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!

Flip Flop Flap

As you may have guessed I am not a fulsome fan of the flip-flop frenzy. Not only are those ‘ toe-ropers’ hard on your golden arches, but even the most vein and cankle-free feet look homelessly informal, unwashed, and un-loved donning them. Though my fashion sense is even less than the non-cents in my pocket, I still have enough scents to know when a bad fad really stinks!

I mean jolly ‘ol Jesus sold the heel-less sandal thing pretty well over a few thousand years right? So what crafty devil du jour all of a sudden decided to deviate from his I-PODiatrist’s playlist and start jamming to tight ropes in between his toe slopes? Gee when I was a kid I never remember ‘wedgies’ as being the ‘in’ thing and synonymous with breezy-free comfort and stylish good looks.

Why do these shoeless toe-Joes continually subject us to the terrors of their tootsie rolls, and flaunt their nasty callused & corn-covered ‘not-so-hot’ dogs. Believe me Nobody REALLY wants to see how your damp n’ dirty sausages are made. I can’t be the only unflappable fop left in this world who gets his tarsus in a twist or just a wee ‘wittle’ wiggy over the abuse of prodigious pink piggies can I?

Please do me and Dr. Scholls a favor and clamp-on a closed-toe shoe duo to marinate your feet-meat in. There is no better way to hush those unruly puppies and teach them to HEAL than by shoving them into a comfy all-leather kennel to call home. Yes, scuff no more my friends, ’cause it’s high-time to finally flip off those flops and flail freely toward their true-goo calling – Flattening BUGS rather than the balls of your boats!

My nephew smells

Recently I had an opportunity to spend some quality time with my nephew. He is a normal, seemingly well adjusted smart kid (I can fix that), but he has a unique peculiarity – he smells. Now don’t get me wrong he does not openly exude Durian stink like me, on the contrary he seems to smell rather WELL actually. Yes, like some kind of teen wolf with twilight vibrato in his vibrissae, the kid literally howls at any noun that sticks a stiff scent up his septum.

For normal humans, a fresh out-of-the-oven loaf of bread, or maybe a steak dinner will call for some olfactory attention and lead us to the meatus. But this youngin’ will nose-over airplanes, cardboard, leather footballs, plastic bags – you name it. Whatever IT is, if it is in front of him with little wavy lines rising to the sky, he’ll not just give a dime of his time, but he’ll volunteer a snifty scent nasal nudge.

This is in direct conflict with my basic skunk rule of survival – smell only when you fear for your life or eat corned beef and cabbage. That means I avoid the mall perfumery , the food court and BOTH the rhino and the plasty with my oh so sensitive sinuses. Also under no circumstances can you fall for the spousal stink trap of “Smell this – does the milk seem bad to you too?” respiratory ruse.

I’ve heard of some of those ice cream flavor gurus being supertasters but I’ve never heard any good things about people who smell a lot. I could understand this ‘talent’ if my nephew was hatched on my side of the coop, since my genes and cells are laced and padded with defective scratch n’ sniff anomalies a-plenty. But this kid is from the wife’s familial vine-line so I thought that her DNA pool was highly chlorinated and not nearly as murky as my chromosome-light side of the short bus.

Regardless of his ‘smell-tale’ heart, it doesn’t take ‘Nostril-damus’ to predict that my nephew’s future will really STINK! Not because he’s destined to have trouble with adolescence, his parents or homework, but because he starts high school in the Fall. You remember that place don’t you . . . the cafeteria wreaks of bleach and tater tots, none of the boys shower after P.E., and the girls all douse themselves in competing and conflicting ‘Eau de toilette’!

The black flag of victory

Since I am a bit of a dirt dweller myself, other than lawyers, I don’t have too many phobias concerning bugs and high-flying insects. With that said however, I do not prefer eating, hearing or sleeping with lofty crawlies of any kind, no matter how beneficial or environmentally attractive they are to mankind. I know I am considered to BEE close-minded and a Neanderthal ‘buzz-kill’ in the eyes of today’s ‘accept and settle’ culture. But honestly, I work hard to stay on my side of the swatter and I want bugs to show some self-control and keep their probosci to themselves too!

Why is it whenever I meander out to the junk-mail box in a perpetual sleep-deprived stupor, I receive my own personal air show and am routinely accosted by unidentified buzzing objects (UBO)? I rarely ask for such top drawer attention or expect recognition for the contents of any of my drawers for that matter. Only on special occasions like kin-folk weddings and voodoo blood-lettings do I sweat so alluringly and carry buckets full of rancid chicken pickens and grill thrills. I even hide from the FedEx guy and the Wells Fargo wagon unless they need me to punch their buttons so why would I ever want to commune with, much less SEE bees?

I know what you are thinking “Don’t sweat it, like your blog they’re insensitive irritants so that’s what they’re supposed to do – BUG YOU”. The issue is a matter of respect for myself and others in the ‘NoMo insectual” community. I don’t ask or tell my ilk to go out of their way to bump n’ run into horse flies or other insects with throat problems and mess up their family harmony. I have enough class to know when my stinger’s exposed I never buzz, and only rarely whine, while circling around other people’s sweaty foods and hairy hides.

I likely would not have a problem with the high and flighty bugs in my life if they would just back off their ‘bizzy’ schedule a tad and stick to Dolly Parton’s nine to five instead of 7/11’s twenty four / seven . I’ve grown tired of getting thumped in the rump and playing badminton with these little winged shuttlecocks by my moonlight. I think It’s high time for one side or the other to give-up but I refuse to wave white. No my red badge of discourage shuns surrender and will never budge to bothersome bugs or nettlesome gnats, because my victory FLAG only comes in one intoxicating shade – BLACK!

Bells N’ Whistles

For an old guy I still try to embrace new technology. In fact as often as I can I hug the new dishwasher and tell it how much I love it while stuffing its craw with greasy fowl leftovers and bowls of dried-on Midwest grits n' bits. I don’t particularly care how clean the dishes get as long as it steams my corn and is silent but NOT deadly to my inbred clan. Yes, other than a few muted arcade beeps, every time I open the thing, the dishwasher returns its gratitude for being a member of the family by simply existing in silent bliss.

Unfortunately most technology in our noisy lives often plots to bite us on the otitis. How can Monks and other old world primates like myself ever hope to achieve inner peace when everything now ‘burps’ ‘slurps’ and keeps ‘waxing on’ UN-poetically in my ‘Eire’ canal? Today it is clear that my gizmo and gadget habit works overtime to hammer my anvils and hum on my drums even without a formal proposal of marriage.

For example, by now Juan Valdez must be deaf since whenever I add water to the coffee machine it tweets like a fruit-loopy wet toucan. The water pot pumps, pops, and creaks with groans of protest. When the brew cycle is complete it peeps incessantly like a hungry hen and screams even louder when it shuts itself off. Who designs this ear muff stuff - horrible aural sadists? If I’m allowed to ignore my kid whenever I want then why can’t I motor my ‘Hoveround’ to end of the driveway in peace and ignore my seatbelt’s chirpy chimes too?

I’m not against new fangled progress but I can’t be the only Amish sympathizer to want technology’s bells without a clapper or its whistles without fipples. I accept that the world needs to slobber over clobber but I’m just not sure if in my own home sanctuary all that stuff needs to beep, bleat & peep MORE than I do. Don’t worry I’m not a crazy shut-in yet and can take the strain. But I am a little worried about those steamed cobs though . . . the corn have started shoving sticks in their ears.