A Dirtier moniker

After nearly a third of a sesquicentennial of living and irritating other people’s spider senses, I have decided that I need a gritty nickname. Yes, before I make that final belly-flop into a shallow worm-ridden mulchy grave, I need some kind of hip ‘callsign’ and an icy-hot image.I think having a ‘too cool drug mule’ moniker is a necessity if I ever end up in a 6 X 9 foot cell with other amoebae, compare scars with Topless Gun pilots, or become a rap music star with a toothy, gold grill!

You see, I got kind of jealous recently when I sour-noted a concert line-up of noisy music dudes named ‘N. E. Yo, Pitbull, and T. Pain” performing for a morning TV show. Not a plain vanilla, Anglo-Saxon grunt name to be shared among them. So obviously to be ‘phatter’ than I already am I’ll need to combine some USDA choice meaty nouns with at least one initial. So where do I go to register a sheik hipster image like those music guys and what government agency is responsible for taxing society’s patience?

Are there any official pre-requisites for my new responsibilities and image as a self-involved ‘blogga’-gangsta’ idol? Maybe I need The Donald’s whispy locks, Mickey’s oversized ear buds, or a Hitler ‘half-stash’ to dress up the rebel ‘tude? I was hoping the warehouse-mirror sunglasses, ‘finger thickin’ good’ gold chains, and beltless n’ baggy pants were good enough to make a splash in today's modern blue gene pool?

Now admittedly I am kind of a ‘dough-so-soft’ wimp, so for my new image I should probably shy away from the calloused and brawny, testosterone belching, smelly-man ‘nom de fumes’. I was however thinking that I do happen to know my way around buckets of butter pretty well, so maybe a catchy caloric name like “I.M. Greezy.” or “Tubb E.” would fit the BILL? No rush though; I still have time to hone my future edgy, bad-dog, blogging moniker. I am lucky since I have a few years stock of my current library bookplates and the laundry labels my Mom used to sew in my CAMPground skivvies – ‘Der T. Drawers’!

THE morning paper

Every morning I quietly hobble from my coffin to retrieve not one, but TWO different newspapers. I have to keep up with the daily demand for wrapping up wedding gifts, lining bird cages with paper mache and of course the never-ending need for dead fish n’ chips grease absorbing diapers . Oh sure I peruse the headlines for the important stuff too like the movie start times or the daily horror-scope. But primarily I just like to see how tall a Jenga tower of newsprint I can build to test my wife’s forklift skills on the way to the recycle bin.

We have a love/hate relationship with our paper boy even though he is actually a 40 year old man who drives an even older van in the wee wee hours of the morning. On the one hand he does give us our daily fix of inane news along with an array of conversation starters during our Pop Tart time. But you would think the guy would have the decency to place the papers neatly on my doorstep instead of ejecting papers out of the window anywhere but on the giant driveway landing zone. I think he purposely spaces his nightly emissions as far apart as possible and plants them in the wet grass, muddy gutter, or up in the trees so I can play ‘Where’s Waldo’ every morning in a 6 A.M. stupor.

The paper-pusher is just bitter because he is STILL dealing to newsprint junkies even when most of his peers have moved up in the publishing cartels to become octopi ink-milkers or ‘blah-blah’ blogging barons. It also may be due to the fact that nobody else on our street gets a morning paper anymore so he has to drive far out of his way to throw stuff ONLY at our house. Except for the ‘newsies’, what other career allows you the luxury of pitching softballs at interviewees, hitting the comic books to do research, or throwing high priced yet worthless pre-paid projectiles at your clients’ houses.

As gasoline prices rise and the route delivery biz dies, I try to keep abreast of the changes afoot for those parts as well as the rest of the lifeless body of the newspaper industry. Despite the waning few of of us die-hard, hard-headed Cro-Magnons who still need to let our knuckles do the dragging through WalMart ads, I’m afraid the ‘dailies’ destiny is dier . Yes as soon as wireless bandwidth makes that next big speed leap for the finish line, the paperless e-book revolution will definitely spell doom for my newspaper dude and his ‘van-do’ attitude. This foreboding change to my breakfast ritual may seem alien at first. But luckily in our shack's litter box, I can always take pillow-soft comfort in at least one close morning encounter, of THE paper kind!

Extended Warranty

The dishwasher gave out this week. Actually it still works perfectly to me, but my wife said it keeps ‘giving out’ little lumps of chewed food and grime which apparently in ‘her world’ means stuff isn’t getting clean? I don’t see the rest of the animal kingdom making a big deal over a little leftover nacho sauce stuck to their tv-dinner trays. That combo-chunk of green beans, rice, & gravy is actually like a little ‘bonus’ snack and a solid food reminder of how bountiful our lives really are while we can still chew.

Anyway the predictable result was I had to go raid my kid’s piggy bank and see how much newer of a dishwasher I could get with a sack of pennies, a forced smile, and a credit card. Turns out our local Goodwill is a primary source for used underwear, arch-less footwear, and broken down recliners, but except for George Foreman grills and Civil War era microwaves, it’s not a good choice for roach-free appliances. I had left my jet-pack at home so I fought off the primal instinct for flight and instead drove toward salvation and divine guidance for my unwashed from our local mall-bound Sears Outlet.

I know it seems counterintuitive to go to a mall to buy an appliance instead of fashion but what do you expect from a grunt who gets his Nikes and knickers in bunches from a second-hand store? Being politically correct I did not look at the white dishwashers but instead focused on the stainless steel models. In the end however since the whole kitchen is black I settled on an avocado and mandarin orange theme because it fits with my Midwest taste for style and I guess I was a little hungry.

Checking out was relatively painless especially when the guy looked up my rarely used Sears account to save me another 10% on my purchase. WHEEE, no more illegal alien dishwashers for me, I wish I had to buy appliances and save money like this every day! That is until we got to the extended warranty part of the transaction. Gee when did these things end up costing as much as the ACTUAL THING that you are buying? I think a couple of years was $170 and 5 years of added warranty was around $300.

Did anyone stop and think in 5 years I could just go buy another NEW Jack LaLanne juicer or a Fry Daddy for mommy and be miles ahead? Needless to say I passed on the extended warranty and decided to live life on the edge like ice skaters, gang members and cutlery salespeople do. Anyway the bottom line is I don’t want to live in an America where my appliances have better health care and a longer extended warranty than I do!

Blue-Blocker Burqas

Despite the upheaval in the Middle East I have tried to improve my understanding of the Muslim world. Given the fact that OPEC reported a collective profit of over $1 Trillion U.S. this week, I have decided that my oily complexion and greasy hair may have more value than I had first thought? I can see a Water Babies SPF 30 or maybe even a Banana Boat SPF 50, but I have never quite understood the whole ‘Burqa’ sunblock thing, especially in hundred degree desert heat.

Now don’t get me wrong, whenever I peel myself from my favorite vinyl recliner, I’m all for protecting my skin from ultra (as well as NORMAL) violet light. But if I’m not mistaken, didn’t Mama Cass and the Moo Moo become associated with the physique of a Cow Cow in the 60’s? With an overflowing wallet, is this the best fashion statement the OPEC oil wonks have to offer the world? Except for when the coroner comes to haul me off, I’m not sure covering myself from head to toe in a cloth bag is the greatest of looks? Yes I admit I probably need to dress better for success but luckily it didn’t work for the Klan, so I am suspiciously sure, swimming in sheets won’t be sheik on me either.

Here in the U.S. Midwest where temperatures can get in the 90’s, even the most grizzled ‘hill folk’ typically where LESS clothing when it is hot outside. Oh sure we end up with a little bit of a farmer-fresh n’ funky tan due to the suspenders, holey blue jeans and half t-shirts. Thankfully however, the shadows of our fashion-forward mullets, tire swings, and blood-stuffed ticks usually help fend off the sun’s rays during tractor pulls and lunchtime frivolity of the ‘pig wrassle’ cage-fights.

Hmmm … who needs an oil windfall to be happy, because apparently in my heat-stroke fueled revelation, all the sun-spots have aligned and I suddenly see how good I have it here. In fact maybe those 3-ring Middle East traditionalists of the ‘burqa-solei’ might actually pick up a few pointers from the Middle West. First, at least around here, not every stinky black and gooey organic leftover found buried is worth trillions. And second, when the temps head topside, kiss that over-sized sun-skirt ‘Snuggie’ so-long and slip on a pair of silky shorts and Blue-blocker shades to keep cool. No, they won’t eclipse the sun as well as your old circus tent, but they sure make it a fun challenge to balance an icy lemonade while slipping and sliding into that comfy old dent in the vinyl ‘BURQA-Lounger’!

Made to be a Monarch

I just learned today that no ‘only child’ has ever been U.S. President. What a shame that yet another one of my self-flagellating nightmares has been dashed by geeky statisticians. Oh that’s ok, because the last time the ‘odds’ makers got something truly right was when my mafia parents MADE me. It seems I’ll never live there, but like the White House, I crow constantly about my crummy coop overflowing in a load of ‘white stuff’ ,with no fixes in sight too.

So since dirty birds like me spend so much time shopping at the ‘Home Despot’ I am probably better suited to the Monarchy anyway. Yes inbreeding has served me well since I am an expert on frilly clothes and routinely stick my pinkie out whenever drinking, hitchhiking or condemning other insects to their death. Anyway now with that recent Royal pudding of a wedding, the Monarchs are in fashion again and I have it on good authority that even cartoon lions cannot wait to be Kings.

Believe me I have put in the time to groom myself into an effective career as a future Monarch. I brush my tooth daily and powder not only my own Whig but the Tories’ too. Oh sure one unfortunate incident with a leg of MUTTon and everybody automatically takes the DOG’S side. Honestly, hopping to get around ‘aint’ that big of deal when all you do is sit around playing poker and smoking pricey cigars all day.

I cannot tell you how many troubling knights I have laid awake, crying remorsefully for closure - but not in a ‘Brokeback Mountain’ kind of way. I have grown considerably since the ‘dog leg’ incident, and as evidenced by my bathroom scale and golf scores, I have learned to control my gluttony. Even though I am only a man-child in a baggy blimp’s body and will never be President, despite life’s limitations I am still prepared to fly. So if I ever find myself reincarnated I hope to emerge from my chrysalis as a benevolent Monarch butterfly, dancing gracefully upon a radiant dew-kissed flower. Because let me tell you, there is no way I am repeating this grade again as a dumb gray sack of Pupa plopped on top of a rotten banana.