Christmas Stalking Showdown

Once again I did not get what I wanted for Christmas and it makes me cranky. Every year since I was a kid I have waited up late to try and catch Santa breaking and entering and once again he somehow gets by my defenses. Don’t get me wrong, I love almost everything he and the reindeer leave (except for those raisins on the roof), but it bugs me that no matter what macho thing I do he still gives me the slip (a frilly one from Victoria Secret).

I’m not sure what Santa has to fear from me other than I resemble Rudolph’s pal, the Bumble – except I’m a bit harrier and still have a few of my own teeth left. Oh he is probably just bitter because I refuse to let one of his creepy mini-minions, the elf on the shelf, stare at me all night while I sleep. Geez have a heart Santa, I already fend off spiders, mice, and bed bugs, around this dump – so is it any surprise I want to extend a middle digit to one of your little midget’s too?

Is it too much to ask that the graying fat man in the red and white jammies, other than me, use the back door without ringing the bell, just like the rest of my hillbilly clan-family. This year, simply so there won't be any mistakes, I even stuffed foam up my chimney to keep the chill out; and let me tell you that’s a lot more challenging than those thin thermometers. Yes I was really prepared this holiday with candy cane cameras, bright landing lights, and even a few cookie-claymore trip lines to give St. Nick  a sign it’s the right time to finally face ME - the grim wreather.

At this point I am starting to doubt if there is, or ever was a REAL Santa at all. I have actually been to the North Pole but I never saw a red-striped, bearded benefactor there or at any of the other three spikes which hold up my tent. Maybe all this seasonal stewing n’ stalking I am doing of St. Nick is a waste of time? Clearly I need to give up on hunting down Santa and his elusive elves and just concentrate on something far easier to swallow like the ‘Fountain of VERMOUTH’!

Dust Bunny Blame

Due to my persistent patter that I am disheveled and a bit of a dust devil when it comes to cleanliness is a tad misleading. It is not really ME that makes most of the messes around this ape cage, it is those dumb bunnies who hide under the toe kicks in the kitchen and waft across the floor at the slightest sneeze of a breeze. I don’t care how much I sweep or suck the buggers up with a bigger vac duct, they always seem to find a way to multiply and fly in the face of my hopes for a spic n’ span  place.

Hey I know I rarely smell of bleach but that doesn’t mean I am a fan of competing for floor space with fuzzy baseball-sized amalgams of intertwined dust and dirt. More than once I’ve suffered a squirt of adrenaline as one of those darting wind-driven faux-rodents streaks up from behind to fondle my meaty beat feet. Though I can think of several things more unpleasant caught aloft surfing on a warm-winded vortex, who wants the comet tail from some linty lapin always trying to sneakily squeeze that out of me.

What worries me is given the degree of follicle fleece flying freely at floor-level, logic would have it that the dust stuff is breeding down there somewhere too. That takes the suspicious spotlight off of the attic mite-y mice of course since they typically only come downstairs to watch Tom and Jerry cartoons while ironing their capes. I also don’t believe my cave-feet are to blame since I’ve turned to Rogaine and that means the silky long locks of my ankle-manes have never looked fuller and more alive.

So though I am at a loss as to the creation of this excess loess, my wife’s judgmental and furtive glances towards my thinning ‘Bowl-Magnon’ cranium have not gone un-noticed. Oh sure my lice have a little less to work with and mowing the Mohawk takes half the time now, but surely one hairless rat alone cannot be at the root of this dusty bunny foot ball invasion? Too bad we don’t have a few domestic pets around since I’m looking for something to blame and take a broom to other than myself; because it’s times like these that I could sure use a little MORE ‘hare of the dog’!

E-Bowl-Of

Given my graying growing girth I have to watch what I eat, or more accurately WATCH what other people eat. Don’t worry I have plenty of flaccid fatty flesh reserves and cisterns of black coffee to tide me over until the Dairy Queen and Burger King get together to make a fat-free baby burger I can nurture without guilt. In the meantime though, I think it would be nice if I could find a guaranteed, calorie shredding, diet idea that will help me slim down just by sitting in my easy-geezer chair!

You see that lumpy yawn of a divan is where I do my best calorie cutting (into bite sized chunks). Yes in the presence of those crushed plush n’ crumby tufted buttons is where I write and stress EAT most often, especially after the TV news drones ceaselessly on about curb lurking dangers and societal discomforts. Who can blame both my mouth and my stomach for growling when these days every time I turn on the tele some floosy newsie starts spewing doozies about E-bowl-of this and E-bowl-of that.

So naturally my musty dusty brain filled with a murky milky mush calls to the claws to grab my anchor of a laptop, and the computer that sits atop it, to seek out this ‘E-bowl of’ cereal site that everyone is abuzz about.  I am intrigued since what personage of a portly persuasion doesn’t want to stare at lusty, glossy and saucy pictures of wet n’ grainy, fiber-rich cereals all from the comfort of their own couch? I would think even skinny, ice shelved penguins on egg-watch too might get a little hot and bothered and see their feather temps rise under such extreme conditions.

Maybe I have misspelled it for I find no mention of a bland pablum diet and an e-fitness program that is web-based without the mess of real spiders and their unfortunate encounters with heavy free weights. Too bad since who knows If I had really shed a sled-full of my sugarloaf I might have been able to reach out and preach the benefits of ‘E-bowl-of’ to the world beyond my Lazy-Boy. Yep, If I were lucky, I might have even gone to the SOURCE where this trend all started – then as the official spokesperson, I could fly back home and REALLY spread the word in person to those TV news-pukes who always make me hungry!

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.