BEDlam

As a TUFT guy invariably I spend some part of my day glaring and daring to make up the beds around this chicken shack. You would think after years of stuffing my face and making it soft and puffy, then I would be pretty good at fluffing up a roost or two into an oversized set of flannel jammies. But sadly no matter how much I wrestle and wrangle, sheets, pillows, bed bugs n’ blankets, I never ever seem to get the better when battling boxsprings all surly and thankless.

First I have never met a more frustrating feat of linen than that of the stinking ‘pucker-pointed’ fitted sheet. Even my Wally-Mart fat pants allow for more stretch, ebb, and flow than any fitted sheet will ever know. I mightily lay and splay to tuck the curly corners down, but invariably first one point gives way to bed-center then the opposite two, like an irritating elastic slingshot burrito-ing my view.

Let’s face it, it’s established fact that bulky, billowy sheets are just too big to wash, fold, and certainly place neatly back on any bed by one person much less a goof like me. Even ghosts have learned that lesson long ago and now usually prefer to appear ‘au naturel’ unless haunting a Klan picnic or some hooded terrorist hoe-down.  That’s why I probably need to recruit an army to spray Febreeze on bed linens and just leave them in place forever, or Velcro tiny pillowcase-sized chunks of fabric together to build my own right-sized sheet.

Ok, I know I’m probably not the best arbiter of boffo bedding unless you are talking about the stuff I pitchfork out for ballpoint PENned animals like myself. Yes for me less is more when it comes to laying down on the job, so you can keep your stuffed n’ puffed comforters and your haughty pillow-topped dead skin sacks for yourself. Like my oak barrel heat-hardened head, (except for those creaks under pressure), as long as you keep my crate warm . . . I think bare solid wood makes for sounder sleep anyway!

Revolving Resolutions

Though New Years already has enough alcoholic baggage with it to make it my least favorite holiday, the expectation of realistic resolutions always makes it feel like it comes with homework too! You mean I have to wish for world peace, bacon flavored Pop Tarts, and robot servants and really mean it? I thought they taught us in school that clichés will take care of all ills simply by ‘dreaming big’ or ‘standing strong’ to achieve anything right?

Clearly that’s why there is little motivation to be the first one out of the gate in a confetti-driven stupor to resolve to do much of anything other than get out of bed and scratch - which I am rather good at by the way. If only the world would truly revolve around football, food, and parades, then all of life’s toughest problems could be figured out and dealt with on every January 1^st.. That would leave the rest of the year left just to goof off and make / re-break the non-essential goals and impossible dreams that relentlessly recur and face us all in daily life.

Generally my resolutions fall into two categories – ideas that I am cursorily interested in but for only 5 minutes or less, and goals that I want to do for a lifetime but sadly will also do for less than 5 minutes as well. Oh sure every year I commit to ‘getting into shape’ but that’s NOT the type of resolution I should be making. The real mystery is whether my skin-sack's shape should resemble something akin to a tall n’ tan steak fry rather than the UH-oh-so familiar soft, ashen couch potato.

Honestly though, I don’t get melancholy over the relentless passage of time and the unfulfilled dreams of the previous year, since tomorrow’s literally a new day and change always happens. That is the one revolving constant that makes not just New Years, but ANY day just as good as any other for taking chances, making goals, and even missing marks. So for as many days as you keep on breathing, raise a glass, smile, and keep reaching for stars no matter how far away they may appear. Because I resolve one thing is certain – just like me, you’ll be making the same toast and jelly all over again - in just 364 and a quarter days!

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!!!

Robot Fever

I dream of a future where robots will pick ticks off my hide better than that lazy service monkey I put up with, even though he works for peanuts. However I’m a bit concerned that machines will never be up to basic tasks especially given my negative experiences with that painful Epilady I shave with everyday. Lately even my rug Roomba has rejected my advances since its battery has become weaker and meeker as the dirt on my carpet becomes bleaker and streakier. 

It’s true that I’m no ‘shoe-in’ and a little out-of step with tomorrow’s high tech trinkets. Even easy remotes spook my simple skull and don’t work all that great when covered in grime and fist-foods that I ate. I also  can’t understand why those motion sensing lights refuse to react if my elephant carcass lumbers under one, but when a runt of a rodent dashes past, the thing lights up like an immolating monk? Though I have figured out how to turn off most digital clocks with a hammer, I am still perplexed as to why my microwave needs to know the date before giving me one to heat meat and eat freely. 

I’m probably just in a bad mood since I found out that my electronic coffee pot has a really high fever and feels hot to the touch. Actually I am pretty sure it has worsening Alzheimer’s since its brain regularly forgets what it is doing and just stops brewing in the middle of a cycle. Just my dumb luck – why couldn’t my Pyrex pot be just nuts or have Parkinson’s disease because then at least I might be able to start the day with a delicious protein ‘shake’. 

I just wish today’s pocket robots required a little less babysitting  as compared to real babies which actually protest even more loudly when you almost sit on them. It just seems I spend too much time buying bricks of specialized batteries, software, cables, and compatibility accessories to keep all of these needy new-age gizmos from getting sick and becoming a burden to me and the rest of society. Luckily humans are so much less demanding - all they want is the basics like free healthcare paid for by somebody else, a wing, a prayer, and a Diet Coke with a Mentos chaser that DOESN’T blow up in your face.

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.

High DEAF and Coddled

I don’t know how the world functioned before the advent of high definition TV to show us what REAL life is supposed to look like. Did media REALLY used to only come in two colors – grey and greyer, where we had to guess which one of the fifty shades Flipper actually was or worse, LISTEN to his persistent twitter feed?  I mean honestly, who can survive today without a daily dose of good glowing visual stimuli like zits, pits, and craggy faces to deliver the bad news every morning. 

In those caves, our ancient ancestors must have been truly in the dark without today’s modern rainbow of weather maps to guide them through typical tasks of daily bargain hunting and coupon gathering. Poor hairy cretins actually had to shove their matted mugs out into the open atmosphere and breathe unprocessed air to forecast a typical day of  'just a touch of famine and a high probability of death'. Now self-absorbed and chamois-soft meteorologists mutter monotonously, and tell us more than we want to know about their humid warm ‘lows’ and icy cold fronts – why can’t they forget their pants and just talk about the weather instead?

Isn’t it in the Bill of Rights somewhere that no one should be subjected to low fidelity scratchy speakers, ‘free-see’ TV and analog radio programming since digital satellite crystal bliss is LITERALLY gracing our fingertips. Anyway who wants to use their precious time to bend those rascally rabbit’s ears when it’s so much more fun putting that ‘check-signing’ hand to better use, paying for recurring overpriced subscription services. Better still why wait to grow old and go deaf slowly the old fashioned way, when all that ‘hear-clear-over-here’ sounds now makes it so much easier for today’s budding brainy teens to blast 100 decibels of bass directly into their ear canals daily.

Hey I know I am slower than a snail when it comes to adopting new fashionable trends and cleaning up after my own coddled slime trails from kitchen to privy. I’m just not sure if I’m ready to commit 100% of actual LIVING life to learn everything about anything by simply sitting on my tufted tuchis and matching tush cushion, staring blankly at a beckoning bag of noisy electronic conveniences.  Anyway I have heard that seductive siren’s song all before which wickedly works in mysterious ways to  make one deaf, dumb and ‘quarter-less’ in REAL life  - Can you HEAR me now PAC MAN? 

Toss Your Cookies Carefully

Like my underwear, I too am slightly imperfect and inelastic, so it is not for me to judge why hurried thoughtless people do what they do. I know folks are busy, routine driven, and rarely care anymore about time tested and TRUE philosophies like ‘Don’t speak until you’re spoken FOR’ or ‘Mind over PLATTER’. Still, when it comes to the really important choices in life like ‘paper or plastic’, ‘regular or decaf’ or where is the best place to ‘TOSS your cookies’, I expect a tad more care and respect from my fellow man. 

Around my ape cage for example, cookies are a celebrated semi-sweet staple and major food group which cannot be eclipsed. It really doesn’t matter if my ‘flour-y friends’ are frosted, sandwiched, soft, waffled, or bagged. All races and creeds of cookies are revered and treated to a place of prominence in my air sealed, compacted, and vessel-lined junk-food vault. Whatever leftovers I haven’t EATEN, end up perfectly organized in a crumb and saliva-free cabinet that my wife swabs down and secures shut like a greedy Keebler elf in a hollow tree.

Many thoughtless cretins on the other hand simply throw their Nabisco’s au naturel’ into some kind of ugly bust of a ceramic cookie crypt. Not only are those poor mistreated sweet choco treats chipped, abused, and subjected to ‘crumb-y’ accommodations; but who wants the harried and unwashed hanging over and handling my favorite discus desserts with disrespectful disregard? Further who decided it was an appetizing adventure to yank ol’ Santa’s or Mother Hubbard’s noggin off willy nilly to extract their internals for a random after school snack.

How can this obvious kookie cookie abuse continue to go on unchallenged, unchecked and unchanged from generation to generation? I don’t pull your pets from their filthy cages and immediately subject them to extreme temperature ‘waterboarding’ in a hot carafe of coffee or mug of chilled milk do I? Today’s society needs to think more and dunk a little less when it comes to drowning  our lowest of the lowly cookie’s sorrows merely as a dalliance of dairy delight or ‘cream-between’ guilty pleasure.