Glue Finger

I’m often amazed at the number of ways I stick broken stuff together around my kennel without intending to. I admit, I might tend to the slightly sloppy which dots skin through shirt with sweet savory sauces and thick n’ sticky soups du jour. Even when lurking in dark alleyways I never miss sticky guano-spots when skulking for trash-can treasure, though my cave-gait alone should repel all but the most emboldened of beady-eyed bat beasts. 

With all that Grey Poupon farmed from my smocks and sandals I should be one handy homeowner armed with more than muck, luck, and duct tape to keep my cardboard hut full-up with working stuff. But alas it takes more than hope and a whole tub (no I didn’t forget the ‘e’) of shoe glue to keep my décor un-smashed and always at the ‘thrift-shop’ ready.  So like most folks I must buy overpriced messy mix epoxies and pin-pointy topped bottles of sticky store elixirs, to mend my gaps and furniture fixers .

The type of goo doesn’t matter as long as it sticks to dirt and smells like acrid saucy Sriracha flowing freely, like water, at a Songkran weekend wingding. My only real complaint is that colorful glue concoctions of today all seem to be so specialized and custom designed to adhere to just one specific thing. I have so many bins stuffed with half-used tubes of crusty-capped, brain-shrinking aromatic glues that I could even make ol’ Elmer, the handsome mascot bull, believe he’s just a flying pig wearing waterproof lipstick.  

What I need is a universal donor cement for the average Joe like Negative blood Type O, so that beyond the recyclables, I don’t have a garage crammed full with more blobby bottles and gunky cans. Even though I live in a ‘CRACK-ing house’ I’ve borrowed from the bank, it’s high time I get on the stick and find a grabby true-glue friend to nix my flophouse fractures and fix ‘em up quick. Too bad I won’t lift a finger to help my crib-complaints flee, since apparently one thing ALL glues do well, is adhere thin-skinned fingers to rump, nose and ME.

WOW: Witless Old Waiter

I have to admit I am not all that good at waiting. Oh sure I can sling hash if I have to and toss tasty trenchers at toothless townies when needed, but I’m talking about the kind of waiting one does unwillingly in doctor’s offices with lots of patience. It’s not that I am better than others or that my time is more important, it’s just society should succumb and willingly appease ME, the def-initely dumb and incorrigible geez.

Since I often must cry for sanctuary when I skulk among the masses, I usually do most of my waiting without interaction from others anyway. Frequently I just stare at my computer and devise awful evil things I want to do to that endless centipede circle cheerfully spinning while it secretly loads malicious malware. All of the exhibitionistic plants in the house seem to grow bashful when I watch them and even pots of gruel refuse to drool unless I walk-away so it can boil blissfully to black on my white hot cook-top.

Invariably when I paint, fingerprints of varying depth and definition will remain on surfaces for all eternity as fossilized evidence of my frequent ready-testing gets the best of me with every coat. At BBQ’s whose got thyme to harangue meringue  and anyway everybody loves crunchy chips n’ snacks so what’s wrong with a little ‘snap’ from the mac in your salads and cheese? If it weren’t for impatient folks like me society might never know the convenience and merits of nose-hole ready carrots, fingerling potatoes or underwhelming hot-pot coffee at overpriced mini-marts.

Weak peeved geezers of my ilk could probably learn to cope a bit better if society would provide TRUE and accurate estimates of time regardless of task. Why is it so hard to have the gas tank in my car actually BE empty when the gauge confidently says so on the dash? If infuriating wait times for customer care or take-offs on tarmacs are 10 minutes at most, why then turn twice that or more with me up-ended babbling helpless to my selfness banging head to floor? It’s no wonder with credentials like mine, I’ll earn eligibility for witless wheezer n’ geezer protection in time - as long as I’m willing to wait, in a very long line.

Microwave Missionary

Although spies like microwaves for a completely different mission, hungry for something hippos like me only use the common cooking nook appliance to bombard electrons against cold pizza and occasionally chilly FEET-za. What better way to give my beltline a bulging boost than with a pushbutton box that takes frozen pasty pablum and turns it into bold tasty hot n’ tots. Of course the fridge is still my secret kitchen-mistress though unlike ‘mikey’ she is cold-hearted and always wreaks of feet even after a thorough scrubbing .   

As a fan of the ‘wave’ I’d like to see a mini-micro in every spare pigeon-place in my home and car, since all should heed my call to count down their next mandatory fragrant bacon injection. Who wouldn’t benefit from a transformer family van with a magnetron on board ready to jump start a bun in the oven or toast your toes during a cold commute. At least the built-in blocky clocks would keep better time than the tinny Timex hanging from the Rear view mirrors in both my car and bedroom. 

My only Radar-Range recurring issue is whenever I stuff something rank inside, half of it boils over and spits out onto the walls and falls on the sides of the box yet the remaining food left on the plate is still stone cold? I have enough trouble cleaning my OWN steel can much less the one that surrounds and scorches my supper Tupperware too. Don’t worry I solved the problem by just covering stuff with gold rimmed china – not only is there no need to scrub crusty crud but I get a feisty fireworks show too.

Honestly what kitchen occupant other than the microwave has truly revolutionized cooking, unless you count ME with a potpourri of popcorn and pork rinds revolving around my ample roll-hole. Even that spice queen I ride hard in the corner called ‘lazy Susan’ is mostly just a pepper flake and easily replaced with a rack if it gives me flack. Too bad my wife probably feels the same and would jump at the chance to show me the mesh-lined door of ‘merry-Mike’s’ dizzy core for a quick SIT n’ spin if she dared. Except  the spouse would surely grouse that the clean-up risk is far too great, since so often I’m stuffed brim-up with lots of hot what-nots on my plate and dangerously round-throne prone to SEAT-sickness!

What’s it all about SELFIE?

All the talk now on the news, clap-trap-yap TV, and mindless media programming is ‘Selfie’ this and ‘Selfie’ that, so much so I need a NAP! When I had more luscious locks and a gut that could stay stuffed in a shirt we called the EXACT same activity a ‘self-portrait’. I can’t even stand looking at myself or other vampires in mirrors now because if I see one more lifeless selfie I think I’m gonna’ be sick. 

Since we are sensitive to a more enlightened, politically correct world now why choose to popularize a term which discriminates against those who are unable to take moronic still photos of themselves? Frightened criminals , alcoholics with the D.T’s, and even some pizza employees might feel left out unless we call their personal photoshoots the ‘Shakey’s’. Of course clandestine spies should shun the term and practice all together but if they did ever take a shot in the dark they surely would prefer to call it a ‘Stealthy’.

Clearly like everything these days the more formal expression of language has been compacted small and made cuddly cute for incurious kids. I think society has become immune to any word that consists of more than one or two syllables and an occasional ‘grunt’ for comic emphasis while texting. I bet if we filled our planet full of apes even if they couldn’t speak, they would still bark, bellow, and slide their way through school as long as they had a CELLfie camera phone.

As my brain gets moldier, nuttier, and more mellow like Brie cheese, it would be better to note my self-portrait’s as a ‘Softee’ instead of ‘Selfie’ anyway. Oh sure I know that moniker is not too flattering for most men but for me it’s the most positive self-reflection I can ever hope for. You see it beat’s the only other obvious option of ‘Stinkee’ since ‘Scrawny’ I’m afraid is still about 100 pounds out of the question. 

Ladder Man Lunch

Though I have never been too good at climbing company ladders, the ape shape inbred into my heredity allows me to scale their A-frame namesakes and scarf small hands of bananas in a single bound.  Step stools, buckets, padded chairs – you name it if I can stand on ‘em at precarious angles, then I’m the primate who can’t wait for lunch on a ledge. Don’t worry I’m usually safe since in addition to my freakishly flexible feet, I always unfurl at least one prehensile appendage to assist in my ascent, to manage a branch office and a delicious deli ‘sammich’.

Extension ladders are fine too as long as they are not automatically pretzel shaped and snapped compact with dozens of hinged jointy jaws and clickety-clapping pinchy bits. My tiny mind is already awash with webs, glue and tasks to do atop the ladder, rather than the matter of cognitive effort of how to un-spring the thing and sing its amazing praises beforehand too. Just be sure I have something harder than my head to lean on, and land to stand stronger than quicksand, or risk a strident screech from a Howler monkey in heat and an involuntary Grey Poupon discharge from sub to street.

You see the true fear I flee has more to do with the swish to and fro than the height of the tree. So whatever towering fermented turnip I tear up rarely matters but keep your bad breath to yourself and lets blow our separate ways to keep that sway far away. I get dizzier on a boat or a roller coaster than I do on a ladder but that’s probably because my Korean munches won’t roll with punches and often end up as Kimchi chum for fishes lunches.   

Logically I know the pole I shimmy has got a thicker skin than I do yet still the only flag waving and chewing I should be doing when windy is in town is firmly footed down soundly on the ground. So I must vow to ‘do’ lunch like everyone else with my paw grasped tightly to trencher shoveling carbs to craw; soft buns safely terra-firma bound to a gooey booth at the Hometown Buffet. Drinking diuretics though is another matter and a true hypoxic thing of beauty at high altitude for only real men who dare reach beyond the simple stool. For who among us can deny living life on the ledge with a topped-off bladder, yet not answer gravity’s depressingly relentless siren call with a forceful and resolute ladder-man SPLATTER!