Grease the Fleece

No matter the temperature of the weather, these days the catch phrase for comfort is to ‘Layer’. Seems like an odd term for comfort especially if you place bricks in mortar all day or worse are a penned hen in a cramped chicken den. The term works for me though no matter what, since I am always happiest when I am laying about on just about any surface except for that cold stainless table at the morgue.

When I do have to prepare for unpredictably cold weather invariably I will zip up with at least one or two light and soft fleece jackets. While I appreciate the fuzzy bear quality of these garments to insulate me in fickle weather, they have an irritating habit of picking up lint, hair, and grimy grub faster than I already do on my own. No wonder the fleece fad has never made its way into my Underoo drawer as that might be asking for far too much cleaning ability from our feeble washing machine.

If I knew these jackets were so attractive I might as well roll around on the carpet and compete with the robotic Roomba for crumb-y attention. If I wanted to be true ‘dirt-bag’ I would have taken up a life of crime instead as an out-of-work double-plus sized fashion icon. Anyway I already have enough random fur and wild hairs growing from odd n’ dark places so I really don’t need more ways to tease my last outcropping of noggin follicles and make them jealous. 

Apparently it’s time to update my hunchback resume since amazingly I have mastered yet another way to alienate the general public without even trying as the ‘Fleece Beast of ultra wrong’. If only I could still enjoy the Wooly Mammoth layering power of fleece outerwear yet repel the frequent funky fiber flotsam instead of people. I guess society has no choice but to break-out a barrel of Brylcreem and grease up my fleece before it breeds yeast – but you had better make it a double rubdown, since given my girth, even a ‘fat dab’ will NEVER do ya’!