Confetti makes me CRY!

Despite the preponderance of prattle that my puffy puss-portal perpetually pushes, word has it that I am rather HANDY at keeping secrets filed away. Yeah I know a head swollen this much from water and pride should naturally have a big mouth to match, but surprisingly it ‘aint’ true. Anyone who really knows me knows that all the holes in my face are for food consumption or storage only, and none are any good at all for singing or spilling my guts.

Oh don’t worry it’s not like I have a hidden sea-chest filled with long lost lurid legends of lust n’ lore . No the only C-bag souvenirs I lug around are securely strapped to my hip for all the world to see; or at least small enough to bury in any ol’ raggedy Samsonite carry-on with lopsided wheels and a flimsy handle.  I’ve always tried to travel light in life and choose the shiny tine of those road-forks with the least regrets, negative consequences, and still with some meat left on the bone – see, being raised by wolves DOES have its advantages.

Yep, I actually have only the one standard issue 206 piece hidden skeleton cooped up inside my sweaty pink coral-colored coat closet – who has the time for puzzles bigger than that anyway? The only real secrets that I try to carry are all the numbers my wife, bookie, and banks wish me to memorize. I can’t even remember my hat size or how many teeth I still have, much less some ‘wonder code’ the IRS and U.S. border agents insist I parrot back to them like a smarty-pants-less puppet.

So of course I must uncomfortably commit all of this data daily to tossable toilet paper, or at least to tattoo it backwards where only I or my accountant can see it with a mirror and a fancy flesh-flexing Finochietto spreader.  Anything written down (there) eventually must be shredded, chopped and diced more than a mincing ONION at a Hillbilly Ninja roast. The upside is that by New Years Eve I always have copious clumps of confidential confetti, but the downside is I’m still faced with another year to be riddled and REAMed by secret recyclables and tearing them up by HAND always makes me CRY!

Close Ablutions of a third kind

With my wild eyed smile, hobo hair, and lost lemur good looks, I have never found it a priority to enhance my natural beauty with a lot eyewash and puffery, since that usually is my natural state. Oh sure I know the value of skin care by preening my pores and burnishing my blemishes with a good ol’ loofah licking now and then. But for sweaty lepers like me, we typically prefer to let nature take its course and make due with the HAND we’ve been dealt – uh at least … until it drops off.

Realistically I know that most folks feel it necessary to routinely quarrel with Mother Nature in an effort to kick her to the curb, if not outright try and finish her off in freeway traffic. Society seems to unreasonably demand that we all conform to be tick free, look and smell good – that is if we want to mingle among the masses rather than stay single , a Hun and classless. For me though it takes far too many LYES, both of the verbal and soapy kind, to power wash the musty husk from my crusty carcass, so I must improvise to fit in.

I admit I don’t do well at cosmetic counters and putrid perfumery gauntlets at the mall anyway. Except for my own beast yeast, I am not a fan at gagging and gasping for air from a breathtaking bouquet of sweet stink-water or the over-the-top prices they charge for the stuff. Even if I’m adept at SPF’s and my skin wreaks with radiance, who cares about another broke troll glowing under a bridge unless he’s on fire or playing in his own nuclear waste?

So even though I favor my own flavor of homeopathic dermatology, to save some serious scratch, I keep my wife happily in the pink with store-bought sticks for her lips along with soldiers of substratum for her lustration. Hey what’s wrong with saying ‘Hi’ to my own ‘Aloe’ as long as it works on my lard, even if my personal version of a lip ‘bomb’ has a greasy aftertaste and a bacon flavored fuse inside. There is one tiny difference though -  that ‘feet-cheese’ grater still doesn’t make my tootsies tingle as GOUDA as they usually do when helping to sharpen up a fresh homemade block of cheddar in a hot wax bath!

Valentine Surprise Gamble

Since I have been married longer than I’ve been legally able to feed myself or gamble, I guess you might say at the game of love I’ve been lucky – or at least haven’t CRAPPED out! Yes, despite my curmudgeony fud duddery about most holidays, I have a soft choco spot in my heart, as well as on my shirt, for Valentines day and all of its romantic notions. Who can knock a day truly shaped for simpletons like me where seeing RED is required and wrapping gifts in foil for your ‘goil’ is A-OK, as long as they’re crammed in a blood-colored box.

Don’t worry it’s just the sugar high talking. Truly aside from my bulbous ‘gut-blubb’ to rub and fluffy man-mallow membrane, my head n’ hide are still just as hard to get through as a cellophane sealed heart-box full of chalky chocolate. Even on ‘V’ day my wife expects nothing of me but to remain practical, predictable, and loyal to my nature, as more of an unadorned thorn in her side rather than a radiant rose always at the ready.

So to mix it up a bit this year, beyond a ‘hunka hunka’ of caloric candy love, I will remodel the bathroom and greet my wife’s frosty feet with a warmed floor and toasty heat treat. In our lav, besides me, we have a round, resource hungry and frigid sky-blue commode hung on the wall, atop an oh-so-cold basement with no insulation at all. Yes my un-loved blue-loo has seen better days, so with hammer, chisel and mission true, I must mount a shiny-white low-flow elongated pot, to hopefully NOT miss in on cue.

Of course before I can lower in any latrine or wire the tile to heat up my wife’s feet, I must first cut a big drain hole through the floor. The only problem is that in February around here it is about 35 degrees in the basement and that big ‘ol air hole creates a nice icy exhaust flume right under the current toilet SEAT! Now THAT chill will be the real unexpected  surprise that I give my wife this Valentine’s day, and for me – it’s a bit of a gamble … hopefully some ill-deserved love and WARM praise for all my effort!

Closet Talk

Like most of my non-nudist moth-y friends, I too feel compelled to greet every morning with a trip to a suspended bare bulb inside my coop’s cloth lined crypt known as the bedroom closet. I am not lucky enough to have a hangar big enough to store both my ego and tent-sized tighty whities, or even make a good impression in a gym locker room. So sadly, I must thrust my duff daily into a tiny textile tomb of trappings, wrappings and togs in a zesty quest to dress my best instead of a mess.

Due to my oversized Kong body and undersized donkey dome that simple goal for most souls, of seeking apropos furbelow, is a challenging chore for me. To make matters worse, I admit coming out of the closet in the Winter can be difficult since along with my nose at night, I tend to keep the igloo blue and crispy cool too.  Even if the dawn doesn’t mind breaking daily I DO, so I lament stubborn buttons and fleecy duds that stick or won’t clip zippy-quick to prevent my pipe from freezing stiff.

Not only in the closet but obviously my wife and I frequent many of the same places, so it seems every organization to which we belong we receive a pair of matching logo polo shirts - one in her size and one in mine. Of course in the full light of day any ‘knit’-wit should be able to see the difference between a blouse and a rumpled blimp-skin. But then again can I help it if  my aging ‘ojos’ and bleary before-breakfast brain, only have enough sense left to interpret shivering and some kind of shapeless shirt?

Hey given my evolving age and devolving fashion sense, is it any real surprise that I truly am facing a dim outlook as to my closeted life and inadvertent foray as a fatter yet slightly less wild-haired version of RuPaul? Remember in some ancient cultures of the Caribbean and South Pacific, a big gut straining at the seams of a stretchy hide shows a rich life of abundance - and a mouth watering crew BBQ for a whole week! No matter how well I fill-out my wife’s closet frocks into ‘Eww’ too–tight muscle shirts, I know I’ll never be a stylish fashion PLATE … I’m better served upon a greasy dinner ONE with fava beans on the side.

Grown Man Nanny

It is probably hard to believe but I’ve been known to procrastinate now and then especially when it comes to a grimy friend of mine - personal hygiene. Now don’t distress and get your togas in a twist, there won’t be any need for a keelhauling on this short voyage. After all I’m not a 21 ton baby Huey anymore and most of the time I DO double up on the Depends so as not to drag my duff through the rough, regardless of the load in tow. 

Never fear, my bodily burdens are more of the HAIRborne, nails, and  ‘stuff’’ sucked up and stuck in the grill variety, so that targets me as the charter inductee into the lame Werewolf hall of fame. I don’t like having these crosses to bear, especially around hunting season, mirrors, or balloons at children’s parties because trimming twigs off my trunk and buffing the bark from my bite takes so much time. Since both my mother and wife apparently have dropped the ball and indignantly refuse to lift a middle finger to help, it’s clear what I need now is to nab a new man nanny sans my family’s attitude. 

Just think of all the ablution solutions and dermis concern-less we could have together if I had my very own, grown man ‘nan’ to care for my keratin. Finally someone I could trust more than All Bran to bring some regularity into my life and service my rosy personality and other misbehaving chapped Macaque parts. Who better to tend to the day to day flossing and saucing of my scaly uncharted cracks and crusty crevices, bushy brows, and double-stuffed n’ damp snout?

What – you don’t approve? I thought these days society was supposed to be truly drool-free and completely color blind, so I don’t see why pink nebbish newborns and gray sulking seniors are the only ones who qualify to be nurtured and ‘nannyfied’? What’s wrong with a pale n’ pants-less over-grown ‘man-ne-CANT’ service monkey like me needing a little extra claw-clutching comfort from a callus confidante or hair care Au pair? I still will do all of the heavy lifting like eating  3 squares or more per day and hauling at least half of my wide load to and fro the commode – uh … at least MOST of the time.