‘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

A DOG'S LIFE

I generally am not an envious creature since despite outward appearances, most people often have more complex and hidden weighty baggage than even I am able to stuff into my tiny overhead bin. Anyway my life has been reasonably charmed with good calories, chances, and a Teflon-tempered family willing to still walk me even when I gurgle, grouse and grumble.  So it’s sensible to just stick with my own known quantity of crazy and slog through a routine trying not to inadvertently break other people’s stuff or publicly scratch too vigorously, except when buying lottery tickets.

I will admit though I do gaze upon the neighbor’s ol’ yellow dog and at times admire his simple, unpretentious and seemingly perfect existence. Even with all of the positive support surrounding me I still have to constantly consider consequences and what people may think if I make odd choices or do unusual things. That’s not the case for that geezer-mutt next door since he doesn't care about shallow hidden whispers from others on the color of his coat, his mental acumen, health, and of course the enduring ripeness of his scent.

It would be great to just dash out to the border of the front yard, mindful of the underground shock-wire of course, and gleefully start yelling at door to door salespeople and politicians who dare approach? Who wouldn’t love the freedom when they get the urge to purge while on a walk, to just just stop, drop, and wrangle a rope or two to green up a neighbor’s lawn and lubricate their mower’s wheels. Life would be a lot easier if I could chew on furniture to brush my teeth, did not have to wash or even wear clothes, and got to lap up my coffee right from the floor rather than messing with putting it in a mug first.

Since I reckon I could get through puberty by the age of 2 and on to senior discounts by 3^rd grade, even with the whole 7 to 1 aging thing, clearly a dog’s life is looking pretty attractive to me right now. Despite that few dogs work for the government, some do have a bad reputation for harassing postal workers, which I find unbelievable since I’m sure they ALL must be in the same union. Given the similarity of great lifetime benefits, low and slow work expectations moving papers from street to stoop, and walking around unshaven and hairy - how else could you explain it?

E-Bowl-Of

Given my graying growing girth I have to watch what I eat, or more accurately WATCH what other people eat. Don’t worry I have plenty of flaccid fatty flesh reserves and cisterns of black coffee to tide me over until the Dairy Queen and Burger King get together to make a fat-free baby burger I can nurture without guilt. In the meantime though, I think it would be nice if I could find a guaranteed, calorie shredding, diet idea that will help me slim down just by sitting in my easy-geezer chair!

You see that lumpy yawn of a divan is where I do my best calorie cutting (into bite sized chunks). Yes in the presence of those crushed plush n’ crumby tufted buttons is where I write and stress EAT most often, especially after the TV news drones ceaselessly on about curb lurking dangers and societal discomforts. Who can blame both my mouth and my stomach for growling when these days every time I turn on the tele some floosy newsie starts spewing doozies about E-bowl-of this and E-bowl-of that.

So naturally my musty dusty brain filled with a murky milky mush calls to the claws to grab my anchor of a laptop, and the computer that sits atop it, to seek out this ‘E-bowl of’ cereal site that everyone is abuzz about.  I am intrigued since what personage of a portly persuasion doesn’t want to stare at lusty, glossy and saucy pictures of wet n’ grainy, fiber-rich cereals all from the comfort of their own couch? I would think even skinny, ice shelved penguins on egg-watch too might get a little hot and bothered and see their feather temps rise under such extreme conditions.

Maybe I have misspelled it for I find no mention of a bland pablum diet and an e-fitness program that is web-based without the mess of real spiders and their unfortunate encounters with heavy free weights. Too bad since who knows If I had really shed a sled-full of my sugarloaf I might have been able to reach out and preach the benefits of ‘E-bowl-of’ to the world beyond my Lazy-Boy. Yep, If I were lucky, I might have even gone to the SOURCE where this trend all started – then as the official spokesperson, I could fly back home and REALLY spread the word in person to those TV news-pukes who always make me hungry!

Fear of FALLing Pledge

I enjoy all the seasons though a mild and balanced Spring is my favorite with Summer running a close second since I can finally shed my brown flannel-flapped insulated drawers n’ boots in favor of  breezy green jungle undies over ashen glutes. Winter signals a slow hunkering down, more work, and risk of injury but it also brings the fellowship of the holiday season and a new year marker for yet another chance to live life more thoughtfully and try  ‘again’ next time to get it ALL right. But Fall is indeed the wolf in sheep’s clothing since beautiful lush, flowing foliage turns auburn and drawn overnight, wilts, and drops millions of reminders of the work ahead and the loss of once warm temps and long lazy days left behind.

Yes I fear the crispened cool air bearing down and the change of color that so many flock to see and  celebrate because it represents a half year of hideaway hibernation ahead. Though I know it is good for me in many ways, I don’t relish the relentless ‘exercise’ it takes to clean up all of those tree leavings, comings and goings. I can’t ignore the encapsulating blanket of leafy convergence upon the doors, cars, and LIFE so something has to be done with them or my wife, post office guy, and vandals WILL surely notice when they can’t get near the house to do their bidding. 

Oh sure I prepare by stocking up on all of the right tools to help blow, suck, and grind-up whatever I can but in the end, there are more piles of debris than there is pavement to pile it all on. Sometimes I lament my life because it seems so unfair that I have a monopoly on a truly coveted cruddy leaf commodity. Why should others only dream of the wealth that I have amassed - so this year I have a generous plan to make life ‘more fair’ and share my leafy-luxury with the 99% of my community who are less fortunate and haven’t yet FALLen for the benefits of true socialism.

Why should I be so selfish and uncaring to my fellow man when most people aren’t lucky enough to live on the cusp and breathe in the warm and welcoming mildewy-musk, of a giant forested mulch pit? My generous and overly sensitive nature shall no longer know the fear of falling toward the dark side (even under the cover of darkness) and staying self-centered and greedy like in my shady past. From now on I vow to do my best by bulking-up bags of leaves, sticks, and pine needles to gift to each of my neighbors, trick or treatsters, or charity solicitors and help all who must face Fall - longing, leafless, and in genuine need.

Freedom Pandemic

Since I love dancing with the devil and sticking bamboo shoots under my nails for recreation, one of my favorite annual pastimes is reviewing new laws and our insurance policies. This is the time of year that I start longing for a tall-flagged Hoveround to motor home rather than drive that two ton registered steel trash can I use now. The truth is I am not sure what it is that I am actually registering and insuring  except that by next year there will be MORE intrusive rules, less cash in the bank, and an even rustier bucket in the garage.

I’m just in a grumpy mood since as soon as New Years rears its ugly naked-baby head, the reference to ‘death and taxes’ becomes more poignant all the way through mid April and already makes me feel dead. All stupid insurance companies seem to line up to ‘protect’ me from the distress of death, but I can’t find a one who will sell me a policy to fend off the ‘seat’ of government or any of its other dirty smelly parts.  I have to be honest, since covens of thirsty vampires have taken over the States and nation, my garden is already a quart  or mo’ low so I’m not so ‘Oh positive’ now of how much plasma I’ve got left to squeeze from my turnips or blood oranges.   

What I need is a practical insurance plan that ensures the milk for my bread pudding stays warm and un-curdled during my whole life and the government won’t keep putting even MORE holes in my leftover swiss cheese. I don’t mind paying a few premiums now as long as future generations will still be able to buy magazines of any size or capacity if they like to read, or chug syrupy sodas more than 12 ounces if they please.  I want assurance though if I stay responsible, skinny up and take care of myself today without sorrow, that fat bureaucrats won’t feverishly fiddle with riddle-clued rules to find pleasure impeding my path tomorrow.

Clearly it’s my highest priority on this year’s viral resolution list, to dream of a contagious ‘freedom pandemic’ ablution wish. Don’t try to defy the takeover of liberty’s tingly sensation, even if you stick instead of kick your can, with a double dose inoculation. Yes freedom’s ring is the kind of clean sweep insurance thing that we all need more of to savor and savvy, to keep us economically lean and less legislatively flabby.

Food Racist Manifesto

Given that I spend lots of quality time with my beak in a bowl, I often tend to bond with food in more ways than I care to share or can hose off before blokes dare stare. Aside from a green veggie or two, generally I bow to chow which consists of quarantined islands of browned cow or pink sow. I don’t like my farm meat co-mingling or lingering long on my lips or plate, ‘cause those calories have a BIG job down South adding doughy softness to my hips and my weight.

My wife likes salads with colors galore, chunks of veggies, twigs, sprouts n’ sprigs, but if you gaze upon what I graze, it is just a leafy green sea of plain Jane nutrition-less iceberg ennui. My ruminant palate prefers to ruminate sans surprises, so the last thing goat-goofs like me find appealing, is a pot of porridge with colorful nuggets free-styling and keeling. Remove all rainbow mystery treats from my feed bag and please rush, since clearly the stuff stuck in my cup should be served ONLY in six shades of mush.

So keep your bulky pulp pox and crammed jam full of seeds away from my jelly jar or juice box needs. Get a clue ‘cause I eschew goo which should ordinarily be smooth too like chunk-free peanut cream, bricks o’ butter, or grit-less paste for dingy teeth and craggy face.  Don’t tread upon the red badge of my colored ketchup or insight a hateful coup over my caffeinated sodas of caramel hue. Keep your facts to yourself and stay on your side of the fiber tracks - just leave me alone, fat n’ happy, with my white- bread filled sacks.

If your tea teases me sweetly with tapioca boba and fancy faloodah, I’m sure to be in a very bad food MOODa. Just keep my chocolate pure and wax free, and dare not exhaust raspberry laced wafts anywhere near me. I admit I’m a little provincial and prefer to pen my manifesto in black like my coffee and white like my milk. So leave your colorful Neapolitan to someone more cosmopolitan, because this fat gorilla savors wolfing down ANY fav-flavor - as long as it’s just PLAIN vanilla.