Chum-Bucket Bliss

When most people refer to their bucket lists, they are typically pondering far-off in the future lofty luxury vacations or nervy nail-biting nature interactions with possible death as an outcome. Since sadly I tend to encounter those bipolar experiences on a regular, but involuntary basis anyway, my ‘b-list’ is a tad less inspirational. In fact, there’s even an ACTUAL rectangular window-washing bucket on my list to help relieve my squeegee’s embarrassment from getting stuck up in an ordinary round bucket. 

I know the hushed-toned rumors at family events may be true that I am simple minded, but then again I prefer to think of myself as just being lower maintenance and easier to please than most folks. Most loyal dogs will smell anything, play with the same slobbery ball all day, and fetch any old stick as long as it’s wrapped in bacon, so I consider myself in good company. Mutts like me may dream of greener grass from time to time, but true nirvana is nearer when we realize ANY yard can look pretty good with a regular trim and liberal application of OUR OWN fertilizer!

Don’t get me wrong, despite my pedantic preaching I still hold white collared reverence for timely clan-travel and elective extemporaneous exploration. After all, what else are you going to spend all that inheritance on – tacos, taxes, or your basement-bound spawn’s silk sheets and cell phone? So why not look beyond those lengthy lists of improbable future chum-buckety fun and instead focus NOW on your skivvie’s silver lining while they are still warm.

Now I certainly wouldn’t turn my beak up at a chance at an adventuresome Antarctic ice shelf preening and penguin omelette with Popper’s progeny. But that doesn’t mean I should deny my desire for  Denny’s ‘EGGScellent’ burnt offerings just because the feed trough is clearly much closer to my crib. Regardless of the perceived value of the venue, it’s ALWAYS the glue of my crew who makes even the ordinary stuff so special, and really worthy of my burly bulk and TRUE blue buckety bliss!

Making a spectacle

The problem with being on the old age track is not really the aches, slower reaction times, or the wiry tufts of hair sprouting randomly from a dark orifice or warm fold of fat. No the real issue is that we don’t understand when the train is ‘officially’ scheduled to arrive. Of course we notionally know our caboose won’t run as fast … or run at all for that matter, and we seem to have an uncontrollable urge for Beano, buffets, bathrooms and bingo (in that order).

Oh sure everybody gets a few hints as to our ‘delicate condition’ by grabbing a glimpse of our jiggly jowls in a darkened computer monitor, or brushing that LAST mouth-bound real tooth in a Geritol bath. Oh yes and let’s not forget as our knees near the knobby stage, our hips don’t LIE right anymore, they just tick louder than a ‘tweeny-bopper’ popping gum in time to a cheap clock. Despite all that physical evidence, it’s still not quite enough to actually convince ourselves ‘mentally’ that soon we will be officially ‘OLD’ and make that monumental move from ‘cute to COOT’!

Though my senior status convinces most that my mindset is myopic, I beg to differ. The truth be told, it is my presbyopic eyes which are prone to flattening, as opposed to my head which is coned and fattening. So despite my obvious dimness and silver tipped noodle, I truly only need glasses for up-close activities like drinking liquid assets, culling caloric details from Lilliputian cell-phone menus, and converging the sun’s rays on the backs of ants.

But of course since my aging cranium is swimming with shrinking synapses, a scintilla of gray goo, and a whole lot of ear wax, I often forget where in the world Carmen Sandiego has left my stealthy specs. So I have resorted to wearing the proverbial all-occasion ‘geezer-appeaser’ – a ‘glasses-strap’, to keep my peeper-cheaters HANDy and bony-nose ready. Though admittedly it’s not a youthful look, that ‘eyesight umbilical’ ensures that I don’t tempt the fates of old fogeys, or risk pigmented jealousy among the remnants of my receding salt n’ pepper locks. You see due to my advancing age, I don’t want to be held responsible if I make a SPECTACLE of myself by burning two bright red, horn-rimmed Sun Spots atop my depilated dome!

Dairy AIR Apparent

Given my CRUSTY appearance and demeanor you probably think I like pizza, don’t wash behind my ears, and rarely leave the confines of my cardboard carton unless absolutely necessary. Well you would be correct in at least two of those assumptions, though in my defense if the city would throw in a few more of those park porta-potty deodorant cakes I might scrub the ‘stank’ off a little longer. Surprisingly though, I am street-wise even without a GPS or a paper cup full of change, and actually do travel quite frequently in a breathless effort to ‘wind’ friends and give ‘influenza’ to people.

Beyond the breadth of my Big Wheel, I prefer to travel by plane despite the hassles these days with security, baggage limits, and the long waits. There is just something ironically special about getting peanuts for my big mouth even though I am paying ‘through the nose’ for those tiny tickets. Now it seems I can’t even get my doctor to pony up with a ‘smiley’ sticker after I cough, so getting informally fed and watered as a bonus in a smelly flying cattle car has become truly a thrill.

The main problem for me and recent air travel is that I now have to be very aware of my public image. No I am not famous at all, but regardless of who you are, nobody wants to see your bald pink piggies pointing at them from the holes in your gray soiled socks. I think it goes without saying that the same rule is doubly important when applied due South of your shirt-line, should the belt-removal regimen go awkwardly awry.

The airlines could assist with these types of problems if they would once again just hand out those pin-on wings to hide the holes in my clothes like they did in the old days. Or at the very least return to offering those little soaps in the plane privies to help me scrub my stained skivvies BEFORE I get on the plane. Oh well even if it sometimes stinks, I guess I’m a lucky dog since air travel is not as formal as it once was. Yes, apparently EVEN a crusty old cur like me can finally make it out of the ‘Live Animal’ cargo hold and find happiness numbly, under somebody’s piquant seat. 

Pillow Talk

OKdespite my puffiness, maybe I’m not the best guy to judge all things pure and downy-soft like pillows, since my pin-head is as hard as a bowling ball and always in need of a vigorous degreasing. Despite that handicap I actually prefer my pillows fairly plain, flat, and lifeless, like an envelope marked RUSH in the hands of a postal worker. I just don’t get how some people willingly choose to sleep on a mountain of goose stuff even if it IS encapsulated between a cotton case with the ‘Do not remove’ tag still attached.

I mean you DO realize that you can REMOVE a few pillows from your bed don’t you and the world economy will still continue to function right? Don’t worry, as intrusive as the government wants to be with our mattresses, I really don’t think they’ll have time to enforce those pillow tags rules. The truth is that ever since stuffed animals came on the scene, my pillows are now more like decorative accessories than actual sleeping gear anyway. Who needs a dull, boring bag of mindless memory foam when you can hug and drool on the innocent face of a bear-baby full of beanies?

Also I don’t 'cotton' to pillows in the shape of tubes, cubes, trapezoids or triangles. Everyone should know by now that OFFICIAL pillows are supposed to ONLY be made into rectangles. And while you’re at it, why not clip off all of those annoying dreadlock tasseled p-cases too. Do you know how many times I’ve awakened with one of those floppy fur-worms stuck in my ear, nose, and lesser used orifices? 

Gee have I finally found the one REAL change that government regulation could do to truly help voters in both the ‘Groggy’ and ‘Slobbery’ parties, along with the rest of our nation’s mindless dwarves? Yep, most 99% squares like me just want our snowy white, flat, and 'plain-jane' pillows so that we can actually SLEEP on them - not just show them off to overstuffed 1% airbags! Too bad that even if my populist law ever passed it would never see the light of day. Everyone knows that when it comes to bloated and pillowy legislation, this law would surely have a  ‘SUNSET’ provision!

Techno CAR-ma

While robots and I spend lots of quality time together and I DO whisper sweet nothings into an Android on a regular basis, I’m not a fan of these new cars that parallel park by themselves. Honestly, I don’t know about you, but first off who HAS to park this way anymore on a regular basis? It would be one thing if I had to parallel park daily or even once a week around small children wearing big orange cone-headed caps; but for occasional activities like personal hygiene which I do annually or orally, why pay for fancy options?   

I also don’t remember where on my insurance policy that I listed the car as its OWN driver? Why should I take on all the risk and responsibility to park these cars if THEY are the ones incurring the liability now? If my car wants to do something nice for me automatically why doesn’t it try changing its oil, ‘honking’ my ‘horny’, or  better still, picking the bugs out of its own grill for a change.

I might be more open to a vehicle that parks itself if the simple technology already in my car worked well 100% of the time. Except for when my window squirters fall-off and shoot innocent bystanders, a simple skip of a CD or an occasional wrong turn directive barked by a GPS, usually doesn’t hurt anyone. But I’m guessing if my sensors turn senseless and my car’s ‘puter-parker brain burps over the by-and-by, my attempts at a ‘parallel  plunge’ near the South rim of the Grand Canyon COULD become more akin to ‘bye bye’!  

I know I know it’s just my bad, technology car-karma coming back to haunt me again. I guess if the birds, bugs and I kept our Wite-out to ourselves and treated cars with more respect in the first place, they wouldn’t strike back with skid marks n’ mistakes so much. Maybe I should just get with the modern times and learn to be more accepting and progressive about our car’s ‘right to drive’ itself. Ok, I’ll think about it, but if the that bolt-bucket starts burning rubber to promote the unholy marriage between gas and electric drivetrains – that’s where I’m gonna’ draw the line!