Dairy AIR Apparent

Given my CRUSTY appearance and demeanor you probably think I like pizza, don’t wash behind my ears, and rarely leave the confines of my cardboard carton unless absolutely necessary. Well you would be correct in at least two of those assumptions, though in my defense if the city would throw in a few more of those park porta-potty deodorant cakes I might scrub the ‘stank’ off a little longer. Surprisingly though, I am street-wise even without a GPS or a paper cup full of change, and actually do travel quite frequently in a breathless effort to ‘wind’ friends and give ‘influenza’ to people.

Beyond the breadth of my Big Wheel, I prefer to travel by plane despite the hassles these days with security, baggage limits, and the long waits. There is just something ironically special about getting peanuts for my big mouth even though I am paying ‘through the nose’ for those tiny tickets. Now it seems I can’t even get my doctor to pony up with a ‘smiley’ sticker after I cough, so getting informally fed and watered as a bonus in a smelly flying cattle car has become truly a thrill.

The main problem for me and recent air travel is that I now have to be very aware of my public image. No I am not famous at all, but regardless of who you are, nobody wants to see your bald pink piggies pointing at them from the holes in your gray soiled socks. I think it goes without saying that the same rule is doubly important when applied due South of your shirt-line, should the belt-removal regimen go awkwardly awry.

The airlines could assist with these types of problems if they would once again just hand out those pin-on wings to hide the holes in my clothes like they did in the old days. Or at the very least return to offering those little soaps in the plane privies to help me scrub my stained skivvies BEFORE I get on the plane. Oh well even if it sometimes stinks, I guess I’m a lucky dog since air travel is not as formal as it once was. Yes, apparently EVEN a crusty old cur like me can finally make it out of the ‘Live Animal’ cargo hold and find happiness numbly, under somebody’s piquant seat. 

Pillow Talk

OKdespite my puffiness, maybe I’m not the best guy to judge all things pure and downy-soft like pillows, since my pin-head is as hard as a bowling ball and always in need of a vigorous degreasing. Despite that handicap I actually prefer my pillows fairly plain, flat, and lifeless, like an envelope marked RUSH in the hands of a postal worker. I just don’t get how some people willingly choose to sleep on a mountain of goose stuff even if it IS encapsulated between a cotton case with the ‘Do not remove’ tag still attached.

I mean you DO realize that you can REMOVE a few pillows from your bed don’t you and the world economy will still continue to function right? Don’t worry, as intrusive as the government wants to be with our mattresses, I really don’t think they’ll have time to enforce those pillow tags rules. The truth is that ever since stuffed animals came on the scene, my pillows are now more like decorative accessories than actual sleeping gear anyway. Who needs a dull, boring bag of mindless memory foam when you can hug and drool on the innocent face of a bear-baby full of beanies?

Also I don’t 'cotton' to pillows in the shape of tubes, cubes, trapezoids or triangles. Everyone should know by now that OFFICIAL pillows are supposed to ONLY be made into rectangles. And while you’re at it, why not clip off all of those annoying dreadlock tasseled p-cases too. Do you know how many times I’ve awakened with one of those floppy fur-worms stuck in my ear, nose, and lesser used orifices? 

Gee have I finally found the one REAL change that government regulation could do to truly help voters in both the ‘Groggy’ and ‘Slobbery’ parties, along with the rest of our nation’s mindless dwarves? Yep, most 99% squares like me just want our snowy white, flat, and 'plain-jane' pillows so that we can actually SLEEP on them - not just show them off to overstuffed 1% airbags! Too bad that even if my populist law ever passed it would never see the light of day. Everyone knows that when it comes to bloated and pillowy legislation, this law would surely have a  ‘SUNSET’ provision!

Techno CAR-ma

While robots and I spend lots of quality time together and I DO whisper sweet nothings into an Android on a regular basis, I’m not a fan of these new cars that parallel park by themselves. Honestly, I don’t know about you, but first off who HAS to park this way anymore on a regular basis? It would be one thing if I had to parallel park daily or even once a week around small children wearing big orange cone-headed caps; but for occasional activities like personal hygiene which I do annually or orally, why pay for fancy options?   

I also don’t remember where on my insurance policy that I listed the car as its OWN driver? Why should I take on all the risk and responsibility to park these cars if THEY are the ones incurring the liability now? If my car wants to do something nice for me automatically why doesn’t it try changing its oil, ‘honking’ my ‘horny’, or  better still, picking the bugs out of its own grill for a change.

I might be more open to a vehicle that parks itself if the simple technology already in my car worked well 100% of the time. Except for when my window squirters fall-off and shoot innocent bystanders, a simple skip of a CD or an occasional wrong turn directive barked by a GPS, usually doesn’t hurt anyone. But I’m guessing if my sensors turn senseless and my car’s ‘puter-parker brain burps over the by-and-by, my attempts at a ‘parallel  plunge’ near the South rim of the Grand Canyon COULD become more akin to ‘bye bye’!  

I know I know it’s just my bad, technology car-karma coming back to haunt me again. I guess if the birds, bugs and I kept our Wite-out to ourselves and treated cars with more respect in the first place, they wouldn’t strike back with skid marks n’ mistakes so much. Maybe I should just get with the modern times and learn to be more accepting and progressive about our car’s ‘right to drive’ itself. Ok, I’ll think about it, but if the that bolt-bucket starts burning rubber to promote the unholy marriage between gas and electric drivetrains – that’s where I’m gonna’ draw the line!

Bugged by ‘SPRINGer’ Cleaning

You’d think Springtime would bring a sense of renewal as the weather warms, plants break open their non-alcoholic Buds, and I cast the last of those nasty bed bugs from my cot. The problem is for all the Spring cleaning I want to do quickly around the lair, nature and its crafty cohorts are un-doing my progress even faster outside. Regardless of how tidy I keep my bowl, the birds are knitting nests and making a mess, while I try to sauce the wasps as they plot their next invasion from the privacy of their rafter-bound mud-huts.

Hey I’m always ‘game-y’ and will sweat on the oldies and even a few younger folks too, but apparently my shiny ardour also makes me particularly attractive to mosquitoes, flies, n’ gnats – who all need slaps. Isn’t this time of year supposed to put the bounce back in my step rather than something like a snap of a trap when I clap? Yes from their Red Tails to their yellow jackets, when Winter withers and temps get steamy, you can bet my hand gets creamy, fending off the aerial assault and pepper from nature’s finest flyers.

My Spring fling around here also means Thor and his drunk cloud-bound buddies keep throwing up trees n’ leaves while unleashing HAIL upon all who dare cross his path to test his wrath. As soon as I chop down the bushy bushes and seedy weeds, more clones have grown back taller and stronger than ever before. Now Mother Nature is so unstable and out of control, I am starting to suspect that she must be a Jerry Springer reject chasing all of her green n’ creepy crawly kin my way.

I’m a realist though, I understand that along with my dying beetle-body there’s room for at least 1000 other DIPlopods in this Spring break glue trap I call home. The main difference is that unlike nature, I have the decency to at least make my bed after I flop for the night, whereas my 6 and 8 hairy-legged brethren prefer to just curl up in the middle of the floor and twitch. Yeah, I have done that on occasion too after a big burpy buffet, but rarely when company is coming over and NEVER after my wife has put the vacuum’s ‘schnoz-nozzle’ away. After all I definitely don’t want to BUG her ‘cause she’s so much nicer when she’s a GLADfly!

Like a Rancid Cowboy

I like horses just fine but sadly other than the fact that we smell the same, MANEly because both of our noses are hairy, I am not sure we have all that much in common. Don’t get me wrong, despite my shiny rhinestone personality and those manly tassels on my big boy bolo tie, I’m not really an urbane cowboy. No I’m tough as leather lingerie and truly know my way around chapped stuff since I rarely wear lip gloss and usually forget to wick away my ‘sweat-ness’ with a keg of baby powder. 
 

My earliest memory of my own horse was one of those springy steeds that galloped in one place in the corner of my bedroom. I rode the thing until I got saddle sores but those were from my parents after I wouldn’t listen and tried to ride ‘ol squeaky secretly after bedtime. Years later when I thought to make friends with a real horse, it tired of my ‘barn-chair’ quarterbacking (like most in my family) and chased me down to punt my rump good. Other than my feelings, I was fine but after you get a tattoo from a horseshoe, you don’t view them quite as ‘lucky’ anymore.

On my 2^nd date with the wife, we rode horseback along the craggy California oceanfront plateaus down to the surf when it was still legal to ride the waves with your gelding showing. Sadly the romance was lost upon my bridal to be as she was destined to follow my trusty rental equine ‘Amigo’. You didn’t need to understand any Spanish to know that this raised-tailed, gaseous giant was no FRIEND to any terrestrial body, except maybe a feed-bag of Beano or a flaccid hot air balloon.

The date was appropriately ‘cut’ short as THAT definitely WAS NOT love in the air. I jockeyed the half-ton hairy bag of methane back to the paddock, taking special care to steer clear of open flames and avoid spurring his girth unnecessarily. Though I feared a saddle slide to the side and unpleasant ride, I even loosened the cinch a pinch since I’m no cowboy-Grinch. Worthy of a Remington bronze, what a perfect Western scene that me and my putrid pony made – a fragrant pair of jack-asses; the big one listing left on his broke-back mount n’ the even bigger one misting a whiff off a cliff!