Animal Noises

Despite my reputation as a bloated bellower, I tend to equate my natural animal state with that of a more mellower fellower. Oh sure I ‘caw’ loudly back at the ‘bird police’ when they beak the peak of my head while poking around nests, but how else am I and my raccoon raider DNA supposed to eat or entertain guests? Even fat raptors like owls  and me give a ‘hoot’ once in awhile after a big meal, but overall our noise impact is pellet-sized puny and slim like an eel.

In today’s times though, my Dino breed must be dying off since good, bad, happy, and sad sounds all assault the bones closest to my cochlear like a clamorous triceratops spear to the ear. What fat squirrels like me can’t see is a peaceful stroll in the park anymore without somebody’s radio pumping and thumping with a cacophonous roar. Clearly the world is gone deaf and have turned up the juice to my dismay; my Dumbo flaps have had more than their limit so I plug and cover them with hair every day.

Even the fan in the bath blows more blitzkrieg ‘buzz’ than it quietly sucks and why is the wind so pushy and sounds like Mack trucks. My only considerate neighbors are the squirrels, worms, and deer who are particularly quiet when seen flat from my car’s rear mirror. Too many sounds from cars, planes, or beasts; too much noise which needs to cease if I’m to be pleased and you wish to quiet the beast.

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not demanding peace and quiet from the animals in my kingdom who are forced to swallow peas and ‘try it’. There is always an exception to any rule and a good reason for a bad dog to bark in protest and dabble in discord. So on those days that I whine and complain, show up ready to throw me a meaty bone, by keeping your music to yourself and your words in hushed tone.

Stylish Snack Personality

Pretty much when you arrive at Mack truck size, most foods are frowned upon unless they taste like tree twigs and look like green leaves. Overall I agree with the idea to eat a bit healthier but that doesn’t mean I’ll be first in line to suck on broccoli stalk crackers or cauliflower curds that get in my way. If you want me to eat more of something then you need to provide some proper inducement that befits my personality like Cracker Jacks do with those primo prizes they hide inside every box.

Obviously geezers like me can be tasteless at times, so that’s why even if the flavor of snacks lacks, then at the very least I encourage everyone to stock up on  pantry foodies which can do double duties.  Who needs kitty litter clay when a boxed brick of Grape Nuts will take care of “Fluffy’s” nuggets n’ stain needs in a pinch. Better yet after a quick sift and a truckload of sugar, that pan will be as good n’ gritty as ever and ready to serve up 12 essential vitamins and 100% (or maybe more) of your daily grain intake. 

While everybody loves an orange cheesy cracker, why choose a stuffy square Cheez-it over a new wave cracker that tastes just as good but also tops off your aquarium with Goldfish food too? If those fishy-faced-down floating bite-sized crackers aren’t filling enough for your dining pleasure then simply shove a toothpick up their rudders and VOILA – Fishsticks for Friday!  Oh sure they quickly turn into bait once they bounce on the bubbles, but at least now you’ll have a seeable reason as to why your other fish regularly swim upside down in that cloudy pea green tank o’ soup.

My Parmesan flakey brain clearly is NOT a head and shoulders above sanity and I’ve simply taken food style a bit too far. In the future I should probably just stick to chewing the chaff rather than demanding healthy double-dips from my crazy deli designs too?  If that’s true then the Pringle’s people should get a ‘CLUE’ since ‘hyperbolic paraboloids’ are best left to the mathematicians and their distant duck-lipped n’ swayback, horse-faced ancestors. But please don’t bellow to the ‘Bugles- crew ‘to change the personality of their cornucopia snacks a bit; since I just scored a handful for a matching set of corny claws and a-MAIZE-ing fangs which for ME, tastefully FIT!

ValenTIMES

As I have gotten older and have grown a bit wider than my white-ish diapers, I don’t embrace the Valentine’s day fervor like I once did as a younger chunky cherub. Part of the issue is I never have understood why getting SHOT in the heart by a nekkid winged bow-bound baby could ever be a good thing for romance or my health. Hey I listen to NPR you know – BOWS are for violins and when I want my wife’s attention I’ll just crawl into the cast iron bathtub NEXT to hers out in the woods like all contemporary coots.

I never envision my ValenTIMES all that romantic anyway since I routinely attract the WRONG kind of attention from the opposite sex when I’m out in public. Can I help it if nobody appreciates the fact that I run a little hot-blooded and chocolate melts in my hands instead of my mouth. Regardless of how often I try, few people other than my mother appreciate a good Hershey kiss and the resulting choco lip print I leave behind.

Also I sincerely love my family but c’mon $5 for a stupid pink greeting card with a red heart and insipid inscription on it? At least with those big boxed foil candy hearts I get one or two nasty waxy chocolate chews for that kind of costly cold cash. Funny too as pricey roses goes-es, the longer the stem - the better to pick noses, and ironically the more thorns to drive home the sincerity of my love.

  

Nope keep that little rosy flying seraph’s spell far away from me ‘cause V-Day is really just a chance to stock up on devil’s forks and fresh tiny pink hearts in case my bloated Cajun blackened one needs a spare. Don’t worry I’ll get in the Valentine spirit as soon as I open a bag of those ‘conversation hearts’ and have a sexy talk with my sweat-shop silkworms on why I cotton to silky skivvies. All I need to do is embarrass them just enough so that they will spin me some REDDENED twill and a slippery ‘G-string’ thing – which if I’m lucky I might get to strum some with ol’ Cupie’s Pernambuco BOW! 

My Shot at Olympic Gold

I think if there was an Olympic sport for old moldy dudes who shouldn’t compete in the Olympics then I would be a fierce contender who would ‘meddle’ in every event even without trying. Yes it’s tough to be ordinary, un-noticed, and uninspiring but I work at it hard every day and by all measures I am fairly successful. I am a reasonably strong Kong and tenacious type but to really take advantage of my tiger-like competitiveness, donuts, greasy food, or a Cracker Jack prize have to be somewhere in the mix as a motivator. 

One of my primary problems with organized sports is that they are ‘ORGANIZED’. It just takes too much work (and malt liquor) to find a crew of athletic inclined homeless people willing to run around and get sweaty for quarters and halftimes. Even then, the really good ones all have agents that want to negotiate for shiny new shopping carts and matching t-shirts with the holes and sweat stains all in the same places.  

Frankly the proper footwear for the proper sport has always been a constant bother for me too since tying shoes has never been my strong suit. Yes because I make ALL toe-toppers into slippers whether they tie or knot, more than once when bounding after a ballistic lawn dart I have inadvertently thrown a shoe or two. For ordinary sports like chasing after cars or dancing with the devil it has never been a problem, but sometimes after backgammon in a Middle Eastern coffeehouse, tossing either your shoes or cookies across the room can be seen as a tad disrespectful.

So don’t look too hard for me at an Olympic venue unless you catch me flee’n the Agean or in a Greek sandwich shop named ‘Olympic’ as I leer-o at a Gyro but ultimately go fo’ a Hero! Too bad networks won’t telecast true endurance sporting events showcasing an adept sense of balance and important life skill like I have honed over the years. Since I’m a master at balancing a hot laptop on my soft gut-spot in a red recliner, I know those 5 ring judges  would be so impressed with the prowess that I possess that I would have a sure shot at the gold … ‘Gold Bond’ powder that is!

They call me ‘Hairy WEARwithal’

Even though my hide prefers to hide in my hovel, once in a blue moon my spouse expects me to shake off and run a scum-sponge over my sag-sack before she’ll be seen with me in a fully lit room. As a not too bright troglodyte I try to comply as best as I can, but good grooming is not my strong un-rumpled suit. Anyway proper ablutions to my grill, gills, and undercarriage (of which I’m not fond), requires a full roll of quarters at the self-help car wash and usually at least one intrusive round with the de-greasing wand. 

Since I am thrifty, invariably worn-out grooming tools don’t always work as well as they should or worse, fail in mid-makeover leaving both halves of my speckless Jekyll and dirty Hyde to fight it out in public.  My razor in particular is literally a pain in the grain as it buzzes along happily UNTIL it runs into actual face-fiber, prickles, n’ quills. Yeah I’m a flexy-face-fleshed grizzled geezer so my mug-stubble dodges deftly like an NBA star to avoid abrasion, but I thought at least one of those THREE big rotary razor heads might actually be able to cut my tiny ONE on occasion.

It’s not that it just takes some strong voodoo to make me sparkle, but all that stuff to do the job has to be able to resist my autoimmune system to make my bone-bag pleasingly pink, stink, and kink-free. Can I help it if my birth-sharpened vampire incisors shred floss just as fast as they strip fleeing chickens and ribs from an all you can eat buffet? Is it really my fault that the Jello-hardened keratin in my digits dulls dog-paw clippers so much that I have resorted to just cleaving off every other fingernail, and only the toe-jammed tootsies on red-letter days.

Don’t get me wrong I’m not all that distressed about my sloppy state of dress, or those social expectations which rest with people pleasers and wide-eyed tidy types who are whisker-less. Oh sure I squeal about leaving my porky pen at times and wish I was a leaner, cleaner pretty prized pig instead of dried-up disheveled dust-deviled balut of a coot. But I figure if my wife didn’t crave my half-baked bacon-laced brain as it IS and wished me malice, then she would have married some hairless Latin rat named Alopecia Universalis.