guess around here every day must be Christmas and I am just an old ‘inbred Grinch’ after all!

Thursday, December 1, 2011

Forget gyms just EXERCISE!

Just because I don’t belong to a gym doesn’t mean I’m averse to exercise, it just means that in MY typical mental state I am not allowed to operate HEAVY machinery. No to stay fit, I want to get my ‘juice’ the old fashioned way by skulking back and forth between the refrigerator, recliner, and the litter box near the roach motel. I used to be in a lot better shape when I was young but once they invented zippers, TV remotes and the devil’s utensil – the ‘spork’, I got a little lazy and a tad flabby.

Oh sure since I type a lot and know my way around a can of aerosol cheese, you probably have guessed that I’m a world class athlete from wrists to fingerprints. Sadly it’s just the rest of my flesh that flaps and flags furiously in a stiff wind which makes me pause, not with concern, but to catch my breath. Apparently my wife worries about my cold, stiff, body too, since she routinely tells me where to ‘go’ to warm up, and she wants me to get off my coffin to increase my activity level and exercise routine.

Even during frigid times of the year I try to appease the spouse with a brisk walk together over the dark and cold Midwest tundra to Taco Bell for dinner. I don’t mind following carrots as long as they taste like tacos, and anyway you’ve never lived until you boot your way through recently thawed permafrost into a two inch layer of muddy ‘Mr. Ma-GOO’! Who needs a hot, expensive & sweaty gym when the great outdoors will suck off your shoes and offer-up 10 pound ankle anchors for free? After all bulky Hulks like me need all the help I can get, to lift and separate my Frankenstein gate, and enhance my already cartoon-creature image.

Like satanic thoughts, most of my daily fitness routine is thrust upon me involuntarily anyway, as I try to keep up with the stuff that makes trouble, breaks double, or takes a fall on top of my ‘un-loved’ Amityville shack. Inside this cavern, there is always a cold darkness stalking me, but that might be because I’m just ‘bats’ by pulling the shades and setting the thermostat too low? When it comes to graveYARD work I am taunted by millions of demon leaves and howling, windy, tree-things which need bunching, crunching, and perpetual decomposition. Now you can see I don’t really need to be banished to a gym to get in shape - I just need to be regularly EXORCISED!

Thursday, November 24, 2011

Turkey Envy

Being a fan of all things ‘foul’, you can probably guess that I sincerely love a golden turkey on Thanksgiving. As a butterball myself, I have a ‘pop-out’ soft spot for sharing a pleasant holiday meal with my dandy-fam and nothing but ol’ ‘tasty Tom’ will literally fit THIS Bill! Despite that, I honestly still feel uncomfortable when around naked tawny turkeys with their prickled skin and in their pre-basted state of undress. I’m clearly no ‘Freudo’ psych-pro but this apprehension most likely speaks to my repressed childhood where I would avoid the high school showers after P.E. for the EXACT same reason.

Hey I know my ancient ancestors were ‘real men’ who had to run down and dance with anything they could get their ‘grubbies’ on just to avoid starvation. But even the most ardent and skilled ancient hunters probably didn’t shower either, before dragging a ‘kill’ back for others in the camp-clan to stuff n’ slather to the turkey tango. So ergo in modern times, I have technically already ‘done my share’ of the Thanksgiving prep. by picking-up the poultry in all its royal plumpness from the market and packing it home, right?

Oh sure you think I’m a ‘wuss’ and feel all high and mighty just because you fancy yourself as a master at buttering up and stroking cold, dead flesh per age old traditions. Remember morticians are pretty good at that too and even with their big high-brow Cadillacs, nobody EVER says they’re the life of the party. Besides, my tribe keeps me around for the NORMAL Ozark side dishes and immoral support. You haven’t really lived until you’ve feasted upon red Jello with buckets of fridge leftovers in translucent suspended animation, or my famous ‘hillbilly’ fresh greens overflowing with classy cheese-doodle croutons.

Still I wish I had the right stuff to shove a cuff up a big bird when called upon. Maybe it’s just a matter of practice so I need to stop being a chicken by ducking the plucking and start small to work my way up through the aviary food chain? I figure a finch is a cinch and a goose should boost my ‘hands-up’ experience with the egg-layers & cavity union. I am a bit skeptical though, because even if I triumph over my turkey touching trauma I still have to come face to fowl with the business end of an ostrich, ten pounds of Oleo and a toaster oven. I still don’t know how I’ll do it but like blogging, the best way is to NOT think about it and just ‘WING’ it!

Happy Thanksgiving!

Thursday, November 17, 2011

The SNUGGIE clause

Well it may be my repressed n’ all-wet, Brawny paper towel guy talking, but if there is one thing in life that my wife loves for the holidays, it’s big, bulky, plain-jane, oversized flannel jammies. Who can resist the soft downy touch of a pile of (preferably washed) perky plaid lumberjack duds? Despite the occasionally dicey run-ins with Paul’s bunions and other hairy guys in knitted caps with axes to grind, who doesn’t want to know what’s TRULY BEHIND the ‘trapdoor hatch’ in oh-so- cozy ‘onesie’ pajamas?

Let’s face it though, anything flannel should never be in close proximity to normal department store silky lingerie. Do you really think foot-draggers like myself, have any desire to slink through the lacy & racy store aisles unless we’re yelling for ‘Sanctuary’ and being hunted by ‘clip-on tie clerks’ with torches? Those underwear enclaves with their nasty hooks, wires, and strings are the things of tortured dreams. I’m threatened by garments which won’t rack right and their intentions protrude unnaturally into the path of my cart’s personal space. In these ‘cess-dens’ of black satin & nude-colored hosiery, women’s burning eyes will just stare at me with revulsion and fear - but I almost always leave their stupid louvered changing rooms when asked politely.

With winter upon us I recently decided to surprise the wife with a brand new set of flannel jams to brighten her smile and warm up all of her other dark parts. Searching for new heavyweight matching P.J.’s is a big responsibility and believe me I don’t take the task lightly. The only beaten dead horse around here is me, so there’s no way I’m going to saddle my best half’s flesh with just any old flannel from Bangladesh – she’s deserves the BEST thread count that 3rd world child labor can loom.

Little did I know that my minor ‘mission probable’ would turn into a major pain in the impossible. What retail marketing genius decided that this Christmas, everyone wants NON-matching, ‘licensed icon’, half-calf, sleep separates anyway? In between the floods, famine, and random wildlife wandering the streets, did all of Asia run out of the same NORMAL ‘flan-jam’ palette of muted pastel tints, lints, and twine? Geez for $40 bucks the spouse shouldn’t have to grouse about jams with flying Tabasco bottles, Daffy rocket ducks, or even Santa’s own sugar plum fairies dancing anywhere near her happy-lap. Anyway she’s already CONTRACTED with ME if she wants a hulking , plain, & furry softy to keep her warm . . . all she has to do is enforce the holiday flannel provision known as, the ‘SNUGGIE CLAUS’!

Thursday, November 10, 2011

Stinking Credit Card Colors

You’d think one of the great joys in my life is to look in my wallet and see lots of pictures of Green dead Presidents. Yes, stacks of cash are a step above the obligatory lint balls, expired McDonalds Monopoly pieces, and torn n’ tattered school pix from when my kid was half her current age. But the real highlight of my low-life, faux-leather ’billy-fold’, is my true-blue credit card, used to plump up my ‘piggy’ with pennies from every purchase.

Oh sure, I conceal and carry the Crayola collection of ‘CRUDit’ cards in every conceivable shade of the rainbow. However, most of that collective credit patina simply props up my pocket, and evens-out the lopsided cellulite bulges when I frequently ‘turn the other cheek’. Who knows what any of these credit colors mean anymore anyway? When I was a mere pup, if you were lucky enough to have a ‘free’ credit card, it was a utilitarian, dirty gray short & fat springy plastic bookmark. If the banking gods deemed you and your big ‘snob-shot’ salary worthy, you might also get to possess that other card – the enviable holy grail of true credit worthiness . . . a glistening GOLD-COLORED slab o’ plastic.

But these days everybody gets offers for Platinum, Emerald, Sapphire, and Slate colored credit cards which up until now, I had always thought were just geological structures rather than actual colors. I even recently saw a politically incorrect ‘Black-faced’ credit card, tap-dancing around premium exclusivity, rather than the more realistic ‘black hole’ VACUUM of debt, which drains your veins faster than ‘Drac’ if you’re careless. Unless he’s kissing his own glossy promo headshot, NOBODY - not even that irritating, diminutively-domed Dyson inventor-dude, wants to face THAT KIND of a sickening sucking sound.

Regardless of your favorite tint, whatever color these cards start out as, they can all bleed gallons of red ink if used indiscriminately. That’s why I always wondered why can’t somebody make credit cards out something REALLY practical like beef jerky or thin-sliced Velveeta cheese? Then at least when you get in a little over your ‘credit –head’, you can still ‘eat ‘em up’ BEFORE your creditors bestow the same favor upon you. Hmmm, maybe not such a great idea to fill my hot wallet with perishable cheesy credit cards though? I clearly don’t need additional reasons to be the ‘butt’ of my family’s hairy, old n’ moldy ‘STINK’ jokes!

Thursday, November 3, 2011

FOOD POLICE

What kind of world is this which chooses to limit food choices only to certain arbitrary time periods of the day. So what if I want chocolate cherries with my Cheerios or O.J. with my mayonnaise? As long as I don’t 'spew' on you, what do you care what I eat or when I eat it? Well apparently the ‘food police’ are in full force and spreading rumors that cookies are NOT a food group and candy should not be consumed PRIOR to dental exams?

Hey I know I have been accused of being a little cracked but it’s no ‘YOLK’ that I love scrambled ‘chicken droppings’ more than most folks. I can eat those little ‘Mork’-orb eggs most any time of day, though my wife insists that they are strictly ‘Breakfast’ food. Who wants to live with tyranny like this and under the repression of a some cluck’s hindquarters? Just because chickens lay eggs in the morning doesn’t mean they have also squeezed out an IRON-CLAD ‘ipso facto’ fair-use contract too (‘cause that would be painful)!

I recently ventured into a highly recommended Thai food joint to experience the eye-watering joy of the ‘Bhut Jolokia’ ghost pepper. Now trust me these blistering ‘Pepps’ are one of the top three hottest peppers grown and they are extremely spicy but I use Capsaicin as cologne so why worry right? In any case I had to endure the restaurant owner’s 10 minute liability lecture and sign a written release BEFORE I could eat my lunch. Now society is policing my food so what’s next important stuff like socks that match, toilet rings, or heaven forbid, my GUNS too?

Needless to say I finished my ‘hot’ lunch and am proud that, ‘Yes’ I avoided the $20 ‘clean-up puke‘ provision in my lucrative, yet gassy, contract. Who knew that we have evolved into a 'regurgitation-nation' where a dude’s intestinal fortitude must be reviewed, to keep YOU, from being sued? All these weird fuddy-duddy foodie rules have gone too far. Who needs this police state - as long as I am willing to pay for the gunk in my trunk then just leave me alone already. By the way in the END, I did pay for my extra-spicy Thai food, but don’t tell the ‘privy-patrol’ - the stuff was twice as costly six hours later!

Thursday, October 27, 2011

Pumpky le PEW

I don’t mind fruit and veggies as long as they know their place in the home. They are supposed to reside in unused decorative kitchen baskets, so duped visitors THINK I eat healthily. Or if our produce has been particularly bad, I hide it in ‘the cooler’ so it doesn’t become even worse before I throw it all away. But recently for the Autumn festivities, I chose a large attractive pumpkin as the centerpiece for our seedy shanty. Even the grocery sack kid noticed that this pumpky was unusually light for its size but who cares, I’m lazy so less heft for me to carry home - right?

So I proudly presented the rotund orange orb to my wife as some kind of Harvest offering, and she immediately proceeded to make a heaping shrine to all things ‘Ween’ smack dab in the middle of the kitchen table. Now this presents a problem for me because ‘El Gourdo’ has broken the first rule of produce by partnering with me at dinner, despite the fact that he is not fried, buttered, boiled, or knifed. But to further my angst, our table is also not all that big, so now where am I supposed to wolf down my trough of chow – off my ‘gut shelf’?

I could probably patiently live with the first two problems until October 31st but little did I know my bulbous cucurbita consort, even in his pre-Bris natural state, SMELLS like it has dirty orange 'farmer feet'. Now I have been buying and defiling pumpkins at Halloween for a long time and I’ve never had one reek worse than me before. If I ever carve the obligatory triangle facial features into this rotto-‘stink-squash’, the only things that will show up on All Hallows Eve will be the flies and even they will have to wear teeny-tiny gas masks.

Every morning before I brush my teeth, my wife already endures a daily eye-watering Sasquatch encounter, so now she gets a double-dutch dose of ‘sasSQUASH’-stench too. Since I am such an environmentalist, I had no choice but to act and prevent this unholy gas giant from adding to the polluted air that we breathe. I pulled out the serrated long box and entombed that big orange melon ball from top to tail in shiny aroma-free clear plastic. I did leave a tiny ‘pew-gap’ in the wrap though, so just a whiff of acrid air remains suspended in our house. Not only does it keep the neighbors away but I didn’t want my method to work TOO WELL, just in case the wife might get some ‘funny’ ideas – and a LOT more Saran wrap!

Thursday, October 20, 2011

NOW ‘EAR’ THIS – Be responsible…but do it quietly!

Yeah you may ‘call me irresponsible’ (or even sing it) but I am not a fan of those disaster sirens or just about any noisemaking warning device. Isn’t there already enough barking, Aflac quacking, and ting-ding ringing going on in today’s society to drive most any Grinch over the edge? I’m all for safety but what genius government agency decided that a gentle nudge with a cattle prod was barbaric, but loud excessive auditory stimuli is humane?

What’s worse is now our emergency sirens have been upgraded so they can even TALK to me when frightened public servants decide I need a 3AM wake-up call. I mean c’mon crash somebody else’s REM sleep party - I’m already hosting a platoon of voices in my vacuous skull full of burping Tupperware, so who needs yet another one? Never once in my life have I seen an effective air raid over my hut or worse, a free-range ‘one-too-many’ tipsy Godzilla tearing down my town.

Also now when skulking around the ‘burbs’, every cross-walk I encounter seems to bark some kind of warning chirp & chime. Some even squawk a doomsday countdown clock if I haven’t blazed across 100 feet of tarry roadbed in 3 seconds or less? Geez I don’t even think that Jamaican ‘BOLT’ guy can run that fast much less a dragging leisure-geezer like myself? Believe me I’ve been married a long time so I don’t need a shrill harpy ‘ice-pick in the ear canal’ reminder to know when it’s time to clear out of the way – my wife has been defending our refrigerator for years.

So hey if you are dumb enough to park your bike directly behind a trash truck or semi no amount of high pitched peep-beeping from a ‘back-up alarm’ is going to save you from yourself anyway. I just can’t imagine Daniel Boone, the ‘Abe-inator’, or even those poker playing dogs memorialized in felt, requiring so much ‘hand-holding’ in their era. Unlike today, those folks let the chips 'clink' to the floor as they may and understood, THAT was their one and only auditory warning. Sometimes it's not fair but the tenets of self-reliance, responsibility and yes, even the possibility of death are significant tests in real life. But compared to our current needy and feckless populace, our ancestors just seemed readily able to grasp and MEET their challenges with a little more gusto - and with A LOT LESS NOISE!

Thursday, October 13, 2011

Humbling Challenge

Since I have a couple of gunboats that have been apparently mistaken for feet, my wife has decided to kill me with her personal Bataan march towards a goal of one MILLION steps by mid December. While that might be fine if she had informed me a couple of years ago but she must not have noticed they are selling pumpkins in the stores now. So that leaves us with nary two months to complete 8,000 steps per day to help achieve her stupid foot-fungus goal.

Oh sure I applaud my wife’s healthy ambition to pound the pavement and carve off the kilos, but how did I get sucked up into this Dr. Scholl’s delight of daily drudgery? As long as I watch my salt intake and clean up after my slime trail, I kind of like being the resident slug anyway. Street walking in the shadows is fine if you’ve got the legs for the job but it’s my calloused feet and personality that rub people the wrong way. If only somebody could invent a machine to handle the burdens of BIpedal locomotion, I would get on that Midnight express train in a hurry and turn into a ‘BUY’ guy with bells on to seek freedom!

So low and behold at an estate sale last week, the ‘Big Wheel’ himself must have heard my incessant whining and prayed to shut me up. Yes, opportunity rolled over my toes that morning, in the form of a drop dead price on a stealthy, 2+2 on the floor, black electric wheelchair with a seatbelt and cool joystick to match. Now this is what I call living – why didn’t somebody tell us new-age upright primate gladiators about these horse-less chariots before? Once I clean the dirt off between all of its ‘moto-toes’, even I can glide through a million steps in the next couple of months. Better still as a bonus, with this ride I can circle the wagons and DO donuts in the parking lot while I eat glazed ones too!

I mean honestly, chasing the mail truck and the neighborhood wolf pack down the street has never been so much fun, though now climbing stairs and reaching for the choco peanuts on the top shelf is an unbelievably sweaty pain. Currently I’m perfectly healthy, but whenever I ROLL in that chair, my TOOTSIES literally look and feel powerless and it’s very humbling. Unlike the truly challenged who need these wheelies to move-on with their lives, when I tire of complaining about my insignificant toil, I can simply CHOOSE to get up whenever I want. So my choice now is to WALK HAPPILY with my wife, however long she needs, and wherever she wants to go while I still have the chance. Oh and don’t worry about my milk chocolate covered ‘Robo-Rolo’ - I promise we’ll find it a good home with a much less whiney and far more worthy CHAIRity in need!

Friday, October 7, 2011

Everybody ‘NOSE’ it’S NOT syrup

Rarely I wake up in the morning without a jump start from licking a 9 volt battery, but even then I don’t spring to life with limitless pink-bunny energy. Like most loony baboons, I ‘doo’ what I have to do, but little else so I won’t unduly embarrass myself in front of the troop and my homeless alley-mates. Of course I brush, blow, & baste like all good zombies, but I should not be expected to be witty, scratch-free, or even understand ‘Ghoul-ean algebra’ until at least 15 minutes after sunrise.

So the last thing I have energy for in the first of the morning, is to fend off a thick gelatinous ring of gooey ‘Food Boogies’ from the sticky snout of my syrup ‘ba-ba’! Oh don’t act so uppity - yeah I said it and how many times must I warn you not to read my tripe while eating anyway? I can’t help it if your gag reflex has not yet been battle-hardened to the horrors of a seeping head-wound from Aunt Jemima’s nasty noz-noggin.

Yes, around here, we seem to have a growing epidemic of coagulated condiments in that handy-dandy ‘flexi-squeeze’ packaging. I mean who doesn’t relish the fun in popping a top on a ‘gunkified’ ketchup bottle or fondling a dilated and crowning upside-down squirter, with a crusty mustard-pustule tip of Grey Poupon? The only thing worse for me then hanging those scabby ‘goo-cocoons’ over my burgers n’ brats is having to clean and blow-free their snotty little spouts into a wet-nap-wipey without weeping woefully.

I don’t know when those ‘easy to knife’ cavernous jars with lids suddenly became so out of fashion? My ‘wide-mouth’ still seems to be working just fine and has remained relatively paste-less and tasteless, even after shoving salsa pablum in and out of it for a half century now. Oh sure the sinuses suffer and that spicy stuff can make my rosy nose-y unruly and occasionally ‘run away’ by my flagrant use of abrasive Puff-less off-brand Kleenix. But never fear I’m a mystified ‘drip’ with a nasal irrigation plan ‘cause my nose knows just what it needs – an easy-squeezy sinus-schnozzle!

Thursday, September 29, 2011

Rocky Road Recipe

Despite the advent of those little GPS travel boxes, I still love the romance of maps. I can stare at them for hours and run my fingers along roads, rivers, and CREASES imagining the countless places I can go when people tell me to ‘Get Lost’. I love seeing rare oddities in mirrors and discovering unusual places like a ‘full serve’ GAS station or a Polish hot dog shop, which apparently in some communities, is the exact SAME PLACE!

I have no need for my usual ‘puddy tat’ toys, fancy entertainment or complex puzzles whenever a map needs re-folding. I can literally spend hours trying to get a 4 X 5 foot map back into its flattened glove-box ready state. More often than not, un-folded maps will never again escape the size equivalency of a crumpled basketball and therefore are more suited to be recycled as a lumbar support, or for those really long road trips – ultra absorbent seat pads.

For some odd reason the street signs in the Midwest U.S. all have the same standard street names like First, State, and Main. The only difference is that each sign will have a varied suffix tacked on the end of the name like Road, Circle, Drive, or Way, though I always seem to end up in COURT? To make matters worse, even neighboring communities in short proximity to different U.S. States will have the EXACT SAME named cities in addition to those common stock street names as well. What is the problem - along with steel, cars, and VCR’s, are we now so lazy and incapable that we can’t even invent original names for our own streets and cities either?

Now this map clap-trap is clearly an untenable recipe for taxi hacks, street-people and perpetually confused kettle-heads like myself. Why is it so hard to mix up a few random Romanic letters with a dash of hyphen and add some flavorful expressions to make-up an easily memorable, half-baked yet original street name? My family happily looks forward to the day when I will be able to sanely drive my pickled brain to the intersection of ‘FIRST light’ & ‘STATE-of-mind’ without the need for a wrinkled map or a straight jacket. The goal of course is to eventually navigate, and hopefully legally parallel park, with NORMAL people, along a very busy but narrow ROCKY road called ‘MAINstream’.

Friday, September 23, 2011

Airhead

I am lucky enough to be born in an era where airplane travel has replaced buses as more of the norm than the exception. Unlike most people I won’t thumb my nose at a good airport scan & squeeze now and again, as long as those TSA folks keep the rest of their rubber-covered digits to themselves. The only person I want poking around in my cavities is the dentist and even he has to pony up with a soothing gum-rub, 5 minutes of Nitrous ‘me time’, and a double-cup of spit water.

In general, I don’t mind most of the airport / airplane process except for the waiting. You see I have never been a good ‘WAITER’ and only a marginal cook. Since time ‘flies’ at the speed of light I want to fly that fast too. Oh sure it is fun to pass the time and look down at the little houses and cars but I already get that thrill from lording over a good game of Monopoly with my in-bred fam-clan. Nope, once you seal me up in a pressurized sardine can I want to set my Omega 3 Fatty Acid down and get the show on the road.

Despite my granite face and even harder head I obviously bore easily since my gray matter tends to turn a brackish green at high altitudes. This in turn is only cause for concern because my wife must find ways to keep me busy, with minimal harm to my fellow (and girl) passengers. Like a big Baby Huey, she usually brings me a bib and a ball-point pen so I can go through the Airline magazines and black-out the teeth of anyone caught smiling in an advertisement. Once complete, the same magazine gets my makeover of random stubble and wild crevice hairs, to bestow imperfect 5 o’clock shadows upon the Aero-rag's 'perfect 10' models.

As I make the third magazine pass to finish my obligatory cartoon speech bubbles with juvenile comments, my lizard brain needs additional stimulation beyond that screaming baby two rows up. I reflexively reach for my olfactory arsenal of tortilla chips and day-old tuna fish. Wisely but irritatingly my wife calmly backs me down and tells me to wait. WAIT? - Didn’t we already discuss this kitchen analogy? I am too old, hairy, and sweaty for THAT gig, especially when trapped in a flying aluminum cigar tube. From now on I think I had better stay grounded since apparently I am better suited as a ‘BUS boy’!

Thursday, September 15, 2011

Stinko de MAYO

Oh don’t worry I’m not going to attack your precious Pinata’ holiday, which is only celebrated by the unholy union of alcoholic Americans and Mexican food joints anyway. Nor am I going to squeeze the OLE’ out of your Guacamole despite the fact that no matter how great the taste, it will always look like the spew-stew from a well exorcised and very envious cat. No this rant revolves around a condiment of another color and my genuine dislike of everybody else’s favorite ‘seagull sauce’ - plain o’ Mayo!

Yep, I know that certain lobes of the globe are in love with the tan-less Mayonnaise bread spread, but I’m not sure if I’ll ever know why? I thought in school the one thing we universally agree upon is that, it’s NOT a good idea to eat the paste. So what’s the rush every morning to call-up a dairy dollop of emulsified oil and egg to better butter our buns? I mean honestly nobody really ‘gums’ this goo do they - its only real job is just to be the ‘Elmer’s’ between the turkey and the toast right?

Hey don’t get me wrong I don’t play favorites. I rarely relish few relishes and only periodically will I pop for the Poupon to pique my passion. Yes I’ll head for the bread anytime especially when paired with a fresh roadkill & peppercorn roast, but why do these rubes want to lube my food so liberally anyway? Is this slop they serve-up so bad, that the only hope to savor its flavor is by Miracle or Whip, or maybe a heaping helping of both?

Whose the ‘yolker’ who decided that slathering my Chik-Fil-A ‘sammitch’ in a blanched blanket of wet & greasy ‘egg-toplasm’ is a good idea? Can’t you read my beak - “NO MO’ MAYO!” If chickens wanted lots of eggs surrounding them all of the time, don’t you think they’d cross the road and buy a carton of their own? Oh well I guess, like my writing and my whine, when it comes to food, I’ve just become a plain spoken and a DRY kinda’ guy. Too bad as I get older and older, my pants can’t say the same.

Thursday, September 8, 2011

Cheap thrills in the lap of luxury

Being naturally stingy with my shekels, when I saunter into a store I almost always head for the ‘day old’ bin or clearance aisle first. I can’t help it if I am naturally attracted to dented doorstops which in a former life were canned yams, or donuts with that extra special sweaty sparkle. Hey I’m not a slob, it’s just I know which hairy side my bargain bread is buttered on and it is all about saving the GREEN these days!

While the rest of you fat cats feast on your Friskies, luxurious pillow-soft 12 grain buns and wear pants with working zippers, I am THAT guy who eats p-butter and toe jam sandwiches off of the 99 cent kids-food menu. No really, I gnaw that stuck-stuff right off the kidlet menus to help build-up my ‘rug-rat’ germ immunity, while hopefully strengthening my teeth and breath as well.

If you don’t finish that last cold shriveled fry, hot pepper or undercooked bite o’ burger, you can bet I’ll be asking for a take-home box and feasting on it tomorrow. There’s nothing like ‘hot water chili’ and donning the dream of a hobo-king at somebody else’s expense. Yes the only Wet Nap luxury in my pocket will be AFTER you’ve used yours; because when you’re flying as high as I do there’s little room for oxygen and even less for pride - that slipped through the holes in my lining long ago.

Oh of course I jest, despite my thrifty proclivities I clearly have had a pretty lucky life. I’m not complaining and have gotten used to clawing my way out of the sweaty throws of the bargain basement. Being cheap is my personal success thrill-quest, where every ransacked trash-can is one raccoon away from a winning lottery ticket and the lofty lore of living large. The only thing is if I ever REALLY do find myself snugly cradled in life’s easy breezy luxurious LAP – I wholly hope at least one of us will have holy intentions and wear a pair of ‘un-holey’ pants.

Friday, September 2, 2011

FACING the FUZZ!

I doubt it would surprise you if just like most people I don’t fancy ‘da’ fuzz’. No I’m fine with the police as long they aren’t cinched up tight in ‘Reno 911’ shorty shorts with their khakis hanging out. No the fuzz I’m talking about is from my carpet and its odd newlywed reproduction habits in nearly every room of the house. I have had this same mangy carpet for over 4 years now and our Roomba is starting to complain even more than when I demand my bi-weekly nook and cranny ‘vac-baths’.

Now I knew when we went to the rug doctor and the prognosis favored a steam-o chemo treatment, it was likely that our rug might shed a tear or two. But after a few trips around the calendar you’d think the biggest fuzz producer in our kennel would be that floss between my teeth, or the emergency peach I keep stashed in my all too-roomy, gut-button. But no, as fate would have it my ‘pile of nap’ carpet is a virtual fine fur warehouse where even the dust bunnies' shadows have five o’clock fluff!

This unfortunate rug revelation in no way means I have abandoned my lurid love of all things linty in life. Vacuum bags and their seductive stash of inner secrets still call to me like Fabio finds frustrated, feckless housewives. And lest we forget the oft ignored dryer trap, which never fails to fuel my fuzzy logic with great joy and the freedom of reckless self-expression. Clearly I have faced and embraced my inner fuzz even if most sane people I know aren’t ‘DOWN’ with it.

Yes, despite the unrestrained side of the family tree and their best efforts to straighten my jacket and un-rumple my hump, I won’t be denied the dust. I lasciviously laugh at your locked and loaded laundry rooms and haughty British bag-less ball vacs with genuine desire. Because let’s FACE it, anyone, given the chance, would surely love to shove, my goofy glued-up mug into the lint-hole of a hot dryer. But be forewarned, I may sprout a ‘bad to the bone’ crazy biker beard with a ‘tude to match, or of course I might be just EXACTLY the same - ‘FUZZY’ brained!

Friday, August 26, 2011

Branded for life by MASCOTS

Despite their popularity, I have never really been a fan of sports, school, or corporation mascots. Beyond the obvious lingering trauma I suffered through college as an ‘Anteater’, I just have never embraced the whole clowny circus, noisy ‘branding’ thing anyway. I mean what reputable organization really wants the image of a nightmarish, A.D.D. riddled, oversized hunk of dryer lint, dancing PANTS-LESS pantomime - right?

I guess I can understand the big, lithe jungle cats like Jaguars, Panthers, Lions and Tigers as mascots to help promote a tough and graceful global corporate or sports image. However for a folksy local feel, I’ve never understood why domesticated feline breeds like the ‘brown shorthairs’, ‘Maine Coons’, or the ‘Puddy Tats’ haven’t caught on? You’d think dog names would be good mascot monikers as well but other than the Greyhound and Bulldog, I can’t recall any company or sports team marketing themselves in the image of the everyday ‘Schnauzer’ ‘Shih-tzu’ or ‘Shnoodle’?

Oh sure a mammoth Clydesdale mascot is a shoe-in to help define a brand fan-base if all your customers are constantly marinating in vats of Nyquil brew while rubbing elbows and foam fingers in sweaty stadium seats. Sadly I too am not immune to the mighty power of the Madison Avenue mascots as they have a death-grip on my beady brain as well as my busting beltline. More than once I’ve sat with a mouth-watering Whopper, donning a paper crown, only to succumb to prison-guilt from the hypnotic lure of the curiously creepy burger KING. Clearly you know I’m weak if that evil balloon-headed Jack in the Box ‘dude-cot’ has hooked me with a toxic affinity for his fragrantly fried n’ flat tacos.

Except for cow boys & girls, as well as the chap-hardened folk who herd ‘em hard, branding is a fairly difficult concept to burn into ones … uh - Memory. So organizations naturally turn to these stupid obnoxious mascots and other TOOLS to help me, the lowly consumer, remember them more easily. My real problem though is that I am SO simple-minded that it doesn’t matter if is the Santa Cruz Banana Slugs or Chik Fil-A’s Jersey cow, I try to remember only ONE IMPORTANT THING from mascots – my PANTS!!


Thursday, August 18, 2011

Milking the Color Rut

What would the world be like if our established ways of doing things were ‘snowglobed’ & shaken up a bit? Oh sure we all talk a good game of how great and colorful ‘CHANGE’ is, but most of us actually prefer wads of those dull green pictures of dead presidents in our pockets. Like the lopsided lobes of my beanie-bound brain, I generally prefer when things are actually a little off-balanced. However I am the first to admit that if ‘ruts’ were Velcro loops, my burr-head would be permanently hooked and extra ‘linty’!

So would our kids still drink milk if it were sucked out of serpents instead of cows? I say ‘Moooove over’ ubiquitous ungulates - make room for daddy and the rest of the animal kingdom to let loose with the juice. Since most everyone drowns their cereal sorrows in white power anyway, then few should complain when we start to drain Albino snakes for sugar flakes. Let’s face it, milk is a two-timing color sponge chameleon anyway that can’t be trusted. My Cocoa Puffs bow to the brownie cow, while the Crunchberries continually cry crimson; but Lucky Charms n’ liquid lactation always warms to a hinty tint-of-mint libation.

Do you really want to play in downy white snow or better still, eat it up, if it were naturally yellow? What if brown sugar was white and refined, while white sugar was raw and came in both light and dark brown shades - would our cookies taste the same even when tossed? Would we dream about rainbows if they were triangles in shades of gray, and the gold pot at the end called its kettle black? Would you still squeeze blackberries if they made rude sounds like raspberries or ever cut cheeses if they didn’t?

Would you drink gray water if it was clearly safe or hide under an umbrella from purple rain even if you weren’t a Prince? What if strawberries tasted like hay and blueberries were always depressed – would their memory leave a permanent stain? What if old wrinkled elderberries got brown spots and fragrant when past their prime and jaundiced bananas turned green with envy when ready to eat?

Wow, I’m feeling a little woozy – this ‘off-balanced’ thing is highly overrated. Too many questions and possibilities for change, when free-associating color paradigms, challenging logic and abandoning Aristotelian Physics. I feel like I am back in Mad Hatter class again at my alma what’s-the-matter, ‘Lewis Carol College’. Ok I’ll say it – ‘I LIKE being stuck with my immovable ruts, blanket assumptions, and ridiculously predictable habits’. I promise to make at least one significant change in my life however - this is the last time I’m ordering the ‘FUN GUY’ special from that hippie joint ‘Psychedelic Pizza for Psquares’.


Friday, August 12, 2011

Streetwalker Mission

Despite my Yeti proportions and head-kettle full of noodle soup, I actually do leave the silo once in awhile to walk the streets. No I’m not looking for handouts or willing to worky for jerky yet, but that’s not because I’m too proud, it’s just because I’m too lazy! I am not averse to an occasional recreational opportunity to exercise my spare tires; however usually when my Dr. SOLES are stuffed to the brim with yeasty pink piggies, it is for genuine bipedal locomotion not a random troll stroll.

What always amazes me on these treks, is regardless of duration, at least one oily 'Bondo-mobile' full of toothless youth will roar by giggling and shouting in hopes of garnering my glower. I know it’s rare to see a foot-dragging, sweaty blog-zombie by daylight. But honestly other than the eagle nesting in my uni-brow and that Green Mile movie, I don’t understand the real entertainment value of heckling a dead man walking?

In my two footed travels, I have observed that humankind also seems to DIG digging. I mean on every corner, somebody or some machine is piling up a healthy pyramid of dirt and rock with an inverse hole to match. I’m sure it’s all important stuff and way above my Google Adsense pay-grade, but honestly what is so devilishly interesting down there that you can’t already find up here?

I mean we’ve cornered the market on Santa, the Tooth Fairy, and word has it, even GOD himself has signed a long term contract with over 80% of the world’s faithful. So what’s all this fuss to uncover one more hot n’ horny, fiery-tempered devil when our high schools are already overflowing with them? If we were smart we would try harder to bury the skeletons in our collective closet instead of exposing our impressionable MINERS to even more dirt!

Though TRASHY is an ever-present adjective associated with street walkers, I can happily say that due to recycling efforts these days, I finish off a lot fewer brew bottles and cat food cans while touring on my tootsies. Oh sure the obligatory paper cups and fast food wrappers are still bountiful, however they prove useful as bread crumb trails when hunting down a mystery 'beast-eatery' for a meaty grease feast. But I’ll always remember my primary shoe-cruise mission is to keep my peds in their KEDs and clean the streets while dodging the dangers of CRACK – after all my mother’s BACK is depending on it!


Thursday, August 4, 2011

Flip Flop Flap

As you may have guessed I am not a fulsome fan of the flip-flop frenzy. Not only are those ‘ toe-ropers’ hard on your golden arches, but even the most vein and cankle-free feet look homelessly informal, unwashed, and un-loved donning them. Though my fashion sense is even less than the non-cents in my pocket, I still have enough scents to know when a bad fad really stinks!

I mean jolly ‘ol Jesus sold the heel-less sandal thing pretty well over a few thousand years right? So what crafty devil du jour all of a sudden decided to deviate from his I-PODiatrist’s playlist and start jamming to tight ropes in between his toe slopes? Gee when I was a kid I never remember ‘wedgies’ as being the ‘in’ thing and synonymous with breezy-free comfort and stylish good looks.

Why do these shoeless toe-Joes continually subject us to the terrors of their tootsie rolls, and flaunt their nasty callused & corn-covered ‘not-so-hot’ dogs. Believe me Nobody REALLY wants to see how your damp n’ dirty sausages are made. I can’t be the only unflappable fop left in this world who gets his tarsus in a twist or just a wee ‘wittle’ wiggy over the abuse of prodigious pink piggies can I?

Please do me and Dr. Scholls a favor and clamp-on a closed-toe shoe duo to marinate your feet-meat in. There is no better way to hush those unruly puppies and teach them to HEAL than by shoving them into a comfy all-leather kennel to call home. Yes, scuff no more my friends, ’cause it’s high-time to finally flip off those flops and flail freely toward their true-goo calling – Flattening BUGS rather than the balls of your boats!


Friday, July 29, 2011

My nephew smells

Recently I had an opportunity to spend some quality time with my nephew. He is a normal, seemingly well adjusted smart kid (I can fix that), but he has a unique peculiarity – he smells. Now don’t get me wrong he does not openly exude Durian stink like me, on the contrary he seems to smell rather WELL actually. Yes, like some kind of teen wolf with twilight vibrato in his vibrissae, the kid literally howls at any noun that sticks a stiff scent up his septum.

For normal humans, a fresh out-of-the-oven loaf of bread, or maybe a steak dinner will call for some olfactory attention and lead us to the meatus. But this youngin’ will nose-over airplanes, cardboard, leather footballs, plastic bags – you name it. Whatever IT is, if it is in front of him with little wavy lines rising to the sky, he’ll not just give a dime of his time, but he’ll volunteer a snifty scent nasal nudge.

This is in direct conflict with my basic skunk rule of survival – smell only when you fear for your life or eat corned beef and cabbage. That means I avoid the mall perfumery , the food court and BOTH the rhino and the plasty with my oh so sensitive sinuses. Also under no circumstances can you fall for the spousal stink trap of “Smell this – does the milk seem bad to you too?” respiratory ruse.

I’ve heard of some of those ice cream flavor gurus being supertasters but I’ve never heard any good things about people who smell a lot. I could understand this ‘talent’ if my nephew was hatched on my side of the coop, since my genes and cells are laced and padded with defective scratch n’ sniff anomalies a-plenty. But this kid is from the wife’s familial vine-line so I thought that her DNA pool was highly chlorinated and not nearly as murky as my chromosome-light side of the short bus.

Regardless of his ‘smell-tale’ heart, it doesn’t take ‘Nostril-damus’ to predict that my nephew’s future will really STINK! Not because he’s destined to have trouble with adolescence, his parents or homework, but because he starts high school in the Fall. You remember that place don’t you . . . the cafeteria wreaks of bleach and tater tots, none of the boys shower after P.E., and the girls all douse themselves in competing and conflicting ‘Eau de toilette’!

Thursday, July 21, 2011

The black flag of victory

Since I am a bit of a dirt dweller myself, other than lawyers, I don’t have too many phobias concerning bugs and high-flying insects. With that said however, I do not prefer eating, hearing or sleeping with lofty crawlies of any kind, no matter how beneficial or environmentally attractive they are to mankind. I know I am considered to BEE close-minded and a Neanderthal ‘buzz-kill’ in the eyes of today’s ‘accept and settle’ culture. But honestly, I work hard to stay on my side of the swatter and I want bugs to show some self-control and keep their probosci to themselves too!

Why is it whenever I meander out to the junk-mail box in a perpetual sleep-deprived stupor, I receive my own personal air show and am routinely accosted by unidentified buzzing objects (UBO)? I rarely ask for such top drawer attention or expect recognition for the contents of any of my drawers for that matter. Only on special occasions like kin-folk weddings and voodoo blood-lettings do I sweat so alluringly and carry buckets full of rancid chicken pickens and grill thrills. I even hide from the FedEx guy and the Wells Fargo wagon unless they need me to punch their buttons so why would I ever want to commune with, much less SEE bees?

I know what you are thinking “Don’t sweat it, like your blog they’re insensitive irritants so that’s what they’re supposed to do – BUG YOU”. The issue is a matter of respect for myself and others in the ‘NoMo insectual” community. I don’t ask or tell my ilk to go out of their way to bump n’ run into horse flies or other insects with throat problems and mess up their family harmony. I have enough class to know when my stinger’s exposed I never buzz, and only rarely whine, while circling around other people’s sweaty foods and hairy hides.

I likely would not have a problem with the high and flighty bugs in my life if they would just back off their ‘bizzy’ schedule a tad and stick to Dolly Parton’s nine to five instead of 7/11’s twenty four / seven . I’ve grown tired of getting thumped in the rump and playing badminton with these little winged shuttlecocks by my moonlight. I think It’s high time for one side or the other to give-up but I refuse to wave white. No my red badge of discourage shuns surrender and will never budge to bothersome bugs or nettlesome gnats, because my victory FLAG only comes in one intoxicating shade – BLACK!

Friday, July 15, 2011

Bells N’ Whistles

For an old guy I still try to embrace new technology. In fact as often as I can I hug the new dishwasher and tell it how much I love it while stuffing its craw with greasy fowl leftovers and bowls of dried-on Midwest grits n' bits. I don’t particularly care how clean the dishes get as long as it steams my corn and is silent but NOT deadly to my inbred clan. Yes, other than a few muted arcade beeps, every time I open the thing, the dishwasher returns its gratitude for being a member of the family by simply existing in silent bliss.

Unfortunately most technology in our noisy lives often plots to bite us on the otitis. How can Monks and other old world primates like myself ever hope to achieve inner peace when everything now ‘burps’ ‘slurps’ and keeps ‘waxing on’ UN-poetically in my ‘Eire’ canal? Today it is clear that my gizmo and gadget habit works overtime to hammer my anvils and hum on my drums even without a formal proposal of marriage.

For example, by now Juan Valdez must be deaf since whenever I add water to the coffee machine it tweets like a fruit-loopy wet toucan. The water pot pumps, pops, and creaks with groans of protest. When the brew cycle is complete it peeps incessantly like a hungry hen and screams even louder when it shuts itself off. Who designs this ear muff stuff - horrible aural sadists? If I’m allowed to ignore my kid whenever I want then why can’t I motor my ‘Hoveround’ to end of the driveway in peace and ignore my seatbelt’s chirpy chimes too?

I’m not against new fangled progress but I can’t be the only Amish sympathizer to want technology’s bells without a clapper or its whistles without fipples. I accept that the world needs to slobber over clobber but I’m just not sure if in my own home sanctuary all that stuff needs to beep, bleat & peep MORE than I do. Don’t worry I’m not a crazy shut-in yet and can take the strain. But I am a little worried about those steamed cobs though . . . the corn have started shoving sticks in their ears.

Thursday, July 7, 2011

A Dirtier moniker

After nearly a third of a sesquicentennial of living and irritating other people’s spider senses, I have decided that I need a gritty nickname. Yes, before I make that final belly-flop into a shallow worm-ridden mulchy grave, I need some kind of hip ‘callsign’ and an icy-hot image.I think having a ‘too cool drug mule’ moniker is a necessity if I ever end up in a 6 X 9 foot cell with other amoebae, compare scars with Topless Gun pilots, or become a rap music star with a toothy, gold grill!

You see, I got kind of jealous recently when I sour-noted a concert line-up of noisy music dudes named ‘N. E. Yo, Pitbull, and T. Pain” performing for a morning TV show. Not a plain vanilla, Anglo-Saxon grunt name to be shared among them. So obviously to be ‘phatter’ than I already am I’ll need to combine some USDA choice meaty nouns with at least one initial. So where do I go to register a sheik hipster image like those music guys and what government agency is responsible for taxing society’s patience?

Are there any official pre-requisites for my new responsibilities and image as a self-involved ‘blogga’-gangsta’ idol? Maybe I need The Donald’s whispy locks, Mickey’s oversized ear buds, or a Hitler ‘half-stash’ to dress up the rebel ‘tude? I was hoping the warehouse-mirror sunglasses, ‘finger thickin’ good’ gold chains, and beltless n’ baggy pants were good enough to make a splash in today's modern blue gene pool?

Now admittedly I am kind of a ‘dough-so-soft’ wimp, so for my new image I should probably shy away from the calloused and brawny, testosterone belching, smelly-man ‘nom de fumes’. I was however thinking that I do happen to know my way around buckets of butter pretty well, so maybe a catchy caloric name like “I.M. Greezy.” or “Tubb E.” would fit the BILL? No rush though; I still have time to hone my future edgy, bad-dog, blogging moniker. I am lucky since I have a few years stock of my current library bookplates and the laundry labels my Mom used to sew in my CAMPground skivvies – ‘Der T. Drawers’!

Thursday, June 30, 2011

THE morning paper

Every morning I quietly hobble from my coffin to retrieve not one, but TWO different newspapers. I have to keep up with the daily demand for wrapping up wedding gifts, lining bird cages with paper mache and of course the never-ending need for dead fish n’ chips grease absorbing diapers . Oh sure I peruse the headlines for the important stuff too like the movie start times or the daily horror-scope. But primarily I just like to see how tall a Jenga tower of newsprint I can build to test my wife’s forklift skills on the way to the recycle bin.

We have a love/hate relationship with our paper boy even though he is actually a 40 year old man who drives an even older van in the wee wee hours of the morning. On the one hand he does give us our daily fix of inane news along with an array of conversation starters during our Pop Tart time. But you would think the guy would have the decency to place the papers neatly on my doorstep instead of ejecting papers out of the window anywhere but on the giant driveway landing zone. I think he purposely spaces his nightly emissions as far apart as possible and plants them in the wet grass, muddy gutter, or up in the trees so I can play ‘Where’s Waldo’ every morning in a 6 A.M. stupor.

The paper-pusher is just bitter because he is STILL dealing to newsprint junkies even when most of his peers have moved up in the publishing cartels to become octopi ink-milkers or ‘blah-blah’ blogging barons. It also may be due to the fact that nobody else on our street gets a morning paper anymore so he has to drive far out of his way to throw stuff ONLY at our house. Except for the ‘newsies’, what other career allows you the luxury of pitching softballs at interviewees, hitting the comic books to do research, or throwing high priced yet worthless pre-paid projectiles at your clients’ houses.

As gasoline prices rise and the route delivery biz dies, I try to keep abreast of the changes afoot for those parts as well as the rest of the lifeless body of the newspaper industry. Despite the waning few of of us die-hard, hard-headed Cro-Magnons who still need to let our knuckles do the dragging through WalMart ads, I’m afraid the ‘dailies’ destiny is dier . Yes as soon as wireless bandwidth makes that next big speed leap for the finish line, the paperless e-book revolution will definitely spell doom for my newspaper dude and his ‘van-do’ attitude. This foreboding change to my breakfast ritual may seem alien at first. But luckily in our shack's litter box, I can always take pillow-soft comfort in at least one close morning encounter, of THE paper kind!

Thursday, June 23, 2011

Extended Warranty

The dishwasher gave out this week. Actually it still works perfectly to me, but my wife said it keeps ‘giving out’ little lumps of chewed food and grime which apparently in ‘her world’ means stuff isn’t getting clean? I don’t see the rest of the animal kingdom making a big deal over a little leftover nacho sauce stuck to their tv-dinner trays. That combo-chunk of green beans, rice, & gravy is actually like a little ‘bonus’ snack and a solid food reminder of how bountiful our lives really are while we can still chew.

Anyway the predictable result was I had to go raid my kid’s piggy bank and see how much newer of a dishwasher I could get with a sack of pennies, a forced smile, and a credit card. Turns out our local Goodwill is a primary source for used underwear, arch-less footwear, and broken down recliners, but except for George Foreman grills and Civil War era microwaves, it’s not a good choice for roach-free appliances. I had left my jet-pack at home so I fought off the primal instinct for flight and instead drove toward salvation and divine guidance for my unwashed from our local mall-bound Sears Outlet.

I know it seems counterintuitive to go to a mall to buy an appliance instead of fashion but what do you expect from a grunt who gets his Nikes and knickers in bunches from a second-hand store? Being politically correct I did not look at the white dishwashers but instead focused on the stainless steel models. In the end however since the whole kitchen is black I settled on an avocado and mandarin orange theme because it fits with my Midwest taste for style and I guess I was a little hungry.

Checking out was relatively painless especially when the guy looked up my rarely used Sears account to save me another 10% on my purchase. WHEEE, no more illegal alien dishwashers for me, I wish I had to buy appliances and save money like this every day! That is until we got to the extended warranty part of the transaction. Gee when did these things end up costing as much as the ACTUAL THING that you are buying? I think a couple of years was $170 and 5 years of added warranty was around $300.

Did anyone stop and think in 5 years I could just go buy another NEW Jack LaLanne juicer or a Fry Daddy for mommy and be miles ahead? Needless to say I passed on the extended warranty and decided to live life on the edge like ice skaters, gang members and cutlery salespeople do. Anyway the bottom line is I don’t want to live in an America where my appliances have better health care and a longer extended warranty than I do!

Friday, June 17, 2011

Blue-Blocker Burqas

Despite the upheaval in the Middle East I have tried to improve my understanding of the Muslim world. Given the fact that OPEC reported a collective profit of over $1 Trillion U.S. this week, I have decided that my oily complexion and greasy hair may have more value than I had first thought? I can see a Water Babies SPF 30 or maybe even a Banana Boat SPF 50, but I have never quite understood the whole ‘Burqa’ sunblock thing, especially in hundred degree desert heat.

Now don’t get me wrong, whenever I peel myself from my favorite vinyl recliner, I’m all for protecting my skin from ultra (as well as NORMAL) violet light. But if I’m not mistaken, didn’t Mama Cass and the Moo Moo become associated with the physique of a Cow Cow in the 60’s? With an overflowing wallet, is this the best fashion statement the OPEC oil wonks have to offer the world? Except for when the coroner comes to haul me off, I’m not sure covering myself from head to toe in a cloth bag is the greatest of looks? Yes I admit I probably need to dress better for success but luckily it didn’t work for the Klan, so I am suspiciously sure, swimming in sheets won’t be sheik on me either.

Here in the U.S. Midwest where temperatures can get in the 90’s, even the most grizzled ‘hill folk’ typically where LESS clothing when it is hot outside. Oh sure we end up with a little bit of a farmer-fresh n’ funky tan due to the suspenders, holey blue jeans and half t-shirts. Thankfully however, the shadows of our fashion-forward mullets, tire swings, and blood-stuffed ticks usually help fend off the sun’s rays during tractor pulls and lunchtime frivolity of the ‘pig wrassle’ cage-fights.

Hmmm … who needs an oil windfall to be happy, because apparently in my heat-stroke fueled revelation, all the sun-spots have aligned and I suddenly see how good I have it here. In fact maybe those 3-ring Middle East traditionalists of the ‘burqa-solei’ might actually pick up a few pointers from the Middle West. First, at least around here, not every stinky black and gooey organic leftover found buried is worth trillions. And second, when the temps head topside, kiss that over-sized sun-skirt ‘Snuggie’ so-long and slip on a pair of silky shorts and Blue-blocker shades to keep cool. No, they won’t eclipse the sun as well as your old circus tent, but they sure make it a fun challenge to balance an icy lemonade while slipping and sliding into that comfy old dent in the vinyl ‘BURQA-Lounger’!

Friday, June 10, 2011

Made to be a Monarch

I just learned today that no ‘only child’ has ever been U.S. President. What a shame that yet another one of my self-flagellating nightmares has been dashed by geeky statisticians. Oh that’s ok, because the last time the ‘odds’ makers got something truly right was when my mafia parents MADE me. It seems I’ll never live there, but like the White House, I crow constantly about my crummy coop overflowing in a load of ‘white stuff’ ,with no fixes in sight too.

So since dirty birds like me spend so much time shopping at the ‘Home Despot’ I am probably better suited to the Monarchy anyway. Yes inbreeding has served me well since I am an expert on frilly clothes and routinely stick my pinkie out whenever drinking, hitchhiking or condemning other insects to their death. Anyway now with that recent Royal pudding of a wedding, the Monarchs are in fashion again and I have it on good authority that even cartoon lions cannot wait to be Kings.

Believe me I have put in the time to groom myself into an effective career as a future Monarch. I brush my tooth daily and powder not only my own Whig but the Tories’ too. Oh sure one unfortunate incident with a leg of MUTTon and everybody automatically takes the DOG’S side. Honestly, hopping to get around ‘aint’ that big of deal when all you do is sit around playing poker and smoking pricey cigars all day.

I cannot tell you how many troubling knights I have laid awake, crying remorsefully for closure - but not in a ‘Brokeback Mountain’ kind of way. I have grown considerably since the ‘dog leg’ incident, and as evidenced by my bathroom scale and golf scores, I have learned to control my gluttony. Even though I am only a man-child in a baggy blimp’s body and will never be President, despite life’s limitations I am still prepared to fly. So if I ever find myself reincarnated I hope to emerge from my chrysalis as a benevolent Monarch butterfly, dancing gracefully upon a radiant dew-kissed flower. Because let me tell you, there is no way I am repeating this grade again as a dumb gray sack of Pupa plopped on top of a rotten banana.

Friday, June 3, 2011

Celebrity Pie Beats the Pyramid

Wow first in Egypt and now the U.S. Department of Agriculture – what is everyone’s sudden interest in messing with control over the pyramids? Being blessed with a pointy head myself, I can understand how confusing and truly mysterious the area (1/2b * h) inside triangles can be. I’m guessing the ancient Native Americans were confused with this food pyramid thing too since they seemed to prefer MOUNDS over Almond Joy when given choices to chew.

So assuming they weren’t interested in dentures or x-rays, the USDA introduced ‘MY PLATE’ this week though ‘my trough’ would have personally meant more to me. I am so thankful to replace the food pyramid with this new dinner plate of caloric proportions, especially since the diameter of the thing seems open to interpretation. Yes, up until now, I never knew that fruit and veggies are better for me than my regular ‘Foie Gras’ injection of jelly beans, hard tack, and a keg of nog. In all honesty though, I’m not sure what it is that they really want me to eat, because the chart definitely reminds me more of a delicious pot PIE than anything truly healthy.

I think in today’s Hollywood obsessed culture the USDA should have used the pictures of celebrities in place of the common food group categories. I don’t know about you but when thinking of pure white dairy foods, what young teen doesn’t swoon to the likes of that angst ridden pasty-faced vampire kid? And when it comes to whole grain goodness, let’s not forget the pride of crying Indians everywhere since he feels our squeals for a bowl of ‘sugar coated Maize pops’ at dawn’s first radiant crack.

'Swarzenporker' is the only slab of hormone-injected Braunschweiger who appropriately represents protein on our celebrity pie chart. Oh sure he’s the ‘Wurst’ and a bit fatty around the head but I have it on good authority that his heart is lean and very mean. I’m also pretty sure that ‘exorcised’ pop-tart Richard Simmons will happily do a capable job as an energetic proponent toward a fruit-filled life. Oh and lest we forget everybody’s favorite comedian, Carrot Top can surely fill the bill in all but ONE of the 50 vegetative states. Not only does he round out the nation’s ‘harried’ nutritional aspirations but just a lock off of that mop always magically seems to find its way into MY PLATE of chum chow!

Friday, May 27, 2011

Pump and Circumstance

After a big Mexican meal and Bromo, I do pump my own gas. So despite the fact that I don’t drive as regularly as most people, I am still generally familiar with the process of fueling stuff including suspicions, rumors, and a college-aged kid. Today however, I was having trouble with a pump NOT pumping despite my best effort to make nice with the nozzle to deliver the drizzle.

When did these machines become so complicated? I had to choose a financial purchasing method, decline a car wash, and request a transaction receipt ALL PRIOR to actually swiping a credit card (from another guy) for payment. Not only did I have to decide on a grade of gasoline to top my tank’s drinking habit, but I also found out that sunshine and Sprite quenches my personal thirst for life as well. Even better, if I ever decide to slow smoke my sack o’ cellulite, there is a whole DOLLAR with my name on it if I buy three packs of cancer sticks in exchange for my diaphragm’s dwindling last tar-laced hack.

With so many life-changing decisions and commerce-inducing opportunities, even at the speed of light, you can imagine what a ‘slo-mo’ world of wonder buying gas is for cave-bound creatures like me? I would read the little matrix display screen and punch a button. Then the machine would beep, bleat, but never speak its domineering demands with a fanciful flash. I would stare, study and bump yet more buttons on the pump in hopes of quenching its seemingly insatiable appetite for human touch. No wonder aliens don’t want citizenship – buying gas in this country has become much harder than getting fake UFO insurance or voting multiple times on their own lifeless planets.

Despite all the attention and coaxing I had rendered, the machine stood stiff like the lip of a Royal guard. What do I have to do to beg for a jar of low-lead for my moped - buy this persnickety gassy-hose a dinner and a movie? I checked the nozzle and wondered if the station’s tank and my luck were running on empty? Probably more likely, this was some devious Shell game designed to force the pricier high octane Molotov juice on ‘dimwitting’ pumping patrons like me?

Apparently not though, because seeing the protracted and befuddled struggle on my ‘muggle’ proved too much even for the patience of the uncooperative machine. Sounding a bit sorry, irritated, and bored all at the same time, the pump finally succumbed to my dogged problem-solving charm to simply speak LOUDLY for all near to hear - "Uh … lift the LEVER to turn the pump on !" “Cheeky pushy Pump” I thought – “ I hardly know you” - I liked our relationship a lot better when you were MUTE!

Thursday, May 19, 2011

High Fidelity Terminated

Hey I don’t care if you were or are a fan of California’s former Governator, 'Swarze-whatever' – aren’t you getting tired of these high profile losers and their lack of fidelity? Gee can’t anyone find Arnold a quality pair of lead-lined chastity lederhosen to contain his steroid-shrunk enthusiasm? I know she isn't Jewish, but if I were Swarzy’s wife and my hubby’s stereo-enhanced Hi Fi behaved this badly, I would have ALREADY had its amplitude modulated permanently!

Now I really could care less what kind of maiming the Terminator and his ‘full-of-themselves’ famous ilk do in their free time no matter how discourteous. But once one signs up for these top-shelf jobs working for the public and IN the public eye, you might want to remember not to SPIT in it at the same time. Oh I know it’s a lot to ask for just a whisper of decorum from a dumb hunk of Douglas Fir but remember you are supposed to be a ‘role model’ NOT a ‘roll with a model’!

It’s obvious those massive dark shades ‘Termy’ wears all the time aren’t working. It seems that the guy’s hypnotic red wandering eye has designs on just about anything that has big pixels. I have seen so many of Swarzenegger’s pixilated offspring this week that my vision is getting MORE blurry. No wonder the poor guy keeps trying to procreate – he just longs for children to focus on that actually have distinguishable facial features.

Oh sure we’re all indignant now but just wait until the dark forces of Skynet and James Cameron rear their ugly movie-heads with more Terminator sequels. The high-calling for pure hearts and ethical fidelity will both soon be forgotten. We will forgive Arnold’s granite jaw, lead head, and wooden speech to make him just as popular as ever, and indeed his stupid adoring fans WILL be back. Too bad though, it’s never that fickle-fun or easy for the toxic left-overs from yesterday’s meal. Despite Swarzenegger’s muscle-bound brain, the REAL heavy lifting in this apocalyptic mess, has been abruptly thrust upon yet another supposedly idyllic ‘public family’, and their TERMINATED remains.

Friday, May 13, 2011

Disconcerting discoveries

Hey I am a fan of exploration just like any average blowhard, but there are a few great discoveries that are not so special particularly when they are happening to you! To this day my folks still remind me of this fact just because I was a tad eccentric as a kid. I NOW know the tuna fish sandwich hidden in my room’s desk for a few weeks was a dumb idea, but back then it was an edible experiment in marine microbiology ‘to gnaw’ on.

So since I apparently STINK at the sciences and look too cartoonishly fat to study Yoga bare, at times I turn to the laundry room to clean up my act. But sadly recently, along with my dried-up duds, tucked under the multicolored blanket of fabric fur, I was horrified to extract a flattened insect body out of the dryer’s lint trap. Now I understand why my Underoos BUG me so often - they offer safe-harbor to disgusting brown dung beetle McNuggets.

Now discovering unwanted ‘grubbies’ upon your body may seem unpleasant, but I can tell you it’s really not all that bad, and anyway you can always choose NOT to have children. But if you do, the only other mouthy parasite which can take the cake even faster at a younger age are weevils. Yes there is nothing like baking and inhaling a tray of tasty cookies only to find they are tasting you back. Aside from me, my kid is the only pesky pantry pest infestation that my wife willingly tolerates.

Whoever said ‘ignorance is bliss’ was probably referring to that ‘bugified’ food or more likely the half-pint capacity of my ‘stubble-covered’ tub of ‘I can’t believe it’s gray matter’. I really hate being so oblivious but at least I provide a valuable service so my blonde friends have someone even dumber with which to match wits. After all who wouldn’t be in awe of getting home from a lovely sunny walk to discover they’ve been blessed with a hole-ly garment malfunction. Getting sunburned in the shape of a zipper may not rank as one of man’s greatest disconcerting discoveries, but indeed it proves I do have oddball tendencies!

Friday, May 6, 2011

ONE size matters

Does anyone know who decides the official sizes of stuff because I’ve got a jumbo BEEF with them. If you decide to manufacture extra large hot dogs and call them ‘JUMBO’ then you need to grind up more goo and truly make those dogs noticeably larger than cocktail wienies. Even foot-long hot dogs are only about 9 inches at best which makes those fancy franks 25% short of a full ‘furtter’.

Buying shoes for my giant-sized calloused dogs is equally frustrating. Some things don’t get better with age so over-ripe Kong feet are one of them, and consistently sizing footwear is another. Can’t the world’s rubber and glue gods choose just ONE unit of measurement (preferably ‘feet’) for shoes and stick with it? Even if my feet-flops are made in Bangladesh, Burma, or the bastion of New Balance, Boston, my meaty tarsus and toes can’t possibly be a size 11 through 13 all in the same day!

Also somebody should explain why all dryer sheets are the same shrinky-dink size? Since loin cloths for most cave dwellers like myself come in varied lengths and widths, depending on orientation, why can’t I buy dryer sheets in full, queen, and king size as well? The same rule should also apply to facial and toilet tissue, though in a pneumatic pinch, a burly roll of paper towels can do nicely - in both the North and the South.

Bed sheets all seem to be correctly sized, at least for those who possess identical children, have just eaten, or know Californians named Mary. This is important not so much for bed-making as it is for shroud shopping. Yes as long as you remain hoodless, it doesn’t matter how many X’s in front of L’s you are, because sweet sheets beat all when it comes to the impossible variance of sizing togs.

So now that top ‘dawg’ of sizing knows why I have a femur to pick and a too-tiny sheet of Kleenix to pick it with. It doesn’t take a Great Dane or even a mediocre German Dachshund to understand, like buffets and bank accounts, only ONE size matters as long as it is YOUR size. Especially on a blustery day, you landlubbers had better heed my advice and choose the smaller sheets though. Because no matter how big a dog you think you are, finding yourself ’3 sheets to the wind’ is one GIANT headache and a guaranteed trip to the pound.

Friday, April 29, 2011

Bigger IS better

I generally am not a big fan of nails, nine inch or otherwise. Whenever I have tried to build houses with nails, the birds don’t like the pounding since one side of the nest will get loose as the other side gets hammered. To avoid this problem I prefer using screws and aspirin to hold the birds together. This is why the popular term of elation ‘Nailed it’ has a much more negative connotation to me than the phrase ‘Getting Screwed’ does.

Since I’m old and nails are cheap, I make a point to have lots of them AROUND since only stupid kids appreciate ‘screwing around’. I figure when the economy really goes south, I will use my nail hoard just like money. It makes a lot of sense actually because instead of leaving a tip when you’re done with your meal, you simply will leave a pile of ‘FINISHed’ nails (POLISHed nails always look prettier, but those manufactured in other countries will work just as well too!)

Where did that stupid expression ‘Tough as Nails’ come from anyway? Whenever my hooves exceed the tips of my toes by the slightest of margins, they bug me and splinter off easily in ‘half-moony-cure’ crescents. If nails are so strong, how come the wimps bend so easily when smacked and leap to retreat at the first clickety- clack snap of a 99 cent Walgreens chromed clipper? If the true toughness of keratin is the measure, like any guy, I would rather face life with a big burly beak than your run of the mill fancy-nancy nails.

If I had that big nose it might make sense, but with my big mouth instead, I have never quite understood the attraction to long fingernails either. Why would anyone want to paint, fritter, and tease a set of wild thing talons anyway? Except for opening stubborn bags of Fritos, I don’t want 10 giant protein enhanced Xacto spikes fastened to phalanges, anywhere near my exceedingly soft tissue. The only exception to this rule is for bears because as long as I have a hot jug of joe and my current girthy gusto to keep me company, everyone knows that the BIGGER the bear, the BETTER the BEAR CLAW!

Friday, April 22, 2011

PAN – the Greek god of cooking

Oh sure I love gyros and baklava just like most folks, but I draw the line at being associated with that weird little half goat / half dude Greek God of mythology! I don’t dispute my hairy legs, hooves, and the fact that I can play a mean 3 octave scale on a flute? I can’t help the horny head and satanic similarities either, but I swear the only Greek God I follow on Facebook is “Pita Pan”, the portly paladin of peanut butter.

Despite cruel rumors to the contrary, the perforated pan that I find most godly does NOT reside within my lack of videographic ability, or a less than flattering blog review. No in fact, my favorite pan is a 100% flute-free, tin Frisbee that will never witness Jehova unless he needs a perfect pizza or a tray of tasty choco-chip cookies expertly browned every time.

Its ‘hole-y’ presence aside, don’t kid yourself, my pan is tough and it faces the oven’s dominion of fiery purgatory every day just like it owns the place. I have only had trouble with it once and that was in an unfortunate polka dot tanning incident which I attribute primarily to that hot-head practical joker, Apollo. It’s not handy protection either when Zeus blows his nose overhead, but on the other hand it strains a pot o’ pasta like nobody’s business.

So take my advice, if you want cooking salvation, grab the holiest pan you can and plan to become a fan. You’ll soon learn the only dough you KNEAD to be happy is made of pizza flour, and life’s golden brown parachutes are best unfurled on hot aluminum and covered in GREECE. As high-brow Greek gods go, my PAN may not seem like much except to Paula Deen ’s hillbilly baking family tree. But no matter, I’m still am a ‘PAN-TASTIC’ true believer of the one and only, tried and true cooking ‘god’ which remains closest to my heart . . . and hopefully furthest away from UNDER my bed.