Bacon for Turkeys

I have not gotten sucked up into the bacon craze mostly because the real stuff is nearly $5 per pound now. Who can afford to buy or eat a sub-class of meat that is veined with about 75% of fat in the strip and 100% fat in the head of those who buy it. Now don’t get me wrong, just like everyone (except for my wife), I love the taste of some skillet piglet poached in its own juices, I just can’t afford to eat it in more ways than one.

On occasion I will indulge in the turkey strips which are colored to LOOK like a piece of real bacon in drag since we all know what the stuff is trying to be even if it never quite fits the bill.  I still can see the fat draining out of the turkey version but at least there is something comforting about a piece of  flaccid fatty meat that will lay flat instead of curl up and writhe in pain in the pan. Admittedly I think the taste of the ’ fake-on’ has gotten better and at least a little more appealing than those nasty red soy bits, that I shake on my buffet salads.

I started to wonder if turkeys are OK with some of their brethren posing as pigs for profit? I mean isn’t carrying a false ID or passport still a crime in this country, so why do turkeys get a pass to suddenly get to strip n’ swing with the swine?  Believe me just because I was raised by wolves and have been called a turkey more times than I like to admit, I don’t think I am yet ready to embrace my inner pig too.

The good news is that I have a single fist-sized tomato growing on a vine this year. Oh sure it’s still green but it matches my skills as a farmer so we’re even. I figure if I’m lucky enough to corner a herd of turkeys shaped like bacon in the yard, I will be two thirds of the way to a tasty BLT for lunch.  Now if I can just convince the crabgrass to look and taste a little more like lettuce – YUM! 

Pathetic Pillow Case

I know hospital orderlies and hotel maids seem to have figured it out well enough to keep their jobs, but despite being drawn to drool, I’m still clearly pillowcase challenged. Kind of like gas tanks, logically there should always be a tad more room to top-off, but I never can decipher the secret to stuffing  my fat sacks unless we’re talking about socks n’ snacks. The softer and loftier the contents, the worse it is to puff up enough, and NO I’m not talking about my king-sized graying goose-down dome and easily cracked eggshell ego.

First off I don’t think racking and packing crummy pillows should be harder than shoveling yummy bread crumbs into the business end of turkeys for Sunday chow. Why don’t those stupid softies just drop into place easily without tools like batteries in a flashlight? I am sick of trying to cajole frustratingly flaccid cranium cushions into their spit bibs without the aid of a shoehorn and a paint-shaker.

Oddly I never seem to have a problem stuffing ballot boxes or padding invoices especially when I sit on ‘em with the cushion of my tush’n. Apparently my expertise at cramming my caboose into crowded Chinos doesn’t directly translate to handling high thread count cushy linens. Usually with a liberal coating of Crisco and a few minutes in the hot sun, I can slide my hide into almost anything, but pig-headed pillows refuse my persuasions no matter how politely their prodded.

Even though my wife is an expert pillow-pusher, she doesn’t lord her soft skills over my pathetic lack of tough puff-primping prowess and fragile pride. Of course she probably would prefer if like most folks, I could finesse the foam with a little less force and a little more form, but she knows that I have honed and toned other skills which make her life more interesting. You see beyond the cliché killing of bugs, without me, who else would be ready, willing, and able anytime to FILL-up her giant car with GAS for free . . . too bad it’s usually right after a really big beef and Frito green bean burrito!

Not So Hot Dog

Since I am so classy I’m not usually one to make ‘fun’ of other people’s names or business no matter how tempting. This is primarily due to societal survival since my own last name is routinely associated with the smell of burnt wood and nasty CAMPsite crescent-moon commodes, filled with a ‘dunny’-pit brews of wonder. Apparently however this New York mayoral wanna-be all-beef candidate Anthony Weiner, LOVES making news and putting himself out there (literally), so who am I to reject such a generous train wreck of a gift?

What drives a guy like this toward politics anyway rather than a less public but more honorable profession such as a street-corner sausage mascot. If you were lucky enough to have this ‘turkey-dog’s’ last name wouldn’t it make good marketing sense to become a Dachshund breeder or invest in a portable biz like a Nathan’s hot dog cart outside a Home Depot instead? Oh c’mon doesn’t everyone want to pound this guy with a hammer before tarring and feathering him with eggs and flour - ‘cause we all know he’d make a better schnitzel than a politician right?

Maybe I’m just old fashioned but I prefer my politicians to show the masses how stupid they are with their policies or debate performances rather than text messages to convey their un-zippered agenda. Oh sure everybody wants better fitness for our youth but trying to win voters over one at a time by sending pix of a leaner Weiner to constituents half his age doesn’t seem to be a very efficient campaign strategy. Maybe I’m too harsh on ‘der Weiner’ since he obviously wants to set a good example by NOT showing his texting prowess while driving, instead preferring the privacy of his privy for pointed politicking. 

Obviously all those nitrates, artificial coloring, and fat have gone to wrong pinched-end of the former Congressman making him a not so hot dog commodity these days in New York and nationwide. It was a self-fulfilling prophecy all along since with ‘Danger’ as a texting alter-ego didn’t Weiner’s buns and onion breath expect a ‘CHILI’ reception from voters? In my opinion the press and public need to ‘relish’ in their ‘rolls’ by grilling the Weiner longer (preferably on beach weekends and 3-day holidays). If the‘wanna-be’  misguided mishugenah mayor won’t reveal the truth with a better clandestine moniker like ‘Curly’, ‘Kraut’, or ‘Foot-long’, then clearly he can’t be trusted with the public’s BUSINESS either.

VanGoo Gut

Despite being farm raised, and on really special occasions barn fresh, when it comes to appreciating the fine arts I am in a special class. Oh sure it may be a really LOW class with only 3 pupils counting myself and both eyes, but it’s true I do enjoy all kinds of unique art. Since both of my parents were involved professionally in the arts, it’s no wonder from an early age I developed a honed, high-class AIR of sophistication on the subject - though that may be just the talkin’ broccoli and beans barking.

Sadly my own artistic skills have been more typically limited to the scratching of straight lines along the back of a ruler, but my wife says it irritates her so I try to contain myself. Oh sure I’m a master at blobbing fluorescent paint by the numbers upon fancy black velvet, but as my eyes age it is getting harder to pay homage to the passing of Elvis by reading to black lights in the bathroom. I’m lucky though since I still have at least one artistic outlet that I carry right on the FRONT of the only clean shirt I have left on my back after taxes.

Since I’m naturally clumsy and as a necessity must maintain my road-hugging girth, I am forced to eat at least ten times a day. Don’t worry despite my Yeti dimensions I am health conscious and always demonstrate the ‘split side’ of my personality when Dr. Oz is on by turning my back to the TV, before eating a magazine of Girl Scout cookies and a carafe of cow. Inadvertently however, during my frequent feedings, can I help it if I’m genetically part sow so not all of the colorful chow that I plow actually makes it downtown, but rather ends up on top of my shirt though I don’t know how.  

While a top-drawer gallery is the way most folks get to see the best of abstract expressionism, my artistic dribbles n’ daily drool make it far easier for me, since my canvas-covered abs-sack n’ pecs dresses in ‘em. Yes despite the best that a jug of bleach can leach from my frocks, over time all of my sticky shirts look like unseen smocks from a closet of  the late Jackson Pollock.  Needless to say by day’s end, my fun drum of a ‘tum’ becomes a bit dotted, spotted, and sprayed by colorful food trays and an array of buffets making me truly a classy part of all things ART! 

Dimpled Dilemma

It seems to be a universal truth that dimples define the beholder as being more ‘attractive’ or ‘nicer’ to the outside world. After all doesn’t the movie hero always have a commanding cup in his chin or a pair of charming concaved cheek treats to peek out and greet us upon the silver screen? I too generally believe this theory since newborn babies rarely have told me to ‘get lost’ and only once has an obese dimpled ‘sister’ tossed her cookies n’ tray my way at a ‘Nun Chuck’ Chinese buffet. 

Though most men like me prefer to remain soft, shallow, and dip-free, sitting on a bloated brick of a wallet all day makes my duff and personality, lean to the deeply divoted, distressed and gruff. Who wants to sit and spin repeatedly on a giant leather sandwich short on green ‘lettuce’ but always ready willing and able to dent my DOWNtown dermis. Dimpled darling Shirley Temple never danced with junk in her trunk so why does society hold my hurting heiny up with such calloused disregard and un-pampered expectations.

It’s no wonder guys like me are growly and grumpy by mid-day lunchy since we pack the back of our pants and lean into the large load we lodge under our rumpy. I’m tired of reaching behind me for a pittance of Pesos only to find that one side or the other of ‘Thing 1 and Thing 2’ is usually depressed and unusually blue. Yes it’s high time that my backside moves up to front and center so as to stop being abused and pressured by money-carrying conventions (or double stuffed burritos) and to be recognized for its daily sacrifice. 

What I need is some kind of a ‘man-purse’ to let me carry my lack of loot and shopping plastic around without all the persistent pressure of a ballooning tri-fold lump in my Levi-logoed lederhosen. I’m tired of having some dumb credit card caddy crater my caboose and shadow the natural arcs of my ‘tocks with the marks of dark pocketbook pocks. Hmmm – maybe I can solve this dimpy derrière dilemma simply by invoking my elephantine size combined with my given name? You see I will simply keep all of my cards, photos, and cash handy in a few of my secret nooks, cranny flaps, and doughy-soft overlaps – better known as “BILLfolds”.