Alarming Personality

Given my foot-dragging physique and propensity to chase small animals and scooters for sport, it probably comes as no surprise to you that my presence is not always a welcomed one outside of my lair. Don’t worry – I have plenty of friends who have long gotten past the shedding, Tourettes barks, and pungent smell of asparagus that follows my forked tongue wherever I go. No, my problem is that smoke and fire alarms seem unusually attracted to me like I’m some kind of 666 “Iblis whisperer”.

I admit making things smoke came easy for me as a child, though I just thought of myself as ‘curious’ rather than as some freakishly devilish ‘Bill-ze-bub’. Oh sure I once shared a BBQ lunch with my friends in my room in which THEY were on the menu. But fortunately my pals were fluffy n’stuffed and only got their hindquarters singed, as so did I soon after from my parents. As I grew up I turned to the magic of melting crayons on the school’s radiator to exude a wonderfully waxy waft of 64 colors and the envy of all, save for the pursed-lipped teacher.

By middle school I continued to practice my true calling by accidentally setting my Grandmother’s neighbor’s yard on fire. Fortunately the neighbors liked my Grandmother more than me and didn’t like mowing anyway. As a teen I soon found myself poking around floor electrical plates and electronics projects at school. Such adventures were almost always accompanied by sparks, smoke, occasional fires, and the obligatory power-outage, alarm bells and the teacher’s groans. Even recently a chemistry professor and I unleashed an experiment to form pure carbon by brightly burning magnesium inside a tomb of dry ice. Sadly the ionized air and whisp of smoke was enough to burp up a high-school clearing evacuation alarm in the middle of 30 degree weather.

By now though, I have mostly harnessed my frequent mistakes with electricity, gasoline, black powder, model rockets and crayons with all my claws intact. Believe it or not, I am STILL brave enough to take both my toast and catfish blackened. Hopefully my ‘alarming personality’ will not prove to be an issue for my new neighbors if I move to the city. Oddly, unlike high school kids, most folks probably won’t appreciate the ‘adventure’ of evacuating 30 flights of stairs in a downtown apartment should I have a midnight snack mishap.

WATER crackers & whine!

Though at times I have been accused of being NUTS, the truth is when it comes to party snacks, I trend more toward the institutionalized ‘cracker’ category of insane behavior. Up until recently for empty calories, I have been a huge fan of just about any kind of crispy, baked, unleavened chip off of the old Matzo block. But then the holidays ‘harked-up’ on me, and my friends and family began to assail both my wagging tongue n’ tail with an EXCESS of handsomely baked and boxed salty encounters of the unexplained kind.

Hey if you want to tempt me with a truckload of Triscuits or weigh me down with a wide-load of Wheat Thins then we’ll get along fine, but what’s the deal with these pasty n’ tasteless , white ‘WATER crackers’? What kind of self-respecting baker cooks up a nasty cracker without any flavor OR color and then markets it as a delicacy rather than a mistake? I mean we all DO know that this salt-lick chip is really just a modern take upon a hunk of civil war hardtack, and is only truly edible with about a pound of flavored goo all over it right?

I understand that little reminders of plain-Jane austerity help keep me humble but isn’t the fact that I drive a twelve year old shopping cart and consider SPAM a wholesome food group enough for people anymore? Along with my life, I already DARN my socks too, so is it too much to ask that beyond saltines, can the rest of the crackers associated with me be appropriately colored and deliciously savory? That means even your cheesy ‘Goldfish’ will find a good home in my gut as long as they leave their rainbows back at the Farm and show up dressed ONLY in orange.

Now don’t get me wrong, I love my extended familial troop and they are always welcome to swing by my doorstep any time of the year bearing pawn shop worthy loot and yes, even marginally edible snacks. However, so as to finally exhaust my ‘un-holey’ apocalyptic supply of indestructible ‘Yuuch-arist’ wafers on hand, I will insist on one minor change in the future. Beyond the customary nightly delousing and group grooming, everyone MUST consume their own body mass in these bland and banal 'nasty-crackers' … but don’t worry it won’t hurt - 'cause it’s just ‘Water Weight Gain’!

Topless ‘HAIResy’

Oh I know in the ‘oh so modern’ super-model icon culture of today, one’s hair, or the way it’s coiffed, is supposed to really MEAN something. However, even when I was a bigfoot in full bloom and blessed with a full matted mane, what the looks of my locks meant to me was YETI one more chore that I DIDN’T love! Even for money, what average 4-H farmer kid honestly wants to regularly rake and take care of his own grass, so why would you think a dedicated 3-H (Hapless, Helpless, Hang-loser) teen meatball like me would either?

Yes, If it weren’t for repulsive hairless cats and society’s accepted norms of fondling follicles for shampoo ads and cutting n’ curling cowlicks for commercials, any sane person would pop their top for a chance to lop off their mops! Just think how easy, breezy and bright life could be if everyone were sporting a silky smooth high-shine chrome-dome. Imagine a utopian globe where fuzzies in food-stuffs, tufts in the tub and even cilium in the sink were the ONLY missing links to our pink little pigtail past.

Shaving our shocks would spur on big biz Velcro entrepreneurs the wig-world over and give our political leaders something truly important to ‘DO’ for a change - or at least stick their noses in when they make a mess. Imagine donning a crazy colored batch of thatch or any hairy n’ CAREy-free style ‘Do’ you desire, without the daily hairspray melee and endless salon fuss n’ muss. Forever forget teasing the tresses, corning rows, or dreading the locks for the prom and beyond, when you could simply stick, strip, n’ rip sideburns to split-ends - all pain-free and to your heart’s content.

Even though I am positive that cocky, balding geezer -eagles like myself would get on board quickly with a comb-free existence, I’m not so sure about their harried lady counterparts? While hot pink may be the fashion color of choice for dolls like Barbie; a frock-free n’ pink ‘neck-nub’ sprouting north of the nape, is not yet most women’s vision of the perfect head and shoulders. Too bad though, because considering how much quality time men spend polishing and servicing their fancy 4-wheeled convertibles, there are probably quite a few enticing advantages for MOST girls to go TOPLESS!

Clean BILL of Health

Ok I doubt that it is a big surprise and maybe even a reason to celebrate for some, but the fact is I’m DYING … but so too are you and everyone else a little bit more each day. See I really was listening in my ‘yellow snow’ journalism class in college, so along with my hair stylist named ‘Buzz Cutt’ I have learned to TEASE with the best of them! So there is no need to actually worry; if NUN of my bad HABITS kills me first, I should be around long enough to happily contribute to the earth’s much ballyhooed demise in 2012.

Apparently though I have unwittingly put a half century of wrinkles & regret on my calloused hide, so of course it was high time to subject myself to being poked and prodded by aliens in white coats with boney cold hands. Since I had not been in for a personal tune-up in a number of years they attacked me with triangular shaped rubber hammers, lights, needles, and narrowed eyes of concern, which is surprisingly similar to how I eat a cheap steak.

Except for overloading a freight elevator and fending off a devilish billing clerk donning a pitchfork pen and fiery torch, for a foot-dragging cadaver, most of my nuts and bolts seemed to have descended properly. Good fortune reigned supreme since I wore socks without holes and underwear so new and fresh that it doubled as my napkin at lunch. Overall my health bank account seems to still be in the black or that might just be my toenails and teeth doing the talking to the blind bookkeeper?

Though the long-term prognosis of my real BILL of health looks fine, the Doctor said, if I continue to deep fry, sugar dip, and consume ALL of the five food groups daily, I will finally make my parents proud by actually testing ‘ABOVE average’ for a change. Despite my mental faculties being young and as sharp as any seven year old, I think it’s clear my chronological age means I soon must consider the frightening prospect of the big ‘C’ too! Yes it’s time to pay the piper , face my fears, and quit turning my back on good health – well maybe I will turn my back on it just one more time … since tomorrow’s my COLONOSCOPY!

Bun Bewilderment

When it comes to food, I’m bred from simple stock so the BREAD I eat should be easy to understand too. I don’t care if a basket of biscuits is good for me as long as these ‘Tom-fooderies’ quit trying to confuse me. Honestly with names like ‘monkey bread’ or ‘Indian Bread’ who REALLY knows what these things are? Maybe the snobby bakeries don’t want you to know that both primates and casino owners have been cavorting with and kneading your dough - which sounds kind of dirty unless you’re the banker of a baker?

Can we also all agree that cake, bread and doorstops are all completely unrelated and should remain that way when classing baked goods. What’s with these restaurants trying to pass off cake as cornbread? I mean just because it’s yellow and has a single kernel of corn in it doesn’t make it REAL cornbread. Also aren’t ‘fruitcake’ and ‘banana breads’ really just panned and browned ingot-freaks of nature? Cakes and bread are supposed to be fluffy, soft, good to eat and FRUIT-FREE! If you want to grind up some dirty ol’ black bananas, a pair of gym socks, and candied backyard fruit then pollute a pie but don’t taint my toast.

Maybe it’s just because I’m a little crusty behind the ears, because now I honestly don’t have any idea what the difference is between a Sicilian, Homestyle, and Chicago PAN pizza. I thought all pizzas were baked on PANS so as a marketing strategy who cares where the tin was made as long as my pizza crust doesn’t taste like cake or covers my craw in challah and cornmeal. Also, please STOP trying to search for the PERFECT breakfast bread by making my bagels sweeter and my doughnuts healthier. Let’s face it, like my underwear, if I’m already using ‘em with the holes, then I obviously DON’T CARE about perfection.

Life is too short (and sanitary) to break out in a sweat of confusion over the names and ingredients of baked goods. Up until now, I always thought that the bakery was the one place of floury solace where life’s answers truly were black and mostly white. Must too our rolling pins venture down the same muddied path that oils & proteins have already tread, never knowing what you should eat and what to avoid? I don’t know about you but I just want to butter-up my own buns and pans in peace and wonder no more if my rolls have high moral fiber or how many grains are contained in a perfectly pinched loaf!