DISTRESSED for Success

No matter how much I’ve tried to change, I have to admit it – I’m not a snappy dresser. Oh sure on occasion I have a little more swagger in my step than the ‘pretty people’, but that is usually due to the floppy soles of my shoes or that I’ve drank so much coffee that I’m a little late for the LOO! I can’t help it but nice duds are expensive and when you think about it nobody even sees those little holes in the socks; that safety pin keeping my cuffs up; or that rippin’ zipper with a peek-a-boo hitch in its zip.

Now don’t get me wrong, even though a few vents in the armpits and some breeze over the knees does make it convenient to air my dirty laundry, I don’t intentionally wear this stuff out in public to be COOL like the ripped jean teen scene. No, the truth is that even down at the local Goodwill my BAD BILL style has its own ‘last chance’ rack, where my favorite garb is beat, cheap and barely a button away from prison. Isn't most stuff in life perceived as 'nearly new' when only 5% of its utility is gone - so why does society's rules suddenly change when it comes to underwear, Band-aids, and dental floss?

Are we really so shallow that if I wear an otherwise perfectly pressed polo, the whole world should stop and focus on that barely-there Brazil-shaped spaghetti sauce stain, springing from my breast pocket? What is it – are they concerned that I’ll be embarrassed or are they just afraid I may uncontrollably leak some kind of contagious bodily fluid on their floor? I don’t know about you, but if I had to discard every stained or holey garment in my arsenal, I would be left with even fewer FRUITS on my loom than Adam was after he gummed that apple with Eve.

Anyway I have a theory that over the eons, those successive grease spots have knitted together heroically to help waterproof my wardrobe, cuirass my closet, and keep the stitches in my britches. What other explanation can there be as my tattered togas and shredded skivvies continue to hold-up in the face (or the rear as it were) of constant danger and heavy fire? Hey I know I don’t give a ‘Carnegie’ about my clothing but believe it or not I do dress for success. Oh sure I may not always Win over odor-free friends like you have but I can honestly say the way I dress DOES influence people – to STAY AWAY.

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!