Sock & Awe

Since I am not known to appreciate the allure of  shoes or the stumps I dump in them, it is only fitting that I make up for my foot ‘fret-ish’ by spending lots of quality time with SOCKS instead! It’s odd that my cotton clod-hopper toppers and I are such good pair-pals, especially since I spend so much time ‘spinning wool’ and looking for half of the whole, asunder with wonder far UNDER the dryer. But nope, I respect those knitted toe holders as my last line of defense between life’s awfully rough road of unpleasantness and official membership in my tribe as a calloused Blackfoot-ed blood-brother. 

  

I used to prefer plain old white socks but soon I noticed that they all end up grey anyway, so I might as well TOE the line and buy them that way. Yes, with just a quick shot of Pledge on the bottom of my treads I can wander the halls in search of dust bunnies and other floating fauna on-a my FLOOR-a. Of course just like any job which values my bipedal skills over my bisected bird brain, I’ll ‘drag my feet’ but still put my heart and SOUL into the work as a wHOLE-ly inspirational experience. 

Hey who’s kidding who, I can’t pull the WOOL over your eyes since there’s too few ewe left to shave after trying to cover up my two fleshy feet-meat favs. Nobody dusts just for fun but everyone DISGUSTS some so that’s why my best boffo socko specialty is usually kept under wraps! Believe me, I’m aware that with the ripening power of those brown-spotted sock monkeys so low below, harnessing the sweet stench of awesome responsibility with linty digits goes ‘jam’ in hand.

So whether my fleeced flippers need it or not, I do try to HOSE most of the toes with Dr. Scholl’s at least once a month. Except of course for my oh SEW close-knit plane-mates and TSA travel twits, whose proximity and demeanor sometimes bring out the ‘argyle’ Hyde side of my checkered past. For those UN-lucky few who displease I’m not responsible if they wheeze n’ sneeze as I tease, since I always reserve the right to unleash an AIR of hostility from my ‘sneaker-snoods’ Sock and Awe’ noxious ability. 

Serial Whiner

Around this hovel you’ll usually need a shovel, to spoon feed my wife and I through an overflowing sluice trencher brimming with dry cereal and a cold milk drencher. Yes it is not unusual for us to have more than a half dozen boxes of the grainy puffs n’ stuff open, willing, and able to glint upon our eyes, bellies and table. My wife is content with the ritual as she cycles through the brands and flavors daily but I’m not, since I still wanna’ know what happened to all the cool swag hidden inside my cereal bag? 

At least these ‘cereal murderers’ could provide ‘something’ other than dehydrated fake fruit bits  and crunchy 'un-nuts' to dive for and give me a real ‘RAISIN’ for ‘digging’. Who in the ‘whole grain’ do these high n’ mighty Weetabix TRIXsters think they are dealing with, by stealing my morning Pep pin inducement to ‘granola’ out of bed every sunrise. Here’s a ‘news flash’ for the fiber freaks and ultra-tan bran fan types - that ‘Special K’ pap is not so special without the wrapped ‘K’RAP nestled down deep between the cello sheets.

Though it should take a frosted flake like me to know one, I am at a loss to guess who keeps going through the cereal behind my back and leaving me up a Battle Creek without an injection molded prize of a paddle. There are only so many days an overgrown nut n’ his honey can go without a colorful decoder ring or baking soda submarine to soften the world of hurt delivered in black and white by the morning paper. Despite the fact that I am a big supporter of the MILK-itary I am sad to say I have narrowed down the thief responsible to likely a high ranking officer - either General Mills or Cap’n Crunch! 

Sorry to complain, the sugar sprinkled wrinkles of my pebble sized brain obviously have become a tad flax-taxed by spending so much time poking around for a morning treat to beat Franken’s berries and Lucky’s lackluster charms. After a half century I know it’s time to grow up and start making healthier food choices for breakfast anyway. That’s why I vow to start seeking cereal’s wisest prizes with at least two FRUITS daily on my spoon starting with a big ol’ bowl of GRAPE Nuts mixed with APPLE Jacks!

Twin Pack Flack

Surprisingly for a double-sized ‘Duh-dult’ with a brain twice as nice as most service monkeys, I detest duos, dynamic or otherwise.  Don’t get your side by side stroller in a twist ‘cause I’m not picking-on your precious mammalian midget offspring and their nasty nostrils or other un-holey pairs of parts. Oh sure I may get the night sweats now and again from the specter of twin kidlet ghosts like those in the Shining or the pale ale Olsen girl bookends, but I genuinely bear more despair with the way stuff in my kitchen is pushed by the pair.

It frustrates me regularly that my toaster mocks me with two gaping slice-slots when often around this dump a single heel-hole would be more apropos. Obviously if I am already ‘heating for two’ then I had better brown n’ butter up both halves of that fork-split bun-muffin right? Pop Tarts seem to be in on the gag too due to their double dose of cardboard calories captured in every self-destructing inner foil bag. I must always sucCRUMB to their ransom demands to double down now rather than later or risk telling a classic POEtic tale of the too-stale tart.

I also think I’m through with that Little Debbie dip too since true it’s her cellophane smile that I rue along with her tasty twin-trapped treats packed two by two. Let’s face it, not even Curious George REALLY needs a second Banana Twin just to freshen his breath or become more ‘a-PEEL-ing” to that dude in the yellow hat. Anyway far fatter and less curious primates like myself can’t afford sumptuous snack packs times two stuffed with goo, since it already takes an abnormally long tong to keep me from mounting my Kong-thong on wrong over my ample sponge cakes.

So keep your Doublemint gum to yourself and pass EITHER the salt or pepper but not both. It’s high time I learned to fly to the fridge solo and slap the back of the twin pack goodbye or at least say adieu to the woo of the food deux voodoo. Anyway who says two heads are better than one . . . unless of course you have an uncontrollable urge to take two peas in a pod!

Guaca Talka

Despite the awful name for a dip which sounds more like something the cat coughed up rather than a delicacy, ‘Guacamole’ is a fav-flavor to savor around our scullery! Though I ordinarily have found it practical policy to avoid eating anything bean green and gooey, I guarantee I’ll never knock a tip-topa ‘guaca’. Yep you can keep your wimpy red dips n’ chips ‘cause as long as I can butter up my corny crunchers with the ‘cado, a festive and culturally sensitive ‘OLE!’ will always be my motto.

I know given my propensity to rebuff bunches of soft n’ brown bananas makes it hard to believe that avocados decorated in the same dark n’ dreary shade could ever make the cut. After all who wants a salad bowl full of creamy goo in full view which clearly looks chewed.  Happily between a twist of lemon and a dunk of the nut in the guck, the resulting electric green mashing stays table fresh and rather dashing. 

Oh sure life can get a bit better by soaking the green butter batter in a hot swig of salsa too. That spicy shot of verde is just the thing needed to unleash the wild side from my dumpy black ‘Avo’s personality and get my brain a humming. But beware of sucking up too much of this gut-bubbly mix before bedtime because if careless there will be a lot more than your ‘creative juices’ furiously flowing long on to the yawn of dawn.

So if you ‘HASS’ a little time and can find a few leftover Doritos crumbs in the couch, don’t forget to make more of an effort to know the oh-so-holy ‘Mole’ grail. Respect the lowly avocado because simply by shunning the sink, it can turn you green around the gills without having to work that nasty worm out of a bottle. Remember only true DIPS like me talk and hawk Guaca lots since it takes real guts to consume Kermit colored cuisine that looks EXACTLY the same prior, during, and AFTER consumption!

Gallery Gripes

I always thought galleries were for untouchable things like fancy paintings and sculptures of nekkid stuff that I never get to ordinarily see without a chaperone or a mirror. Why is it then, every stupid mattress and furniture joint who tries to sell overpriced polished n’ processed pine tree tables, and soft tops for beds label themselves a gallery? Who would buy a haughty hunk of wood to put next to your big puff n’ overstuffed ‘Sleep Number’ mattress if it’s ‘too terrific to touch or leave a water ring on either one of them?

How can I afford these high-brow furnishings anyway unless I break into my life savings glued under my hobo-hammock in a locked-box spring. Who knows, maybe the value of these ‘top drawer’ trappings is in the bed thread spun from 1000 count silken Egyptian skivvies; or possibly it’s that hard to make fancy footboard since calloused artisans always seem to put their ‘SOLES’ into their work. As far as I can tell though, the only thing that differentiates the price of the posh pads from my classy cot is an embellished embroidered cover, and the fact that my roll-a-way’s ‘ergo-WRONG-mics’ tend to disturb my bowling ball from its Brunswick slumber when I bound into bed.

if only I could get past both the yellow tags and the stains on Goodwill’s mattress bin,  I surely could find some MITEY fine bed bug buys at a bargain price, or at the very least an oversized plastic bag to play in. Oh sure the stuff hawked by those snobby spring-thing dandy dealers  at the mall smell a little fresher, but to be truly worthy of a gallery exhibition I think somebody famous should have expired on the ‘flattress’ first - or at least they should’ve been eating something expired. To the sales gurus credit though, I’ve heard that the memory foam carcass-cushions really do work; since you’ll never forget their sky-high prices  and will always remember that soft spot the salesman so smoothly shoved his ‘FUTON’ up to get you to buy.  

Hmmm on second thought instead of a bed, to save some ‘Green’, I guess I could always pound down a patch of it out on the lawn or commune with a trampoline as a bouncy bunk for bedtime. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not knocking new bedding booty – it’s just that jungle bums like me usually find our sleep-time creature comforts in parks, landfills, and under overpasses. That strategy seems to work just fine for the ducks, deer, and bear … uh as long as they don’t wander into one of those expensive, high pressure arcade galleries – of the SHOOTIN’ kind!