Cheap thrills in the lap of luxury

Being naturally stingy with my shekels, when I saunter into a store I almost always head for the ‘day old’ bin or clearance aisle first. I can’t help it if I am naturally attracted to dented doorstops which in a former life were canned yams, or donuts with that extra special sweaty sparkle. Hey I’m not a slob, it’s just I know which hairy side my bargain bread is buttered on and it is all about saving the GREEN these days!

While the rest of you fat cats feast on your Friskies, luxurious pillow-soft 12 grain buns and wear pants with working zippers, I am THAT guy who eats p-butter and toe jam sandwiches off of the 99 cent kids-food menu. No really, I gnaw that stuck-stuff right off the kidlet menus to help build-up my ‘rug-rat’ germ immunity, while hopefully strengthening my teeth and breath as well.

If you don’t finish that last cold shriveled fry, hot pepper or undercooked bite o’ burger, you can bet I’ll be asking for a take-home box and feasting on it tomorrow. There’s nothing like ‘hot water chili’ and donning the dream of a hobo-king at somebody else’s expense. Yes the only Wet Nap luxury in my pocket will be AFTER you’ve used yours; because when you’re flying as high as I do there’s little room for oxygen and even less for pride - that slipped through the holes in my lining long ago.

Oh of course I jest, despite my thrifty proclivities I clearly have had a pretty lucky life. I’m not complaining and have gotten used to clawing my way out of the sweaty throws of the bargain basement. Being cheap is my personal success thrill-quest, where every ransacked trash-can is one raccoon away from a winning lottery ticket and the lofty lore of living large. The only thing is if I ever REALLY do find myself snugly cradled in life’s easy breezy luxurious LAP – I wholly hope at least one of us will have holy intentions and wear a pair of ‘un-holey’ pants.

FACING the FUZZ!

I doubt it would surprise you if just like most people I don’t fancy ‘da’ fuzz’. No I’m fine with the police as long they aren’t cinched up tight in ‘Reno 911’ shorty shorts with their khakis hanging out. No the fuzz I’m talking about is from my carpet and its odd newlywed reproduction habits in nearly every room of the house. I have had this same mangy carpet for over 4 years now and our Roomba is starting to complain even more than when I demand my bi-weekly nook and cranny ‘vac-baths’.

Now I knew when we went to the rug doctor and the prognosis favored a steam-o chemo treatment, it was likely that our rug might shed a tear or two. But after a few trips around the calendar you’d think the biggest fuzz producer in our kennel would be that floss between my teeth, or the emergency peach I keep stashed in my all too-roomy, gut-button. But no, as fate would have it my ‘pile of nap’ carpet is a virtual fine fur warehouse where even the dust bunnies' shadows have five o’clock fluff!

This unfortunate rug revelation in no way means I have abandoned my lurid love of all things linty in life. Vacuum bags and their seductive stash of inner secrets still call to me like Fabio finds frustrated, feckless housewives. And lest we forget the oft ignored dryer trap, which never fails to fuel my fuzzy logic with great joy and the freedom of reckless self-expression. Clearly I have faced and embraced my inner fuzz even if most sane people I know aren’t ‘DOWN’ with it.

Yes, despite the unrestrained side of the family tree and their best efforts to straighten my jacket and un-rumple my hump, I won’t be denied the dust. I lasciviously laugh at your locked and loaded laundry rooms and haughty British bag-less ball vacs with genuine desire. Because let’s FACE it, anyone, given the chance, would surely love to shove, my goofy glued-up mug into the lint-hole of a hot dryer. But be forewarned, I may sprout a ‘bad to the bone’ crazy biker beard with a ‘tude to match, or of course I might be just EXACTLY the same - ‘FUZZY’ brained!

Branded for life by MASCOTS

Despite their popularity, I have never really been a fan of sports, school, or corporation mascots. Beyond the obvious lingering trauma I suffered through college as an ‘Anteater’, I just have never embraced the whole clowny circus, noisy ‘branding’ thing anyway. I mean what reputable organization really wants the image of a nightmarish, A.D.D. riddled, oversized hunk of dryer lint, dancing PANTS-LESS pantomime - right?

I guess I can understand the big, lithe jungle cats like Jaguars, Panthers, Lions and Tigers as mascots to help promote a tough and graceful global corporate or sports image. However for a folksy local feel, I’ve never understood why domesticated feline breeds like the ‘brown shorthairs’, ‘Maine Coons’, or the ‘Puddy Tats’ haven’t caught on? You’d think dog names would be good mascot monikers as well but other than the Greyhound and Bulldog, I can’t recall any company or sports team marketing themselves in the image of the everyday ‘Schnauzer’ ‘Shih-tzu’ or ‘Shnoodle’?

Oh sure a mammoth Clydesdale mascot is a shoe-in to help define a brand fan-base if all your customers are constantly marinating in vats of Nyquil brew while rubbing elbows and foam fingers in sweaty stadium seats. Sadly I too am not immune to the mighty power of the Madison Avenue mascots as they have a death-grip on my beady brain as well as my busting beltline. More than once I’ve sat with a mouth-watering Whopper, donning a paper crown, only to succumb to prison-guilt from the hypnotic lure of the curiously creepy burger KING. Clearly you know I’m weak if that evil balloon-headed Jack in the Box ‘dude-cot’ has hooked me with a toxic affinity for his fragrantly fried n’ flat tacos.

Except for cow boys & girls, as well as the chap-hardened folk who herd ‘em hard, branding is a fairly difficult concept to burn into ones … uh - Memory. So organizations naturally turn to these stupid obnoxious mascots and other TOOLS to help me, the lowly consumer, remember them more easily. My real problem though is that I am SO simple-minded that it doesn’t matter if is the Santa Cruz Banana Slugs or Chik Fil-A’s Jersey cow, I try to remember only ONE IMPORTANT THING from mascots – my PANTS!!

Milking the Color Rut

What would the world be like if our established ways of doing things were ‘snowglobed’ & shaken up a bit? Oh sure we all talk a good game of how great and colorful ‘CHANGE’ is, but most of us actually prefer wads of those dull green pictures of dead presidents in our pockets. Like the lopsided lobes of my beanie-bound brain, I generally prefer when things are actually a little off-balanced. However I am the first to admit that if ‘ruts’ were Velcro loops, my burr-head would be permanently hooked and extra ‘linty’!

So would our kids still drink milk if it were sucked out of serpents instead of cows? I say ‘Moooove over’ ubiquitous ungulates - make room for daddy and the rest of the animal kingdom to let loose with the juice. Since most everyone drowns their cereal sorrows in white power anyway, then few should complain when we start to drain Albino snakes for sugar flakes. Let’s face it, milk is a two-timing color sponge chameleon anyway that can’t be trusted. My Cocoa Puffs bow to the brownie cow, while the Crunchberries continually cry crimson; but Lucky Charms n’ liquid lactation always warms to a hinty tint-of-mint libation.

Do you really want to play in downy white snow or better still, eat it up, if it were naturally yellow? What if brown sugar was white and refined, while white sugar was raw and came in both light and dark brown shades - would our cookies taste the same even when tossed? Would we dream about rainbows if they were triangles in shades of gray, and the gold pot at the end called its kettle black? Would you still squeeze blackberries if they made rude sounds like raspberries or ever cut cheeses if they didn’t?

Would you drink gray water if it was clearly safe or hide under an umbrella from purple rain even if you weren’t a Prince? What if strawberries tasted like hay and blueberries were always depressed – would their memory leave a permanent stain? What if old wrinkled elderberries got brown spots and fragrant when past their prime and jaundiced bananas turned green with envy when ready to eat?

Wow, I’m feeling a little woozy – this ‘off-balanced’ thing is highly overrated. Too many questions and possibilities for change, when free-associating color paradigms, challenging logic and abandoning Aristotelian Physics. I feel like I am back in Mad Hatter class again at my alma what’s-the-matter, ‘Lewis Carol College’. Ok I’ll say it – ‘I LIKE being stuck with my immovable ruts, blanket assumptions, and ridiculously predictable habits’. I promise to make at least one significant change in my life however - this is the last time I’m ordering the ‘FUN GUY’ special from that hippie joint ‘Psychedelic Pizza for Psquares’.

Streetwalker Mission

Despite my Yeti proportions and head-kettle full of noodle soup, I actually do leave the silo once in awhile to walk the streets. No I’m not looking for handouts or willing to worky for jerky yet, but that’s not because I’m too proud, it’s just because I’m too lazy! I am not averse to an occasional recreational opportunity to exercise my spare tires; however usually when my Dr. SOLES are stuffed to the brim with yeasty pink piggies, it is for genuine bipedal locomotion not a random troll stroll.

What always amazes me on these treks, is regardless of duration, at least one oily 'Bondo-mobile' full of toothless youth will roar by giggling and shouting in hopes of garnering my glower. I know it’s rare to see a foot-dragging, sweaty blog-zombie by daylight. But honestly other than the eagle nesting in my uni-brow and that Green Mile movie, I don’t understand the real entertainment value of heckling a dead man walking?

In my two footed travels, I have observed that humankind also seems to DIG digging. I mean on every corner, somebody or some machine is piling up a healthy pyramid of dirt and rock with an inverse hole to match. I’m sure it’s all important stuff and way above my Google Adsense pay-grade, but honestly what is so devilishly interesting down there that you can’t already find up here?

I mean we’ve cornered the market on Santa, the Tooth Fairy, and word has it, even GOD himself has signed a long term contract with over 80% of the world’s faithful. So what’s all this fuss to uncover one more hot n’ horny, fiery-tempered devil when our high schools are already overflowing with them? If we were smart we would try harder to bury the skeletons in our collective closet instead of exposing our impressionable MINERS to even more dirt!

Though TRASHY is an ever-present adjective associated with street walkers, I can happily say that due to recycling efforts these days, I finish off a lot fewer brew bottles and cat food cans while touring on my tootsies. Oh sure the obligatory paper cups and fast food wrappers are still bountiful, however they prove useful as bread crumb trails when hunting down a mystery 'beast-eatery' for a meaty grease feast. But I’ll always remember my primary shoe-cruise mission is to keep my peds in their KEDs and clean the streets while dodging the dangers of CRACK – after all my mother’s BACK is depending on it!