Saturday, January 1, 2022

Menage' et CLAUS

 Yeah I admit it, as I have gotten older I have tried to embrace hip modern culture. These days, more often than not, I use extension cord belts to cinch up my gut instead of ol' fashioned suspenders, stack actual used Campbells soup cans on my mantle instead of those ugly Warhol lithos, and the pillowcases usually match the color of the sheets on my king-sized inflatable cot. 

Like every Christmastime, my wife digs around in the attic to find some appropriate holiday decor to grace our space. If I'm lucky she will uncover at least one stale candy cane that has survived being entombed in a green or red storage container along with whatever gifts the mice have left us throughout the year. The goal is to release a herd of Rudolph stuffed animals, Frosty embroidered wash cloths, and my personal favorite - a GIANT parachute nylon, stuffed Santa pillow. The wife finds great pleasure in perching this monster softy Santa in the middle of our bed as sort of a bundling board blockade tribute to the season. 

Big deal - the guy is very jolly and adds some extra cheer to our meager bed dressings since we wash with Tide, but I'm not sure I am hip enough to have another fat dude with a flacid red hat and tighty tights in bed with my wife too! After all, it has taken me almost two score years to score 1 kid with my wife so it is clear my love life does not need any more distractions. Further, I am not sure how many more crumb-generators our mattress can handle since myself and the bed bugs have pretty healthy appetites and ugly full bibs.

So no matter how hip n' cool I long to be I guess by the 1st of the new year, I need to kick that seasonal Serta-Santa back up to his attic sleigh-bed. I certainly don't need a stupid 3rd wheel pillow-pal in my life especially when his head is even softer than mine. Hey, I'm no dummy - there is NO way I want my wife getting too used to having more than one gray-beard balding dome leaving dimpled dents in our memory foam. Now my only concern is how am I going to block all that midnight geezer-snoring ... obviously emanating from the ATTIC. 

Happy New Year!

Friday, February 26, 2016

Soap Dope

Ok, I admit it - I'm a 'soap-dropper'. I know it is a flaw and probably comes from 'gnatural' life' and inexperience at keeping clean. It is not that my hands are freakishly small or so silky smooth from lack of physical labor, it's just that slippery soap refuses to be tamed whenever I cry on it from the Dove-stuff left in my eyes while washing my face.

My mistake is I prefer 'bar' soap as opposed to those gelatinous slime squeeze bottles by everyone's sink. Who wants to touch a push pump tub covered in germs just to get at the antibacterial cleaning stuff supposedly hiding inside? That's like dipping a drinking water ladle into some sloppy Serengeti mud hole and expecting to bring up a purified Perrier spritzer to quench my thirst.

I could probably help my plight by simply switching to some of those fancy soaps with a little better tactile grip in the shape of butterflies, seashells, or snails. However I can't stand those creatures touching me in real life much less soapy ones rubbing up next to my vulnerable 'buck-nakey' hide in a dark prison shower. Why can't I get my bar soap with a slip-free velvet coating like you find on fancy gloves, steering wheel covers, or rough-housing rutting deer?

Soap is probably overrated anyway because at my age who am I trying to impress - the marketing departments of AARP and that Funeral Advantage outfit? They say clearly in their geezer-appeal ads 'I don't need a physical examination' to get buried so why die with a grease-free body and bleachy-clean undies? Since I'm as gray and wrinkly as a Botswana elephant anyway, maybe I should resort to warding off the flies just like they do - by 'packing MY dermis' in dust n' mud and leaving behind the bubbly suds. 

Thursday, September 10, 2015

‘Couch Potato’ = Unfair Profiling

When paired together, the terms ‘couch’ and ‘potato’ become extraordinarily worthless in popular vernacular, but that seems strikingly unfair to the individual objects themselves. I mean why should couches feel bad for being luxuriously comfortable – I thought being SAT UPON was their job right? And why should potatoes feel even a moment of remorse for their starchy carbs of goodness. They are food and provide energy and sustenance – why all the hate?

What are we to do, outfit our homes with hard church pews instead of fluffy couches and recliners. That’s going to make it more difficult to fall asleep while watching TV sports, guzzling soda, and fingering Fritos? I thought relaxation and rest were what we all aspired to after working hard all day? And how about eating … didn’t our little tuber friend, the potato, practically feed feudal nations, single-handedly and without complaint until one tiny Irish blight? I don’t remember any haughty stalks of celery or those snobby organic carrots doing anything all that impressive in their recorded history?

So what is it then? Do couches and potatoes just ‘look’ different so we automatically profile them as fat and lazy, because they are various shades of brown instead of a leafy green or vibrant orange? Yes, Americans still secretly crave their white sugar and salt, but when it comes to terms of derision they immediately turn to their age-old recipients of hate, tan skinned objects for their outward wrath.

This trend is even obvious in the language itself. The carrot and Pumpkin lobby ‘conveniently’ ensure that nothing rhymes with Orange. But amazingly all things Brown just happen to rhyme with ‘Frown’, ‘Clown’, and ‘noun’ – all words that have been linked to things of negativity and objects of ridicule. Americans of action, need to stand together and fight this ridiculous unfair profiling of inherently good, ‘brown covered’ objects. All true believers of couches and potatoes as respected individualists, should protest … no better yet, organize, a Washington D.C. mall ‘SIT IN’, to show unified outrage toward ‘Spud-cushion’ profiling. Just make sure you don’t sit together though, because in Washington you may be confused with the REAL lazy ‘time-wasting’ couch potatoes - (Politicians)!

originally appeared 5/3/2010

Thursday, February 5, 2015


My least two favorite words when paired together are 'The' and 'End'. Though the article 'the' has been a very useful word to write with over the years, usually the 'Endsof most things (especially sausage) are typically disgusting or disappointing in some pointy or puckered way. The only exception to that rule of course is an end cut of a prime rib - since nothing makes my day, like a  
burnt hunk of leather to wave in the face of a snobby  'pink meat' gourmet.

While it's true I never want great culture, innovation, and tasteful troughs of food n' libation to quit, there are a select few moronic movies, noisy music, and gooey baby's loose ends to tie up that I won't miss a bit. Though I like heavy bookENDS when tantrum-tossed in twos, they confound me as literally literary-prop duos; since in vernacular 'book-BEGINS' is not known or claimed, it's frustrating only the back-half of book-blockers, are properly named.

When it comes to the end of the road I have never understood the inaccurate expression 'Death is a part of Life'. So tell me, what breathless death and dumb linguist decided 'dying' deserves a place at the head table in a recipe for an idiotic idiom supposedly about living? Oh sure death's incessant knock at the bathroom door when you're not quite 'finished' might be scary, but while you still have a few matches to burn, simply ignore the intrusion and go about your business. Everyone's end-game journey is just the same with an ultimate and inevitable dead end to wipe the slate clean n' free of worry, since dead means just that - DEAD, save for an occasional pasty-faced goth-zombie or leftover weakling smoke detector battery.

The 'finality' of a lot of things in life might not seem so obvious if only my stupid microwave would quit constantly taunting me with its incessant beeping and bean-green screen flashing 'END' over n' over when done popping corn or giving last rights to my two-day cold coffee sludge. I'm starting to think maybe I too should start listening to 'Mikey' more and embrace this last fat FACT of life, by finding some kind of signal to display when I flash my own end sometime.  Don't worry I'll still be considerate of my wife and nosy neighbors because I'll only use that ear-piercing beeping for when I back down the driveway - or else I'll never hear the END of it!

Thursday, January 29, 2015

No Mo' Snow

Despite the wet sheen upon my pasty face and the similarity in color and density to my ashen white hammy hocks, I don’t love snow anywhere on or near my cozy toes and holey socks. While some insane folks DO enjoy seasonal greetings to strut their trendy form-fitting fashion-first clothing, despite my girth, I am the LAST one interested in gearing up for heavy weather. I already have trouble enough with the one overcoat zipper that God and Walmart gave me so why would I ever want to wade through a half-dozen or more layers to bundle the bulk up for inclement weather.

Part of the problem is as a usually wet n’ sweaty yeti I will profusely perspire even if I have to merely look-up on-line to find down and Merino wooly winter clothing. I am not sure if it is all that sanitary anyway to wear tufted muffs fluffed with stuff sneaked from the fleece of geese. Usually it is my policy to avoid getting goosed regardless if it is to my feet in the street or when donning a parka in the darka.

I admit I also get a little jealous of all school-age ‘nit-Inuits’ around here since they usually get time off from class when the white stuff starts to float and fly from the sky. No adults I know are that lucky and instead are forced to do the REAL homework just trying to dig out a footpath to the front door. Oh sure we oldsters do some frequent sledding down the driveway too, but usually it’s in sheer terror like an out-of-control car wearer instead of care-free glee as an American Flyer bearer.

So save your iciest stares and cubed precip drips for those over-blown chum-bucket challenges and porky pink polar bear plungers. I don’t care where you shave that irritating icy Olaf or sugar coat your snowy cones as long as you do ‘em somewhere far north of Santa’s pole and preferably my pen. Because no matter the season or weather, I’ll never endeavor for the cold-shouldered pleasure of ANY powder covered lump - except maybe a doughnut and a HOT cup o’ joe!