No Mo' Snow

Despite the wet sheen upon my pasty face and the similarity in color and density to my ashen white hammy hocks, I don’t love snow anywhere on or near my cozy toes and holey socks. While some insane folks DO enjoy seasonal greetings to strut their trendy form-fitting fashion-first clothing, despite my girth, I am the LAST one interested in gearing up for heavy weather. I already have trouble enough with the one overcoat zipper that God and Walmart gave me so why would I ever want to wade through a half-dozen or more layers to bundle the bulk up for inclement weather.

Part of the problem is as a usually wet n’ sweaty yeti I will profusely perspire even if I have to merely look-up on-line to find down and Merino wooly winter clothing. I am not sure if it is all that sanitary anyway to wear tufted muffs fluffed with stuff sneaked from the fleece of geese. Usually it is my policy to avoid getting goosed regardless if it is to my feet in the street or when donning a parka in the darka.

I admit I also get a little jealous of all school-age ‘nit-Inuits’ around here since they usually get time off from class when the white stuff starts to float and fly from the sky. No adults I know are that lucky and instead are forced to do the REAL homework just trying to dig out a footpath to the front door. Oh sure we oldsters do some frequent sledding down the driveway too, but usually it’s in sheer terror like an out-of-control car wearer instead of care-free glee as an American Flyer bearer.

So save your iciest stares and cubed precip drips for those over-blown chum-bucket challenges and porky pink polar bear plungers. I don’t care where you shave that irritating icy Olaf or sugar coat your snowy cones as long as you do ‘em somewhere far north of Santa’s pole and preferably my pen. Because no matter the season or weather, I’ll never endeavor for the cold-shouldered pleasure of ANY powder covered lump - except maybe a doughnut and a HOT cup o’ joe!

BEDlam

As a TUFT guy invariably I spend some part of my day glaring and daring to make up the beds around this chicken shack. You would think after years of stuffing my face and making it soft and puffy, then I would be pretty good at fluffing up a roost or two into an oversized set of flannel jammies. But sadly no matter how much I wrestle and wrangle, sheets, pillows, bed bugs n’ blankets, I never ever seem to get the better when battling boxsprings all surly and thankless.

First I have never met a more frustrating feat of linen than that of the stinking ‘pucker-pointed’ fitted sheet. Even my Wally-Mart fat pants allow for more stretch, ebb, and flow than any fitted sheet will ever know. I mightily lay and splay to tuck the curly corners down, but invariably first one point gives way to bed-center then the opposite two, like an irritating elastic slingshot burrito-ing my view.

Let’s face it, it’s established fact that bulky, billowy sheets are just too big to wash, fold, and certainly place neatly back on any bed by one person much less a goof like me. Even ghosts have learned that lesson long ago and now usually prefer to appear ‘au naturel’ unless haunting a Klan picnic or some hooded terrorist hoe-down.  That’s why I probably need to recruit an army to spray Febreeze on bed linens and just leave them in place forever, or Velcro tiny pillowcase-sized chunks of fabric together to build my own right-sized sheet.

Ok, I know I’m probably not the best arbiter of boffo bedding unless you are talking about the stuff I pitchfork out for ballpoint PENned animals like myself. Yes for me less is more when it comes to laying down on the job, so you can keep your stuffed n’ puffed comforters and your haughty pillow-topped dead skin sacks for yourself. Like my oak barrel heat-hardened head, (except for those creaks under pressure), as long as you keep my crate warm . . . I think bare solid wood makes for sounder sleep anyway!

Christmas Stalking Showdown

Once again I did not get what I wanted for Christmas and it makes me cranky. Every year since I was a kid I have waited up late to try and catch Santa breaking and entering and once again he somehow gets by my defenses. Don’t get me wrong, I love almost everything he and the reindeer leave (except for those raisins on the roof), but it bugs me that no matter what macho thing I do he still gives me the slip (a frilly one from Victoria Secret).

I’m not sure what Santa has to fear from me other than I resemble Rudolph’s pal, the Bumble – except I’m a bit harrier and still have a few of my own teeth left. Oh he is probably just bitter because I refuse to let one of his creepy mini-minions, the elf on the shelf, stare at me all night while I sleep. Geez have a heart Santa, I already fend off spiders, mice, and bed bugs, around this dump – so is it any surprise I want to extend a middle digit to one of your little midget’s too?

Is it too much to ask that the graying fat man in the red and white jammies, other than me, use the back door without ringing the bell, just like the rest of my hillbilly clan-family. This year, simply so there won't be any mistakes, I even stuffed foam up my chimney to keep the chill out; and let me tell you that’s a lot more challenging than those thin thermometers. Yes I was really prepared this holiday with candy cane cameras, bright landing lights, and even a few cookie-claymore trip lines to give St. Nick  a sign it’s the right time to finally face ME - the grim wreather.

At this point I am starting to doubt if there is, or ever was a REAL Santa at all. I have actually been to the North Pole but I never saw a red-striped, bearded benefactor there or at any of the other three spikes which hold up my tent. Maybe all this seasonal stewing n’ stalking I am doing of St. Nick is a waste of time? Clearly I need to give up on hunting down Santa and his elusive elves and just concentrate on something far easier to swallow like the ‘Fountain of VERMOUTH’!

Dried-Up Dude

While it’s true, similar to a snail, I always used to leave some kind of wet trail behind me particularly when I traverse the hallowed and much traveled ground between kitchen and latrine. But recently I have noticed as I age my skin is less malleable, my remaining hair’s less greasy, and I only break out in a real sweat when the candy dish runs low. Dried Prune analogies aside, I am concerned that all that dust in this dump is coming from the sands of time which seem to be tending toward gale force rather than a gentle breeze.

A case in point is once per annum I do a self-administered blood test to show the health insurance overlords that I am worthy of another year of earth time as long as I pay their insane policy ransom. I dread this test of the red not because I have to drain a vein for a plasma big screening, but mostly due to the fact that I can’t pump enough iron no matter what I do. I shake my hands, soak them in hot water, jump and run to get my jumbo juices flowing yet you guessed it - another year, another bloodless coup! 

Yes, after I exhaust the hygienic lances to pop a droplet of vampire vintage, I end up resorting to whatever dull paint-scraping X-acto blade I have laying around to keep the trickle tap leaking weakly. Despite my daily disguise as a big SAP, sadly if Mrs. Butterworth ever called me out for inspection she’d know I’m at least a quart low of sweet sanguine syrup and label me incapable as a maple tree. The good news is that usually only my pride suffers wounding, so rarely am I in need of first-aid staples like Band-Aids n’ gauze to shut-up my flaws, and tax my lack of liquidity.

When penning ‘In Cold Blood’ clearly white-clad n’ pasty faced Capote was referring to the missing Elmer’s glue-goo that spewed through his veins and the powdered rust of my own feckless circulatory system. Ahh that probably explains why I break for the buffet so often since all that grabbing n’ chewing keeps me warm, my platelets full, and If nothing else a chance to slather up in the butter trough to moisturize my dry hide. Who knows maybe at the dessert bar both Ben and Jerry can shun traditional dairy, and try to rehydrate my essence from top to Phlebotomist to transfUSE me as inspiration for their next flavor sensation - ‘Macabre Clotted Cream-o-globin’!

SOUPer FAN

Next to bread and water my favorite meal consists of plain ol’ soup. Almost any flavor is fine, just keep the fish heads to yourself and don’t be stingy with the salt, pepper, and a silver spoon the size of your head. The slop does not have to be fancy with discernible chunks of gunk – it just has to be hot and viscous enough to float a flotilla of saltines on the top.

Oh I know the chefy snobs want their icy vichyssoise but real tureen fiends like me demand the stock steaming and ready to scald bald on crispy cold days. Don’t expect stars to sparkle in my eyes if you dump some pee-wee pot on the tabletop either, especially if you begin to ladle my lunch with the little dipper. Nope, like my gut and the back half of my pants I need my bowls BIG, soundly round, and filled bountifully brim-high.

Even the condensed goo is ok too since it easily can be transformed into liquid-love with some fresh flow fondling from the H20 and a wittle wobble of the stove-top ’s knoble. So save your stacks of cash and leave that stinky brash stash of aged cheese add-ins and girly parsley garnish garrisoned in the fridge.  Ditto for the ice box locked jug of cow and its caloric yet even creamier Half & Half brother, ‘cause all I want my soup’s toes to dip into is a little hot water.

Yes most kitchen-istas will detest my palate’s sad lack of sophistication around the pot but I argue, that is usually a GOOD thing when plumbing’s involved. I admit my tasty buds tend toward the regular rather than the rare when it comes to my plain Jane soup du pure tastes. One way or another I must be some kind of a super fan for sure because when it comes to soup I’m a crusty old scab who isn’t all that picky . . . and oh yeah, I blow a lot of hot air!

Green Sleeves n' Shelves

It’s usually a bad idea whenever I explore my drawers regardless if I do it in the bedroom closet vanity or in the back of the refrigerator. While I can usually control what goes and grows into the underwear or socks, I really never know what I am going to find fascinatingly fetid inside the fridge. Oddly beyond the rainbow of colored Tupperware containers (both inside and out) and the Rorschach jelly and gravy shelf-blots it was something very GREEN yet very ordinary which caught my eye.

From dairy to berries everything in that ice box had some kind of cutesy label or attempt at a memorable marketing catch-phrase to grab what’s left of my aging and fleeting attention span. That makes sense for foods that are grocery store shiny and trying to sell me on their merits before I check-out – (more than ordinary anyway). However once the stuff has been fermenting freely on frigid racks for weeks I use my snout more than my cerebrum when deciding what’s good to eat rather than what smells like feet.

So that frees up a smattering of what’s left of my grayish mattering to think about really important worldly topics like, is ‘Farm Fresh’ really the best marketing term for the food lurking in our refrigerators. I already felt that the household dairy staples of ‘Sour Cream’ and ‘Cottage Cheese’ sound like stuff that might have parked inside a cow too long. But I have to guess that it has been quite a while since any of these Mad Ave Ad geniuses have taken a big country whiff on a truly fresh farm lately. 

I’m not a fan of ‘restaurant quality’ marked items either since I guess stuck-up true foodies aren’t apparently eating in the same bottom-dollar vinyl buffet booths that I slide my coverall-covered rump into. You can also save your snooty ‘sea salt’ for someone who sympathizes because word has it - THAT stuff comes from the same place where fish go to the bathroom.  Hmm, that fact alone makes me now question the origins of that ice cold, green-sleeved Mountain Dew I dream to ‘DO’; clearly before ‘downing’ I’d better wash my mouth out with a little soap, or better yet . . . a lot of alcohol!