Conephobia

Ever since I donned my first dunce cap in a dark n’ dreary corner at grade school, I have never been a fan of cone shaped objects. Think about it, whenever cones shows up outside a party it almost ALWAYS means trouble - or at least a lot of traffic congestion. Yeah, it may be hip these days to condone garden gnomes and worship Harry Potter’s talking wizard topper, but let me tell you nothing good (especially my grades) has ever come from pointy-head geometry.

Oh sure you can use your Cone-dome to single-out South East Asians who truly love their Mekong rice-paddy hats to keep and look cool all at the same time. Remember though, not so far away pimple-popping Pacific peaks freely spit-up lava in your face, like a bad baby brimming with gut-gas and a craw full of over-ripe pineapple pablum. Yep, the only comely Cone-y that a big APEx like me will pony up to at a table, is one slathered in mustard, onions, and oh so fashionable neon-green relish.

Also, what ‘dim-tin-tin’ dog of a marketing ‘goo-roo’ decided that ice cream is far more fun in a pencil tipped ‘sugar cone’ rather than in the confines of a safe, sane, and POINT-LESS ‘cake cup’? Does this waffling world of ice cream wimps REALLY need two types of edible receptacles; especially when the one with the bayonet for a body makes us dig a hole FIRST before we can sit the drippy mess down?

Double ditto for phony-coney coffee filters – after all these years, other than the Easter Bunny and his marshmallow nougated ilk, what’s the ‘prob’ with packs of flat n’ happy BASKET cases? Remember though, since I’m from the Midwest, you have to slice me a scintilla of slack. Because around these parts, both alley dwelling funnel clouds and funnel cake blowhards like myself have been known to run amok on occasion which often leads to great damage of both the tree-line as well as my waistline!

My Dickens Christmas traditions

Except for the stuffed and mounted Santa & sleigh on the wall, my family has a few oddball Christmas traditions too just like everyone else. Mind you I’m no Scrooge-dude, but over the years I have assembled a slightly warped array of holiday harbingers & habits to help herald n’ Hark the angels ‘BARK’, albeit a bit off-key. Oh sure our gaggle of odd ducks still suck nog and exchange gifts of cheap & waxy chocolate covered cherries and brickyard fruitcake, because Christmas is nothing if it isn’t about quality.

Anyone can buy gaudy and poorly made 3rd world ornaments for their family but I insist on contributing to our nation’s constant need for landfill refuse by making my own. Yes, nearly every year I try to show my Mother the meaning of ‘true love’ with a homemade or recycled ornament creation of hanging JOY. Who can resist some of these decades old deformed beauties when they are made out of rare Christmas finery like waffle batter, peanut shells, melted soda bottles, or my favorite art medium – dryer lint?

My wife’s siblings and parents prefer to exchange ‘gag’ gifts every year instead of the obligatory stacks of lifeless gift cards. It makes sense since doesn’t everyone love a holiday meal graced with a giant restaurant-sized can of pork n’ beans donning a glittery Santa hat at the head of the table? Not to be out-done, my own Father spreads a healthy helping of Christmas cheer too by annually competing with his Army buddies to distribute the ‘UGLIEST’ Christmas cards they can find and dare send.

So judge me not for my inner ‘hum bug’ and forgive my assault upon age-old holiday traditions. Clearly I am one pinched loaf short of a bread pudding and my lameness should remain blameless due to my family’s BAD genes AND taste. So now you know my relatives may see quality differently, but we TOO try to keep a Dicken’s Christmas “well’ – it’s just that we’re a 'tiny Tim' more ‘SCROOGED’ up than you.

HillBILLY 'Grinchmas'

Hey just because I’m always scratching, walking around with spinach in my teeth, and usually hairy doesn’t mean that I am some hillbilly Christmas Grinch. The only issue is that as I get older I would prefer if all the holiday ‘Hul-la-ba-WHO’ would just get over with a tad quicker, that’s all. Far beyond the gallons of Nyquil I brew n’ consume from the still daily; effectively from one second after Halloween through New Years day, life compresses and besieges me as one big, bimonthly burr-blur.

Oh sure it’s easy to act all high & jolly and kiss random elves & animals when mistletoe, rum-laced nog and choco treats race to the brain to free my inner ‘DOPE-amine’. But I really don’t need any more excuses to do LESS work or accost my remaining un-institutionalized friends or their laundry, with good CHEER and random acts of Christmas. Anyway, who wants Santa’s stinking perpetual pine scent all over my trusty rust-bucket and bounty of hoarded stuff for one sixth of my entire life? As long as my wife, a.k.a. ‘Mrs. Claws’, gives me permission to goof off and keep intravenously beefing up my already well powdered and sugar-coated ‘gut-muffin’, every day IS MY holiday Right?!

Yeah I grouse and whine but it’s all in good ‘ol bum-country fun. Actually my inner ‘Grinch’ is rather endearing when I start to pass ou..t - uh sorry?, … the roast beast feast to my cousin, mother, and step-daughter - who all happen to be the SAME person. While city-folk rage over the age-old quandary of ham OR turkey, ‘round here, at our ‘Road-Kill rally’ we can score BOTH, cooked over a roaring Firestone tire fire by the ‘up-chuck wagon’. Usually by Christmas though, not only has my ‘Grinch-initesimal ‘ heart abruptly enlarged, but my beltline and the pan full of cat litter under my Lazy Boy has swelled thrice its size as well.

So you coastal dwellers and holiday snobs can keep all of your fancy long drawn-out traditions, seasonally-lighted houses with the wreath adorned doors, and fake snow on your window panes. In the Midwest we NEVER take down our lights without a court order and we drive around with REAL deer and bloody antlers stuck to our pick-ups. Yes, in the ‘Zarks, we can count on the pleasure of genuine snow and frigidity to brighten our toothless smiles far beyond just the months of November and December. Gee I guess around here every day must be Christmas and I am just an old ‘inbred Grinch’ after all!

Forget gyms just EXERCISE!

Just because I don’t belong to a gym doesn’t mean I’m averse to exercise, it just means that in MY typical mental state I am not allowed to operate HEAVY machinery. No to stay fit, I want to get my ‘juice’ the old fashioned way by skulking back and forth between the refrigerator, recliner, and the litter box near the roach motel. I used to be in a lot better shape when I was young but once they invented zippers, TV remotes and the devil’s utensil – the ‘spork’, I got a little lazy and a tad flabby.

Oh sure since I type a lot and know my way around a can of aerosol cheese, you probably have guessed that I’m a world class athlete from wrists to fingerprints. Sadly it’s just the rest of my flesh that flaps and flags furiously in a stiff wind which makes me pause, not with concern, but to catch my breath. Apparently my wife worries about my cold, stiff, body too, since she routinely tells me where to ‘go’ to warm up, and she wants me to get off my coffin to increase my activity level and exercise routine.

Even during frigid times of the year I try to appease the spouse with a brisk walk together over the dark and cold Midwest tundra to Taco Bell for dinner. I don’t mind following carrots as long as they taste like tacos, and anyway you’ve never lived until you boot your way through recently thawed permafrost into a two inch layer of muddy ‘Mr. Ma-GOO’! Who needs a hot, expensive & sweaty gym when the great outdoors will suck off your shoes and offer-up 10 pound ankle anchors for free? After all bulky Hulks like me need all the help I can get, to lift and separate my Frankenstein gate, and enhance my already cartoon-creature image.

Like satanic thoughts, most of my daily fitness routine is thrust upon me involuntarily anyway, as I try to keep up with the stuff that makes trouble, breaks double, or takes a fall on top of my ‘un-loved’ Amityville shack. Inside this cavern, there is always a cold darkness stalking me, but that might be because I’m just ‘bats’ by pulling the shades and setting the thermostat too low? When it comes to graveYARD work I am taunted by millions of demon leaves and howling, windy, tree-things which need bunching, crunching, and perpetual decomposition. Now you can see I don’t really need to be banished to a gym to get in shape - I just need to be regularly EXORCISED!

Turkey Envy

Being a fan of all things ‘foul’, you can probably guess that I sincerely love a golden turkey on Thanksgiving. As a butterball myself, I have a ‘pop-out’ soft spot for sharing a pleasant holiday meal with my dandy-fam and nothing but ol’ ‘tasty Tom’ will literally fit THIS Bill! Despite that, I honestly still feel uncomfortable when around naked tawny turkeys with their prickled skin and in their pre-basted state of undress. I’m clearly no ‘Freudo’ psych-pro but this apprehension most likely speaks to my repressed childhood where I would avoid the high school showers after P.E. for the EXACT same reason.

Hey I know my ancient ancestors were ‘real men’ who had to run down and dance with anything they could get their ‘grubbies’ on just to avoid starvation. But even the most ardent and skilled ancient hunters probably didn’t shower either, before dragging a ‘kill’ back for others in the camp-clan to stuff n’ slather to the turkey tango. So ergo in modern times, I have technically already ‘done my share’ of the Thanksgiving prep. by picking-up the poultry in all its royal plumpness from the market and packing it home, right?

Oh sure you think I’m a ‘wuss’ and feel all high and mighty just because you fancy yourself as a master at buttering up and stroking cold, dead flesh per age old traditions. Remember morticians are pretty good at that too and even with their big high-brow Cadillacs, nobody EVER says they’re the life of the party. Besides, my tribe keeps me around for the NORMAL Ozark side dishes and immoral support. You haven’t really lived until you’ve feasted upon red Jello with buckets of fridge leftovers in translucent suspended animation, or my famous ‘hillbilly’ fresh greens overflowing with classy cheese-doodle croutons.

Still I wish I had the right stuff to shove a cuff up a big bird when called upon. Maybe it’s just a matter of practice so I need to stop being a chicken by ducking the plucking and start small to work my way up through the aviary food chain? I figure a finch is a cinch and a goose should boost my ‘hands-up’ experience with the egg-layers & cavity union. I am a bit skeptical though, because even if I triumph over my turkey touching trauma I still have to come face to fowl with the business end of an ostrich, ten pounds of Oleo and a toaster oven. I still don’t know how I’ll do it but like blogging, the best way is to NOT think about it and just ‘WING’ it!

Happy Thanksgiving!