Minty Fresh ‘BLAHG’ idea

My mind might be a little SCROOGED up but I am curious why we send greeting cards ‘en masse’ only on Christmas.  It’s not as if there is anything else going on in December that requires lots of attention, so why not add phonebooks of correspondence into the milieu too? After all, like a fat man’s pants, most folks love stress and somewhere in the bible it says ‘thou shalt prop up the post ‘O’ doesn’t it?

I mean why should I feel compelled to save up and wait to reveal the fact that I stubbed my tootsies in February when December is so far away. I am sure all of my friends, family, and fungi should be on a need to know TOE basis and are anxiously waiting updates on such vivid and meaningful details about my Cajun blackened feet. Why not send a batch of personalized Post-its about my piggies on Columbus day, Daylight savings day, or most apropos - GroundHOG day too so I can keep Hallmark happy all year long.

Let’s face it, the one or two people and free range farm animals on my ‘nice’ list are probably already aware that I ‘think of them’ often, and the ‘naughty’ rest will either hear from me after parole or from my obituary. I’m not anti-Christmas as much as I am ‘anti-glue’ on the backs of those pasty faced greeting card envelopes. Have you ever tried to swallow a ‘sammie’ after licking 100 nasty fragrant flaps with a minty tinge – ‘white BRED’ lips  n’ toothpaste though comical, are not my best feature nor a savory snack.

 

Too bad there is no way to elope from the “ ‘lope” and send regular greetings  with worthless personal details daily all year long to people I don’t remember or know what I’m talking about. If only somebody had a great idea of how to instantly communicate WITHOUT all the paperwork and tongue gumming of paper and pen. Ahh who am I kidding, such a utopian ideal is just a pipe dream for eggheads who keep their Faces in Books or Twitter on ceaselessly about some new fresh ‘blah blah’ blog they read – it’ll never happen!

 

Irritating Rare Breed

Unlike most vampires I don’t mind dropping in on the dentist now and then so they can concentrate on my calculus , keep an eye on my incisors, and take a turn at all the gum-numbing I can earn. A steady diet of carbonated beverages, black coffee, and Starburst FRUITY candy have not only taken a toll on my breath, but have also made all three of my hillbilly cuspids ‘BI’ too. You would think those oral orifice laureates would actually look lovingly toward my lap-landings since my bottom of the barrel ‘B.M.’ ( big mouth) has paid for so many of their top of the drawer B.M.W.’s 

I try to give ‘em a linty hint that I’m in need of serious attention by wearing my shoes with the holes in the toes and my greasy fleeced freeloader frock. Of course when your whole ‘dirty mouth’ business model is built around leaving creatures like me unattended with x-rays, water, and electricity for extended periods of time, explosions and expletives should be expected. It is perfectly natural that when a boy attains a certain age, he has a healthy curiosity of what buttons need to be pushed and played with when he is left alone on a throne.

Can I help it if all that high tech gear hooked up to the dental dip’s electric chair attracts me like a mountain of moth larvae at a wool convention? It’s not that I look forward to a lengthy tongue lashing from my dentist, it’s just why leave someone alone with a mirror and a high intensity light if you don’t want them to use it? I think the inmates in the tooth-cubicle next-over rather appreciate the levity of my shadow puppet plays over the Doc’s phlegmy fingers any day. 

What kind of dental hygiene hijinks is it gonna’ take to earn a CROWN or at least a standing fluoridation from my dentist, FLOSSING? – yeah like anyone really tugs tendrils through their tusks! My sacrifices and dedication to these tooth-slayers  to improve their fistula FUNdamentals  should have already earned me a double shot of Scope on the rocks or at least a bigger spit-bib by now. After all anyone can expect to be sore after a trip in for dental care, but it’s a rare breed indeed who can guarantee to make it even MORE of an irritating stint for the DENTIST.

Underwear for everything BUTT ...

Oh sure I understand the importance of keeping one’s rump roasty and toasty by doubling up on the undies when it’s cold outside but what about the rest of me? I guess my thighs and gut can get chilled to the bone at times, but believe me there is a lot of flab to stab through before a dropping thermometer can get anywhere near my big hollow bones. I’m more worried about my baby bird-sized body parts that are small and can fall off unexpectedly while climbing Mount Everest like the toes, ears, and nose.

Even beyond that weird waffled outer underwear, I can also buy fleeced SWEATS too for extra added warmth over the typical total of my torso.  So why doesn’t somebody make sweats to help protect my phalanges and proboscis or is the thought of my sweaty feet and nose in a RUNNING suit an image best suited for my psych-ward roomies? I don’t understand why I have to double up the pleasure on socks when I already do that with gum – isn’t it just easier to MAKE a double-thick sock to begin with and then double up on shoes if I’m still cold?

I think the problem is, that all of these stupid cold-weather clothes are made in third-world jungle countries where they only have two seasons – HOT and HUMID. Of course none of the panty-wastes in these steamy factories ever thinks about loosely layering loin cloths when the one they have already promotes  too much mushroom multiplication. These cotton jockeys probably falsely believe that most folks also needs ear muffs with ice packs or efficacious fans attached to glasses so noses can BLOW themselves anytime they want.

Apparently the real answer is that the world needs a topsy turvy BOTTOM up revolution in tighty whitey production. Let’s shake up those ‘leo-retarded’ corporate underwear giants and expose their low hanging fruit to the looms  n’ tunes of the disenfranchised cold, short and shriveled. Why should nostrils flair in icy air or our wiggly digits, both North and South, continually suffer without a buffer. Yes it’s time to find an indie undie manufacturer that is truly willing to expose cold ‘cretonnes’ like myself, and ALL of our too blue body bits beyond the big ones, to a new true, BOXER rebellion.

Twinkgiving Tirade

What’s wrong with those puffy pastry-bakers over at Hostess – how can they turn their backs on my genuine need to feed the holes in my face with the Twinkie of my eye? Apparently ‘flour power’ doesn’t mean what it used to those ‘oven MITT-WITTS’ as they refuse to bake me up batches of boring ol’ tan-less Twinks anymore. Doesn’t anyone appreciate the fact that my pasty puff-pastry face needs care and  stuffing ceaselessly to support its parade-balloon proportions?

While I am a traditionalist at heart, this Thanksgiving I’ve decided to forego the farm fresh gobblers or bone-in spiral cut n’ glazed piggy parts. Don’t worry, I am still thankful for all those feathered and burly beasties that provide the beautiful bounty for my holiday table (the corner-store clerks). But this year given the threat of a snack cake conundrum looming over us all by those Twinkie Grinch-twits, I felt it necessary to craft a few confection inflections on my own.

Yes once again the heavy lifting of light-weight cooking is left to me - the consumer, and since I do constantly CONSUME, I decided to ‘spice’ up my own Twinkie trials with a happy mix of golden brown gingerbready batter. Sure I had to lighten up the mood of the food with some folded in whipped egg whites and a generous injection of mallow-laced melanin-free cream to taste. But other than that and a handy pan that I jammed in the band of my pants during a Hostess factory tour, I simply toasted the tubular Twinks to a typical time and temperature.

Of course in my own Twinkie defense, as an unaware and youthful Yeti I got accidentally left back by my school bus on that fateful bake shop tour, so I definitely deserved to be PANNED with that super duper greasy souvenir. See it’s really true then, even if Hostess tries to deny most of us, YOU can still have your T-cakes and eat ‘em too. Just spend lots o’ dough on batter and coax some caloric igloo-goo from a tasty pastry bag, and oh yeah just like those bakery boobs at Hostess – wander around aimlessly in your own world, jobless and LEFT BEHIND! 

Burger Bum’s Bad Rap

When I shuffle up to a burger joint, occasionally I may go for a salad or soda, but it is probably a safe bet that MOST of the time, I’m looking to be ‘burgerfied’ in a big meaty way and am in need of a beast of a grease feast. Of course if I want a burpy burrito I will bridle one up and ride it to the Bell and if Pizza is in season I might gas up my gut with a trip to the Hut! So recently when my wife and I ventured into the land of the Whopper for my replacement paper crown, we were stunned to find this particular fast food cow kingdom beef-less and patty-free.

Really, no burgers at a burger joint – what have I done to receive such a Royal pain; is this some kind of juiced-up jocular jesters idea of a joke? I knew we couldn’t really be in the Twilight zone because it was pitch black outside and a few zombies zealots were still in line with me in search of fresh meat. I guess I can imagine running out of napkins, ketchup packets or those buns with the sesame seeds which stick to your lips, but when the product is not only featured on the menu but also on the giant 4 story sign outside too, how can you run out of THAT stuff? 

Ultimately bound for our buns, we had to settle for tepid ‘orangeish’ ovoid patties and tasteless breaded nuggets that smelled REAL ‘chicken-y’ but tasted far more like the scoop in the coop. Mmmm, nothing spells sanguine dining satisfaction like pale pressed chicken paste, form-fit to a dry hunk of bread n’ lettuce, all glued together with a squirt of day-old mayo does it? Thank goodness for the gallon jug of Kung Pao goo that we ordered too, which excites alive even the dullest of tounge-buds with an Asian taste sensation.

Oh no don’t worry my high-brow secret identity is not in crisis and my rumpled bum- tum will most certainly live on to see far beefier burgers and even a few real chicken parts in the near future. I don’t claim to be a snobby food critic, nor was this dining experience typical, especially since I do most of my truly elegant eating out of an alley vending machine BETWEEN the bus-stop and the corner 7-11. Though, thanks to new age preservatives, at least THERE I always know EXACTLY what form my nutrition will take … a satisfying ‘lickable’ Twinkie imprint or crumb defiantly stuck to the waxy cardboard and industrial plastic packaging.