‘Couch Potato’ = Unfair Profiling

When paired together, the terms ‘couch’ and ‘potato’ become extraordinarily worthless in popular vernacular, but that seems strikingly unfair to the individual objects themselves. I mean why should couches feel bad for being luxuriously comfortable – I thought being SAT UPON was their job right? And why should potatoes feel even a moment of remorse for their starchy carbs of goodness. They are food and provide energy and sustenance – why all the hate?

What are we to do, outfit our homes with hard church pews instead of fluffy couches and recliners. That’s going to make it more difficult to fall asleep while watching TV sports, guzzling soda, and fingering Fritos? I thought relaxation and rest were what we all aspired to after working hard all day? And how about eating … didn’t our little tuber friend, the potato, practically feed feudal nations, single-handedly and without complaint until one tiny Irish blight? I don’t remember any haughty stalks of celery or those snobby organic carrots doing anything all that impressive in their recorded history?

So what is it then? Do couches and potatoes just ‘look’ different so we automatically profile them as fat and lazy, because they are various shades of brown instead of a leafy green or vibrant orange? Yes, Americans still secretly crave their white sugar and salt, but when it comes to terms of derision they immediately turn to their age-old recipients of hate, tan skinned objects for their outward wrath.

This trend is even obvious in the language itself. The carrot and Pumpkin lobby ‘conveniently’ ensure that nothing rhymes with Orange. But amazingly all things Brown just happen to rhyme with ‘Frown’, ‘Clown’, and ‘noun’ – all words that have been linked to things of negativity and objects of ridicule. Americans of action, need to stand together and fight this ridiculous unfair profiling of inherently good, ‘brown covered’ objects. All true believers of couches and potatoes as respected individualists, should protest … no better yet, organize, a Washington D.C. mall ‘SIT IN’, to show unified outrage toward ‘Spud-cushion’ profiling. Just make sure you don’t sit together though, because in Washington you may be confused with the REAL lazy ‘time-wasting’ couch potatoes - (Politicians)!

originally appeared 5/3/2010

Real Turkey Stuffing

Despite my body shape resembling that big buttered namesake bird itself and that Thanksgiving happens to be one of my favorite holidays, I still approach the traditional fam-feasting with a little consternation.  Sure the travel is a pain and all bets are off as to my belt’s last lonely sole hole will be able to cinch up the collateral damage after a 5000 calorie snack, but that too is not my biggest worry. No I sweat bullets over the really frightening reality which make stuffed ‘carUncle TOMS’ like me weak in the wattle and that’s ‘who left da’ lumps in the taters n’ gravers?’

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining about the occasional stray spud that missed the mixer and didn’t win the race through the ricer. I guess I can also forgive the bold, brave n’ bready chunk of gunk that stows away from the stuffing and inadvertently into my brown gravy boat of pureed pleasure.  But please don’t try to sneak in and fool me with a flotilla of stringy beans or slip in globs of greasy giblets to test my zest and goad my gag-reflex.

You see I have to always be on guard for the unexpected lascivious lump should an errant somethin’-chunk cozy up too closely to my uvula bump. Believe me nobody, not even a food sci-fi-entist wants to see a giant fat-cat sitting at the kiddy table reversing a cup of gravy’s smooth n’ true course in mid-stream. Why is it so hard to understand, like my groin I prefer my gravy strained, the jello  junk-less n’ stripped clean, and my mashies uniformly smashied, then whipped into a sublime-grind cream.  

Considering I am just lucky to be uncaged and temporarily free from the torch-waving townies, it is odd for such a persnickety and moody rude dude-y to have so many rules about delicious snood foodies. Yes I know as a bulky beggar there are definite politeness conventions to follow especially on a day where giving thanks is spelled out right in the name. So never fear, even a mouthy Meleagris like me won’t look a gift gobbler in the beak and will take my lumps quietly. After all imitation is the sincerest form of ‘Plattery’ so my turkey-neck and I will honor my big bird brethren, and all who prepare him with an appreciative 21 ‘done-button’ salute!

Football Fantasy

As a husky kid who was the obvious love-child between a white rhino and the Pillsbury dough-boy, you would think I would have a great interest in traditional bulky black n’ blue bruiser football. But alas I was weaned to be a wet-nursed wimp as my thin skin would turn pale, and my weak knees would knock at the thought of the sport with an ovoid ball as an object of affection. Yes my pathetic athletic skills and lack of pigskin prowess have always been better suited to batting feathery shuttlecocks rather than patting leathery turf-ruffled rumps.

One of my problems is that I’m uncomfortable with the uniformity of that weird costume that football dudes have to squeeze into since I would likely perform better in a pair of Dickies overalls and chainmail. I have never looked good in tight little grass-stained knee-high pants and a crash helmet when I go to the market so why would I wear that outfit at school or on TV? Typically the only pads that I have had to deal with are in rooms at hospitals or the damp sponges I shove under my Superman night shirt to make my biceps look larger and pock-marked with virility for my wife’s delight.

Anyway what kind strategist thinks it’s a good idea to line tree-sized people up inches apart and have them snarl n’ charge at each other after a big meal the night before? I don’t think there is enough Beano on earth to prevent the multiple close-in spontaneous combustions that surely must ensue and only enrage the enemas further. Also didn’t we decide shouldering up soldiers and having their ranks slaughtered was a bad idea in the revolutionary war so why now play a game featuring that exact same strategy.

At least it’s understandable why the Europeans came up with the ‘football’ name for their game since the rule of play reserves the hands only for crowd taunting and sweaty long-hair pulling. Clearly American football confuses me as does its name since it has so little to do with feet other than an occasional kick and run and some footwear advertising endorsements. Don’t worry I’m not trying to overthrow  the NFL or drag their audience kicking and screaming towards soccer, especially since I don’t look good in those nylon rainbow shorty-shorts either.  I guess my true football fantasy is just to see a lot LESS of both these sports clogging up my TV, and maybe given recent elevator revelations a more appropriate name like ‘SOCKHER’.

Hot Auction Heaven

For recreation and divine perspiration my wife and I bid and spirit stuff from all types of auctions. It’s not that we need anything in particular but we enjoy perusing through other people’s junk and paying a premium for heaving their leavings. What better way to embrace my life’s short history than being crammed into a small space with an OLD bunch of hunched  sweaty coots rubbing up and competing against me for dusty, rusty, and musty stuff-ty.      

         

Being raised by wolves I guess I am compensating for the fact that I survived a ‘hairy’ repressed childhood where the value of most ‘things’ was gauged on how they tasted or how good they felt to sleep on. My folks never let me beg for leftovers at mealtimes or settle for broken chew toys when growing up in a hut, so now I’m forced to seek out and make up for those lost experiences as an adult. At least my heritage explains my Husky size, the constant panting after a walk to the refrigerator, and my persistent dog breath the dentist so often complains about when scoping out my blow hole.   

I fit in well with the auction scene – where else can a saddle-burr like me give somebody the finger and they simply raise the price rather than beat in my face or cuss me out. Fortunately most of my twitchy TICks come from my watch rather than the forest, but I do have to be mindful to avoid conspicuous emanations, gesticulations and random bump scratching during furious bidding. When the wife risks prosecution for leaving a minor unattended, I do all the major work myself like folding the bid-card into an airplane, so it’s obvious that until she returns I have no one to do my bidding. 

I’m dangerously distractible and easily mesmerized by expensive shiny objects, so most lowly estate auctions are a safe escape since there is little risk of finding anything chrome toned or pit-free except for a few buffed n’ bald heads. Generally at most auction gatherings the only thing more weathered and craggy than the junk they’re hawking is the stuffed seizure-geezers who glue themselves, and defend rabidly, centered front rows of orderly padded seats. When my number’s ultimately up I hope heaven is just like this, except instead of white shrouds and wings, the ‘auction enlightened’ will proudly ‘peacock’ their rough stubble, patinaed pitch forks, patched pants, and dirty denim vests … and oh yeah,  since I’m there it will be LOTS hotter if that’s possible!

Mars and Venus

Fortunately when I was a young pup, my parents taught me the value of reading along with eating so with every Pop Tart consumed, also too was a paragraph on high fructose syrup and preservatives. I soon developed a rather extensive vocabulary in all the ingredients crammed into Lucky Charms beyond the oats to make them ‘magically delicious’.  This early education came in handy later when I finally ventured out on my own in the world by 50 years of age looking for things to read, eat, and eliminate all at the same time.

Naturally at least part of this skill has proven helpful in navigating the ways of the world especially when I travel. No it is not often I find a full place setting in restrooms or an edible morsel that has not already been passed over by vermin, but frequently in foreign lands it is important to read and enter the correct gender door to the toilet. With this in mind, why then is it so difficult to mark doors properly and legibly so that anyone - blind, dumb, or confused (or all three like me), can determine their gender and choose an appropriate loo to lounge in?

While I have accepted the dull lanky stick figure form of the male, and equally uncreative female stick icon in a dress as the representative placard for restrooms in America, it is not necessarily so overseas. Other countries prefer to reflect the fact that people often have tiny heads in comparison to their bloated bodies, and depending on how much spicy curry slurry they’ve consumed they might be in a blurry hurry to find the right water closet fast. So if this is true, why are their icons so confusing to my uncreative mind. Is the restroom for males the ‘fat running blob in a hat’ or is it the ‘jumping blob with a sack’ – and who knows which room is outfitted for babies since by definition all babies look like blobs?

Forget this Mars and Venus stuff since nobody really knows the gender of any planet. I don’t really care what the RIGHT symbols look like as long as if we can just agree on choosing ONE universal standard to read that applies to the appropriate gender in question. I’m not really worried though if I wander into the wrong toilet as I reach advanced age as long as I only travel in Spanish speaking countries. Because at least there nobody’s offended if we geezers misread the signs between the Senor or Senores, because when you gotta’ go any port in a storm is OK, when you have a ‘SENIOR movement' !