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!

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!

Over-couture

I have to admit that I am not the snappiest turtle or dresser that you will ever meet. Of course I care about my appearance but the truth is I don’t really care if other primates don’t prove receptive to my presentation. I typically try to wear a light fleece jacket for most public hangings (of artwork) but when the lint builds up into a genuine fur coat or if my nose and toes turn bluer than normal from the cold it’s time for the OVERCOAT.

Though our rumpled exteriors are similar I do not own a traditional ‘oh so cool’ ‘Colombo-style’ khaki coat since I live more in a depression than in a trench. Anyway my wife already fears what I will do pants-less when bored in ordinary outerwear with free-flowing flaps, so she swaddles and keeps me occupied with pockets full of linty mints, stripped zippers and hidden snaps. Typically now when the weather turns foul like my breath, I’m routinely poured into and cinched up tight inside a bulky hooded ripstop cocoon to keep most of winter out and hopefully my cold shoulders or other pointy parts in.

Like that baseball crime-fighter Batman, I like to keep my gear handy and strapped to me at all times for emergencies. So these jumbo jackets come in handy for a fat-cat’s hat n’ glove storage and on occasion when my bicycle’s airbags fail. However those puffy parkas in concert with my hulking hide also make it nearly impossible to locate a set of keys, coins, or a ball point pen without a side-trip to the airport to be scanned by a metal detector.

Can’t anyone boast of a toasty overcoat that I can actually find things in that’s smaller than a bread-box, or at least is sewn with a transparent marsupial pouch to see the bun crumbs breed in my pocket bottoms? Finally modern couture that’s kind to my tiny insect mind – jackets that not only keep me and the thorax warm but also entertains too; with sea monkey stores on one side and an ant farm on the other. Anyway those salty shrimpy snackitizers will come in handy if ever forced to bivouac in a giant forest with my fellow formicidae, under the stars and a bounce-house sized winter, stuffed n’ tufted toga, to keep the Queen and me warm.

Transformer

Whenever the belt around my neck starts to get loose, I make it a practice to wander into a people-feed store and see what’s on the menu. Unlike most geezers in training, I don’t mind shopping for chow since what better way to get exercise while I stock up on nutritional staples that the wife typically avoids like cookies, candy, and waxy wheels of cheese. Anyway my doughy bone-bag bulk always benefits from a stroll through the zoo and a chance to observe slow-roll meandering oldsters in their natural habitat. 

With this year’s change of seasons though, suddenly society’s younger guns all seem to be treating me TOO a bit differently now. A furtive glare here or an innocent side-step there; yes I notice the subtle impatience and frequent over-aggressive cart incursions as I expertly ponder fiber values between the lowly pinto or more costly black bean. I check myself for oozing wounds, leprosy, or some other stinky societal woe that would deserve such disgust, but upon reflection (off my head) I appear inert and unchanged - just as I’ve always been. 

Oh sure I now prefer the smell of Mentholatum over Old Spice, but what’s it prove - that I enjoy soothing hot water bottles and old time mystery radio shows over reality TV. (coincidentally YES!) So what if I cinch my pants around my chest and my ashen translucent skin no longer is brawny and tawny like days gone by. What do you care if Velcro is the kibble of choice to feed my plush suede Hush Puppies and those threadbare baggy shirts I wear are NOT to be cool but actually to stay warm.

Though no blockbuster movie will ever be made about it, clerks seem to routinely ring-me up with senior discounts and need not see I.D. as proof of my long-toothed Silverback status. Clearly I am something of a real Transformer now – bending, creaking and soon to be leaking new useful, flexible and stickier form of productivity. Yes, long life has been seemingly compressed into seconds as I’ll soon fall completely between the cracks, and cross that invisible line of re-birth from ready steady stud to swayback saddled n’ addled,  quartered-up colt ready for a warm Gorilla GLUE bottle. 

Football Fantasy

As a husky kid who was the obvious love-child between a white rhino and the Pillsbury dough-boy, you would think I would have a great interest in traditional bulky black n’ blue bruiser football. But alas I was weaned to be a wet-nursed wimp as my thin skin would turn pale, and my weak knees would knock at the thought of the sport with an ovoid ball as an object of affection. Yes my pathetic athletic skills and lack of pigskin prowess have always been better suited to batting feathery shuttlecocks rather than patting leathery turf-ruffled rumps.

One of my problems is that I’m uncomfortable with the uniformity of that weird costume that football dudes have to squeeze into since I would likely perform better in a pair of Dickies overalls and chainmail. I have never looked good in tight little grass-stained knee-high pants and a crash helmet when I go to the market so why would I wear that outfit at school or on TV? Typically the only pads that I have had to deal with are in rooms at hospitals or the damp sponges I shove under my Superman night shirt to make my biceps look larger and pock-marked with virility for my wife’s delight.

Anyway what kind strategist thinks it’s a good idea to line tree-sized people up inches apart and have them snarl n’ charge at each other after a big meal the night before? I don’t think there is enough Beano on earth to prevent the multiple close-in spontaneous combustions that surely must ensue and only enrage the enemas further. Also didn’t we decide shouldering up soldiers and having their ranks slaughtered was a bad idea in the revolutionary war so why now play a game featuring that exact same strategy.

At least it’s understandable why the Europeans came up with the ‘football’ name for their game since the rule of play reserves the hands only for crowd taunting and sweaty long-hair pulling. Clearly American football confuses me as does its name since it has so little to do with feet other than an occasional kick and run and some footwear advertising endorsements. Don’t worry I’m not trying to overthrow  the NFL or drag their audience kicking and screaming towards soccer, especially since I don’t look good in those nylon rainbow shorty-shorts either.  I guess my true football fantasy is just to see a lot LESS of both these sports clogging up my TV, and maybe given recent elevator revelations a more appropriate name like ‘SOCKHER’.