Squirrel Tale

As I huddle in my igloo over winter I have little to do but watch my nails grow slow so I can scratch places that ordinarily require a hooked fireplace poker to stab in the crannies and jab under the nooks. Occasionally I will turn my attentions to the outside world when I’m forced to interact with a rival rabid Yeti, a mail fairy, or the late paper carrier pigeon. Consequently, squirrels are the only flea-bitten n’ fuzzy foe around here (other than myself) who face daily frigid forecasts of a freezing tundra, and our fat frozen TAILS way down ‘unda’.

Our dance begins on a whim, high in a tree on a flimsy sprig as I hang a durable oversized bird feeder filled to the brim to lure rodent rivals for exciting wintertainment games so close in. When temps fall low smart birds won’t show, but simple squirrels will freely unfurl, from nests as guests to play, with gusto at my seedy buffet. No matter how precariously placed the chow or deep the abyss, there’s always at least one rodent-Rambo who refuses to bow, and embraces the risk.  

Hence from my squirrely visitants I expect a good tease, and with single-mindedness and an unrelenting effort to seize, they raucously rock n’ knock my foodie taunts to appease. On a half inch branch, tails splayed towards sky, those acrobatic rats fight gravity and balance shyly to belie, a possibly impossible chance to die. Indeed for both sides the reward is great - worth the brisk risk in icy air to tempt fate; if the squirrels steal but a small snack for each cold show, then I’ve got a month’s worth of frozen fun lined up quid pro quo. 

But wait, my gray, fuzzy, buck-toothed brethren had a clandestine angle all of their own, to which was not privy me or trusted to be known. The shaking was relentless and it wasn’t from weather, the fearless fiendishly toppled my treed feeder to ground, and got not only one over me - but one better. In retrospect now too brave or too dim, my intrepid tree-bRATS weren’t content dining out on a limb. Clearly this crafty rogue rodent clan, prefers ‘take-home’ over pleasing me and conforming to plan. Since with no homage or a hint of respect for my deed, to the forest they hauled off WHOLE, both my pricey topped-off seed-feeder, and left me tounge-‘Teed’!

Freedom Pandemic

Since I love dancing with the devil and sticking bamboo shoots under my nails for recreation, one of my favorite annual pastimes is reviewing new laws and our insurance policies. This is the time of year that I start longing for a tall-flagged Hoveround to motor home rather than drive that two ton registered steel trash can I use now. The truth is I am not sure what it is that I am actually registering and insuring  except that by next year there will be MORE intrusive rules, less cash in the bank, and an even rustier bucket in the garage.

I’m just in a grumpy mood since as soon as New Years rears its ugly naked-baby head, the reference to ‘death and taxes’ becomes more poignant all the way through mid April and already makes me feel dead. All stupid insurance companies seem to line up to ‘protect’ me from the distress of death, but I can’t find a one who will sell me a policy to fend off the ‘seat’ of government or any of its other dirty smelly parts.  I have to be honest, since covens of thirsty vampires have taken over the States and nation, my garden is already a quart  or mo’ low so I’m not so ‘Oh positive’ now of how much plasma I’ve got left to squeeze from my turnips or blood oranges.   

What I need is a practical insurance plan that ensures the milk for my bread pudding stays warm and un-curdled during my whole life and the government won’t keep putting even MORE holes in my leftover swiss cheese. I don’t mind paying a few premiums now as long as future generations will still be able to buy magazines of any size or capacity if they like to read, or chug syrupy sodas more than 12 ounces if they please.  I want assurance though if I stay responsible, skinny up and take care of myself today without sorrow, that fat bureaucrats won’t feverishly fiddle with riddle-clued rules to find pleasure impeding my path tomorrow.

Clearly it’s my highest priority on this year’s viral resolution list, to dream of a contagious ‘freedom pandemic’ ablution wish. Don’t try to defy the takeover of liberty’s tingly sensation, even if you stick instead of kick your can, with a double dose inoculation. Yes freedom’s ring is the kind of clean sweep insurance thing that we all need more of to savor and savvy, to keep us economically lean and less legislatively flabby.

Grinch-mas Wish

Usually when ‘Grinchy’ companies run short on glam, glee n’ glitter as well as biz sense, they hire a consultant to reign in their silly sleigh problems and swing for the fence. It seems Christmas is getting earlier every year, though my presents are smaller and less costly I fear; clearly a reminder for the season is due, before this infestation affects more holidays in view. The last thing I need is New Years on a budget, or still worse yet - a Valentines heart more bleeding than delectably rich choco chocolate.

What’s wrong is that people have forgotten the season and what it’s all about and that it’s for ‘Pleasin’. Oh sure good cheer, bright lights, and snow are all fine, but the longer the receipt then the better the time. Just give me large boxes and fat-filled candy too, since excess  and bigger are always better it’s true.

The REAL Santa is great if you only want one, but legions of red bucket fingering ding-ringers are always more fun after given some rum. Reindeer never smell quite as nice in person, unless you have eggs with the fried n’ sausage-fied tastier version. Who needs to give and a softy spot for the poor, when MY need for lofty stuff and golden swag is importantly MORE. 

Now don’t get me wrong I wish no hit and miss ‘Grinch-mas’ to your nutcrackers or you, nor do I expect special days to run smooth on cue too. I just wish the material world to remember it all, that there’s far more to the season than faith, family, and charity tales so tall.  Remember my practical mantra to take my advice, whatever you buy for yourself,  buy early, buy often, and buy me at least TWICE!

MERRY GRINCH-MAS!!!

Food Racist Manifesto

Given that I spend lots of quality time with my beak in a bowl, I often tend to bond with food in more ways than I care to share or can hose off before blokes dare stare. Aside from a green veggie or two, generally I bow to chow which consists of quarantined islands of browned cow or pink sow. I don’t like my farm meat co-mingling or lingering long on my lips or plate, ‘cause those calories have a BIG job down South adding doughy softness to my hips and my weight.

My wife likes salads with colors galore, chunks of veggies, twigs, sprouts n’ sprigs, but if you gaze upon what I graze, it is just a leafy green sea of plain Jane nutrition-less iceberg ennui. My ruminant palate prefers to ruminate sans surprises, so the last thing goat-goofs like me find appealing, is a pot of porridge with colorful nuggets free-styling and keeling. Remove all rainbow mystery treats from my feed bag and please rush, since clearly the stuff stuck in my cup should be served ONLY in six shades of mush.

So keep your bulky pulp pox and crammed jam full of seeds away from my jelly jar or juice box needs. Get a clue ‘cause I eschew goo which should ordinarily be smooth too like chunk-free peanut cream, bricks o’ butter, or grit-less paste for dingy teeth and craggy face.  Don’t tread upon the red badge of my colored ketchup or insight a hateful coup over my caffeinated sodas of caramel hue. Keep your facts to yourself and stay on your side of the fiber tracks - just leave me alone, fat n’ happy, with my white- bread filled sacks.

If your tea teases me sweetly with tapioca boba and fancy faloodah, I’m sure to be in a very bad food MOODa. Just keep my chocolate pure and wax free, and dare not exhaust raspberry laced wafts anywhere near me. I admit I’m a little provincial and prefer to pen my manifesto in black like my coffee and white like my milk. So leave your colorful Neapolitan to someone more cosmopolitan, because this fat gorilla savors wolfing down ANY fav-flavor - as long as it’s just PLAIN vanilla.

'Mess' Manners

Miss Manners surely would frown on my ilk since generally I distrust fussy formal place settings loaded down with highbrow habiliments populating my placemat. For that matter why must all of my eating effects be confined to a runty rectangle of colored fabric under my dishes, where even the saliva-salver gets a cheery charger plate of its own? If I have a table full of prime real ‘eat-state’ I’m going to cover it ALL with stew, goo, and a napkin or two, to collect the spew before it reflects off my face and back on to you.

What can I possibly do with a shorty fork that I cannot do brilliantly better with a much longer one? In fact I think most of my gut-plugging can be done with just a long tong and a ‘tick-pick’, so I can finally poke those pesky bottle-upped bottom olives, and absolve tooth-bound stringy asparagus from lingering longingly in a mirror and staring back at us. I savor soups with stars too so the big dipper comes in quite handy, but given that dessert is decidedly more dandy, I think it is doubtlessly dumb to sing a smaller spoon-tune before I consume soon.

For most folks it is customary to wear a bib when buttering up boatloads of lobster, but my wife insists that I always don a full length tarp, regardless if I’m pawing haughty claws or plowing down towny-chow. She reasons that a raincoat’s hot pockets awash in a comingling collection of cleaved-off  crunchy calories, beats any day where floor-freed peas plastered to her pads will turn her a shade of ‘green’, far closer to that of the Hulk than anything akin to envy. I of course am usually too dizzy to notice my wife’s pasty pedi-plight since hairy hungry hippos can’t help getting lost following crumb trails, especially while circumnavigating their favorite dining room high-chair. 

Hey I’m sorry that I’m not laced with grace nor a fan of that handsome n’ tanned ideal man who is part of the shiny silverware-savvy snob-set. Oh sure I maize still be a little WET-Nap behind the ears but that’s normal when bobbing for cobs and my lug of a mug is routinely covered in slop-trough gobs. Yeah I may not have mainstay manners yet, but at least when I slurp a drinkie I still park my pinkie high in the sky and I’m pointedly polite . . . since I never ever burp - unless spoken to first.