Chair-man ON a board

Despite the rather ample fat pad that’s already glued to my caboose all of the time, I am at a loss to find a truly comfortable chair. I’m not sure if I am just big (vestigial) boned or if the wood (in my head) is getting harder but something has got to change with these chairs. Even when I try to make padding out of random packing materials like cardboard or those Styrofoam peanuts, they still feel lumpy, itchy and uncomfortable inside my pants.

Anyway, sitting and I are not great friends even though I have trained intensively to do it pretty well. The only kind of sitting surface I haven’t broken is an ancient hunk of craggy granite in a National park, though my wife swears I cracked that too. It’s a rare chair indeed that hasn’t succumbed to my beguiling bulk, weighty wiles, and corpulent charms, because as a giant slug I’ve left a long sad trail of splinters, screws, and sticky wood glue.

Yes I should be forever known as the Von Richthofen of furniture flattening. Like that nose art emblazoned on fighter planes, I need to pridefully start marking off how many chairs my big ACE has killed off and turned into matchsticks and toothpicks. After my long caREAR , obviously not only is my ‘Baron’ very Red but by now I’ve should have earned the BLUE gluteus MAXimus medal.

Ok ok, so I see your point – with a track record like mine it’s clear that I never ran a track in my life, and it’s no wonder why no one manufactures chattel for the ‘PRATTel’ that’s supple to my ’RUMPle’. Soft furniture simply won’t suffice anymore since so many hefty folk are packing on the pounds and they must build every hard board sofa for the ‘loaf-a’ of an ‘oaf-a’ like me! Still, I can someday wish for pillow-puff downy-dreams down below can’t I? Maybe if I am lucky, somebody will eventually come up with a truly effective STOOL softener!

FOWLed up for life!

Believe it or not the high-point of my circus-world life was when I was a mascot for a Fortune 50 firm. I know the whole concept of being a ‘professional’ mascot is akin to that of being a ‘pro’ wrestler except that in my case the blood, sweat and TERRORS were REAL. In truth, I wanted to be the best ten foot hunk of flaccid flannel in a stove pipe hat that I could truly be. That way I could show the youth that their dreams too, could be crushed, wrinkled and stink before they ever began just like mine.

I was an easy choice as a last minute balding eagle fill-in for a formal dinner event since I am already classed by zoologists as a sweaty Yeti with a bird-brain, receding hairline, and dimly lit wits. I knew I was in trouble though when the four foot head had a built-in water collar, battery pack and MUFFIN fan devoid of even a single blueberry. Who voluntarily commits themselves to being ‘birdied’ alive in an eagle cocoon without baked goods or at least a bag of field mouse jerky for sustenance?

Except for my diaper, typically I can get into all of my regular clothes without help as long as the ventilation mechanics of said garments are zippy and below the beltline. However this hulking bag of feathers required a strap-on ice vest around my torso just so I wouldn’t overheat, topple and turn that elegant eagle into a deadly duck. The ZOOt-suit was so unwieldy that an attendant was always supposed to be in tow to prevent me from crushing small children, tripping, or flicking my unfettered feathered girth into someone’s face in haste for a taste.

As with all enlightened plans this one soon turned towards the dark side as well. After frightening an already lost, small child into hysterics, I shoved my bulbous downy carcass away from the unpopulated hallway through a very convenient unlocked door. While my helper searched for the whiny kid’s parents, I marveled at my rather smooth and unobtrusive James Bond get-away, particularly since I was in gargantuan eagle drag. Unfortunately that door however, led right into the main dining room with dozens of too-tightly spaced round tables brimming with hungry guests eating their fancy feast – at least temporarily.

Like any freshly bagged big bird, I whirled, wedged, whisked and spun in hopes of an easy escape. As sweat quickly blurred my already limited eagle vision, I had no idea where I was going as I bumped blindly through that maze of chair legs, fancy hair, and faces full of food. Other than my own grunts of confused exasperation, it seemed as if the only noise in the room was the BACK HALF of me leaving eagle droppings behind in a wake of collateral damage. Needless to say, two escorts each quickly grabbed a wing and showed me the way back to my nest to get undressed. Hmmm… what a FOWLed up life! I not only didn’t make Eagle Scout, but oddly I never again was asked to reprise my role as an eagle mascot either.

The BUSHy league

Hey I know that it must be Spring because my HAIR is blooming. Yeah that’s right, I am the spawn of a rye grass mix and a barn owl, because as soon as it gets warm, it seems I’ve got funny fuzzy stuff growing out of my eyebrows, ears and whiffer sniffer. Usually I have enough sense to cut all this stuff off but as I have gotten fatter, I notice that crew cuts and close shaves make my shrunken head look a lot like a small potato sitting atop a pair of Playskool blue boots.

Mr. Potato Head is a fun toy I guess, but it is a lot less fun when weird furry decorations are sticking out of all its holey orifices. What concerns me most is not my main mane which I CAN see, but the tangled mass of random follicles that I can’t. Who knows what kind of evil plot of land is lurking behind my back at this very moment? For all I know beyond that dark mysterious canyon back there, my hind-spine has probably grown a shaggy Amazon jungle, replete with rare species of wooly ‘Man-moths’ and bushy bearded dragoons.

Oh sure I could always shave my unruly split-strands but then there would be more medulla in the margarine than the already obligatory toasty crumbs I preserve there. I’ve never waxed-on poetically but the next time I celebrate my hatch-day, I’ll enlighten my downy dome by burying it between two score and eleven lighted candlesticks. Of course if that doesn’t work there is always plucking, but then again I don’t know about you but even if the sky isn’t falling, I already know that I’m a little CHICKEN!

Hmmm... I might just be missing the boat by resisting this hairy opportunity before me? Hey I’m TUFT, maybe it really is my time to join the bush league and start teasin’ the weaves with a higher goal? Yes, it might be better to shake n’ bake in the sun to tan my tawny hide so I can sell my pigtailed pelt or at least flip a wig. Oh well no worries, since all this fiber is apparently growing on me, I’ll just let nature take its course and tame my tresses the same way old dogs do - by shamelessly shedding all over the place and rolling in the fresh cut DOOey grass.

My Superpower RANKS!

I am beginning to suspect that I have some kind of super power but I have not yet realized its full potential. Yes no matter what I get that’s new and improved, within minutes in my possession I will ensure that it is misused and well abused. Apparently I am just HARD on stuff which means no matter if it’s a pillow, poodle, or cheese doodle – you name it, I will likely crease, crush, or disgust it within seconds.

I am not quite sure if shoes, springs, n’ things are just being built more poorly or if I am simply built more portly, but clearly soft stuff ain’t so tough when I plant my hoppers anywhere near my clods. Even with ordinary household paper goods I have had to move on beyond the normal softy two-ply in favor of industrial tough towels which can live up to my rep. Yes you can keep your Charmin and girly nose tissue because my paper towels are not only brawny they have to be so tough that they still have hunks of green leafy bark on them – or at least I HOPE that stuff is bark?

It does not help my ego when I run out the roll and then try to traverse the lawn for a reLEAF and then sink knee deep into the turf and lose a shoe. Oh sure I know it rained a lot recently and MUD hens are part of my DNA since I’m blessed with a chicken-little bird-brain and happen to live in Missouri . But I honestly hate losing a shoe that way because I sort of have my own Marine code when my toes are in a JAM - ‘Nobody gets left behind’. Of course the geezers who spawned me would concur because recently they had gifted me a BRAND NEW set of those pricey footsy inserts to help me walk both more softly with or without a big stick of gum.

I could care less about the $10 K-mart ‘Croc-offs’ but if I buried alive one of those spanking new jelly tootsie pads I am pretty sure something far fatter than my foot will be dragging when my folks find out. So I dug the spud out of the muck and tried my best to wash off the evidence so nobody’s none the wiser. Well that’s not entirely true – aside from one of my toe holders being bright white and the other tawny taupe, the next time I lose a shoe to goo I need to let it lie high and dry for awhile. Sadly you see I am apparently not only wet behind the ears, but ONE foot has become a little RIPE in the arch too, so suddenly I understand why my one and only superpower REALLY STINKS!

Returning the Favors

Despite my love of Twinkies, Ding Dongs, and all things saturated in fat, I do have a healthy respect for staying in shape. The problem is that my shape happens to be about the size of a ‘not-so-smart’ car and that doesn’t even include the extra spare tire and all that junk in my trunk. Still I do try to roll my #10 can out of the meat locker rocker every day to loosen my loin liggies and tickle my glute biggies!

Aside from a nice walk around a park or mall I get a good workout by chasing stray dogs who are chasing cars or runaway prisoners. Sometimes if I am feeling a bit more conventional I will gob my noggin and all other major muscles with linseed oil and head straight for the gym to show-off how strong (smelling) a Sasquatch can be. If nothing else, even if I don’t get in ship shape, I can practice ‘grunting’ along with the other power-lift posers, which is sure to impress the treadmill soccer moms or at least my hernia doctor later.

With the advent of mindless TV monitors overhead, I honestly enjoy the gym because it feels just like home, only without the budget-busting mortgage, sweat-free shirt, and a mouthful of greasy microwave popcorn. Up until now I always thought ‘ellipticals’ were associated with astronomy and something that planets did to draw attention from the sun. But now I know that they are also the best place in the universe to wear out endless pairs of astronomically priced tennis shoes without ever actually going anywhere.

Oh well, who needs all of those wanton luxuries when you’ve got your health, family, and the potential for a long life right? Anyway I have always been a proponent of fair-play and payback no matter how many two-packs of Pop Tarts I must sacrifice to gain a six-pack physique. You see, if I stay healthy, ripen up and avoid rotting for awhile, I’ll be around a LONG time for my kid. Then she’ll GET to return my favors by someday spoon feeding me pureed peas, driving me everywhere I want, & changing my diapers just like I did for her so long ago!