Oh sure I have been around the block a few times - that is of course if you are talking about my HEAD full of chedda’ or the perfect choice for prison floor covering. Other than my sandbox and the fridge, not many things in this Cracker Jack shack full of surprises gets a bigger workout than the floors and what I use to protect them from prancing, dancing and reeking feet. Somehow though most surfaces seem to stand-up to my earthy ‘GIRTHly’ abuse yet every choice I make from bugs to rugs needs something more.
Since the wife hates feeling BURR BURR we prefer wall to wall polar bear in the bedrooms to encourage a cozy igloo life even if it makes the window SEALS feel uneasy. I don’t use vinyl anywhere in the house anymore except for the drool pool under my pillow or in the music room since CDs are so much better. In the bathroom surfaces must be hard and impervious to water like Porcelain or my heart since SUBmersing showy shag daily in dribbles makes it stink worse than I do, and it’s hard on the SUBflooring.
Most folks are excited by wood but I don’t favor that flavor since when I lube up the halls with WD40 the termites prove to be slippery critters to kill and worse yet - BORING. In high traffic areas like the kitchen (or the laundry AFTER I’m done eating), I’m a fan of tile by a mile, because it’s easier to slide around on eggs and oatmeal should the mood, food, or lightning strike me. Concrete is the perfect hardness choice for the garage though I prefer soft serve in my cones especially in dry and arid Dessert environments.
Clearly I am not too picky about what lines my bird cage or stomach for that matter. All I really want is a patch to scratch and a place to bury my cares away in case of a bothersome buffet blow-out in me bloomers. You see due to my bad habits, spastic colon and ‘porculent-pig’ physique, the perfect floor that I ‘m suited for doesn’t matter … as long as it’s covered with straw, dirt, and SOMETHING to eat!