Why I’ll never be a keynote speaker

Like many self-flagellating Americans, I have checked in on both mainstream political party conventions. I particularly like the fact that these ‘cirque du DULLe’ spectacles come on late in the evening and save me a lots of coin on ZzzQuil and warm milk. Now honestly, I think it takes a lot of guts to emphatically expel indiscernible grunts  in front of mobs of people wearing weird hats and carrying signs – if you don’t believe me, just ask Frankenstein!

Also don’t get me wrong, I am not afraid of speaking in front of large groups of sweaty, disinterested, and insane people filled with fiery rhetoric, after all I’m still the spokesman for my homeowner’s association. In fact, to my father’s chagrin, my mother was a champion debater in college and spoon-fed me early-on to speak freely with a flavor-laced forked, yet tender, tongue. Once my horns grew in as a 'deviled HAM' , I too was a decent debater in school and grew increasingly comfortable with subjecting others to the horrors of my oratory offerings.

Though despite my incredible aptitude for the platitude, sadly I’ll never be called upon to be a keynote speaker at a dog eat dog political gathering full of howling woofer wonks and squealing tweeter types. Oh sure, just like everyone else with a orotund open orifice of odor and emanations, my reptilian brain has a few right-minded ramblings to relate. But unlike those podium pros you knows, the truth is that I usually tire of listening to myself mutter far more quickly than the floor’s first comfortless cough cracks the calm. 

The truth is I just wouldn’t fit in with these modern talkers anyway. Despite my mirthful musings I still come from a primal time where what I say and the way I say it actually means something and I’m DUTY bound to fulfill my spoken promise. You see I know it is best to leave the ear blithering and bleating to those puerile pointy-headed politicians who strive to show us all so eloquently what ‘sweet nothings’ ACTUALLY sound like when deafening our ears.  Like most folks here in the Midwest, I prefer to put out only my ‘CLEAN’ undies on the clothes line for public display – not the useless ones graphically revealing the transparent holes in ‘em!  

ACT YOUR APE AGE

I despise being predictable so my better half gifted me with an honest to goodness whole-sized hairy ape suit. The wife knows that like most oldsters I’m guilty of being a slave to the mundane, or any Dane for that matter when they don’t keep their HANS to themselves. So she reasoned that this pili present will help me be playfully outrageous and a little ‘OTTER’ than I already am while selfishly shucking shellfish and waiting to die of gout. 

Ok, it’s a little weird but who’s to say my broken down Silverback must act like a grown-up instead of the virile great-ape geezer that I was always meant to be?  These days more than my age is showing since I’ve already crossed over to the dark side looking pretty good wearing bulky black socks with Bermuda shorts – even though they make zipping up for Bingo brunch a bit brutal. So what if I don’t have boundless energy anymore like a jumpy puppy from days gone by? Before this monkey suit, I was practically hairless which means I use less shampoo on the ‘doo’ and still drool better than most grizzled hot dogs built in the same era.

Anyway it’s not all bad; now as an elder I can rudely stare at people with weird piercings  and body art  longer than I should and chalk it up to advancing dementia . Also as compared to when I was in high school, my self-confidence and blood pressure have grown to such a high degree, that I can actually fry eggs on my flat-iron head. My extensive experience with underwear labeling has led me to have ‘no fear’ of placing microwave popcorn bags ‘upside down’ to cook, even though they callously insist ‘this side up’.

The truth is that there are some distinct benefits for knuckle-walkers like me with a first class ticket on the wrinkled troop-train. I do believe with age comes wisdom, though for me the dentist says MINE got tossed  with the four molars he pulled. Clearly my problem is rooted in the fact that as I whither, shrivel, & hunch breathlessly toward ol' ape-age, I’m no longer the top banana and TOO predictable by growing OUT far more than growing up. Good thing though, because what better way to fill-out my Koko Gorilla garb and greet unsuspecting freeway flyers with my newly mastered single finger sign language.

Earthen aWARE

Despite the fact that I live in a dusty hovel, burrowing  ‘mole people’ like myself will never find a good career path in gardening. Oh sure at our local bum-slumber parties, I can dish the dirt with the best of them, or carry my share of the water after a couple of Big Gulps. But sadly, the only way my thumb and other assorted fat n’ hairy parts will ever turn green is if I DYE ‘em and go to necrosis heaven.

Since I used to help grow and manage plants, ‘Produce’ has always been in my vocabulary, except in all truthfulness, those places were of the mechanized variety rather than the organic.  As far as floral arrangements, veggies, and shrubs go though, no matter how hard I’ve tried to learn PISTIL shooting I have never been good in flower beds. Sadly, even the worms won’t trust me with their silk plants or sheets until I pony up a capful of Mulberry wine as a worthy bribe for their time and attention.

You see when I was a kid, my Hillbilly parents’ bad JEANS along with those silver spoons they gave me as a rattle, obviously made me allergic to four letter dirty words like ‘hard’, ‘yard’, & ‘work’.  Clearly my nicknames of ‘Bull’ and ‘Dozer’, have more to do with how I lie and snore since making the earth move has never been my strong suit. I guess I need to call a spade a spayed and accept that regardless of how many blisters I suffer from shoveling, I’ll never make it as a good gardener, politician, or veterinarian.

Yeah, digging holes should be left to picky professionals like nature’s woodpeckers and those brawny top-drawer landscapers with hemorrhoids. Tan-less larvae like me have an obligation to step-up and make our own sacrifices for society by testing soft recliners, cool air conditioning, and sweet tea - right? So what if I’m not ‘earthy’ and my only groundbreaking achievement is pulverizing concrete when I walk across it?  At least this way I can still CRACK something up without trying to be somebody that I’m not, like a funny crash test dummy or a belt-less portly plumber!

Eau du Loterie

Despite what your local state might spout, playing the lottery is not exactly a smart investment choice. Yeah I know supposedly the money goes to schools and of course there is nothing wrong with sticking a quick pick tick in your sock for a special occasion. But remember even if your talcumed tootsies are extra minty fresh, no matter how the odds appear to nod, the true motto of the lotto is definitely NOTTO! 

Instead of having NO CHANCE to win I prefer to take a gamble on life’s little lotteries that seem to pop up every day. You know the ones, where the local fast food chain will let you play some lame game to win a ‘buy one get one’ burger or fries for free. Oh sure you scoff now, but how many times have you put a buck down on the state lottery and DOUBLED your money – worse still, even with BBQ sauce those rub-off tickkies aren’t too tasty.

I also noticed that even Lay’s, the potato chip people have a million dollar prize for simply suggesting a new flavor combo idea for their crisps. Now believe me, this is the kind of lottery that I should have in the BAG! I have spent years out-sizing belts and blowing buttons to research the best flavored snack foods so imagine my delight in the thought of possibly getting PAID back in something other than empty calories.

So while weekly 50 million folks fixate on their springy ping pong power balls and weave dreams and high hopes that their days are TRULY numbered, I will be enjoying an even better combo of crispy chips and a sensational salty opportunity of my own. Yeah I know the odds are still against me since it's doubtful that the Fates and haters will ever truly appreciate my 'baked bean n' egg flavored 'taters'. Don't worry though, my feelings won't get hurt. Like ALL lotteries after playing, it's not the bad taste that they leave in your mouth - it's just that they all STINK!

Crabby Cabbie Commentary

In my world traveling would be the perfect form of recreation if  I did not have to go anywhere. Now I know that sounds strange, but think about it – everyone likes a nice hotel room, a day at the beach, or a chance to see a famous museum, but it is the getting there that is the pain. Who wants to get up early to have some handsy TSA agent examine your crack of dawn and fondle your pits n’ olives after paying $30 to ride in the back of some dingy yellow cab to get there. I don’t even like riding in my own smelly dirty car so why would I ever enjoy paying for that privilege in somebody else’s?

After 50 years of cabbies and chauffeurs why can’t I find somebody reasonably ‘normal’ to hustle my muscle and load my lard around? I think I must exude some kind of attractant from my numb skull to my  hammered toes that smells like bacon and is JUST as good for you. Doesn’t anyone who drives a truck, bus, car, or limo for a living look or sound like my parents or even their parents for that matter? Who makes up this alien amalgam that is spawning these ‘drivers of the corn’ covered in hair, cologne, tattoos, or all three in ample quantity.

Don’t get me wrong, I DO respect these folks if for no other reason than the fact that they will let me ride around in their vehicles any time of day, no matter how sweaty, gassy, or a glassy-eyed I am. I just think it is weird that some of these dudes look so scary, talk too much, too little, or not at all.  You would think in a job where you interact with the public regularly, it would demand a somewhat subdued and standard image which people other than gang-members & the Manson family can relate to.

Then again maybe I am being too superficial and judgmental . After all I can only chuckle at the fearful recoil my wolf-like gate and gorilla physique have struck into mere mortals when I’m wild eyed and in search of an unoccupied airport restroom after one too many Big Gulps. Hmmm, maybe that’s the REAL reason for my Cabbie conundrum – they all should all be driving ‘Porta Potties’ instead of taxis – though honestly, at least in my experience, I’m not sure I could even tell the difference!