Royal Baby WAIT

Yes the civilized Brits are excitedly waiting with Branston baited breath to see the birth of a new Royal runt soon, but c’mon I don’t get all the colicky fuss. Let’s face it no matter how you revile the tiles, unless the Scrabble babble turns into a ‘battle royal’ your word-score is still only gonna’ be  9 points. Only if the tot’s got three 6’s on its soft spot, regardless of sex or how much royal treatment it garners, it’s STILL just a goo-goo goop-machine to me.

So soon enough the Duke (formerly known as Prince) and Duchess are going to be in need of a few HUGgies when they heir their dirty laundry in public for the first time. Since the arrival of this blue-blooded famous fetus is so highly anticipated, I assume nobody wants the tot delivered by Royal Mail since at best it will be very late or at worst never arrive at all. Stateside the only truly rich ‘Royals’ happen to be a lackluster hapless n’ bat-less baseball team and a box of tasty choco puddin’ - both of which can be easily BEATEN with milk. 

Hey but I too was gifted with a high brow heritage and un-earned praise from loving parents who knew my true future claim to fame would be the ‘royalest’ of pains. I’ve tried like the ‘Dickens’ to live up to my folk’s Great Expectations but unfortunately  despite my love of the theater, red velvet, and fab Freddie’s  Mercury I’ll never become Queen Latifah.  Luckily I still have a little lyin’ left in me and an outside shot at King; but it all really depends on if I’ve got the royal jewels to snag a catsup-covered cardboard crown from a burger joint and ‘double decker’ all my checkers. 

Oh who am I kidding nobody except for my wife cares that I habitually stick out my pinkie finger when I say ‘Howdy’ to high tea or a highball. Clearly no matter how much I try, I’m still ignorant of long standing old world traditions across the pond, probably because I primarily make it my mission to sit most of the time. You see around my dungeon-less crab castle after I’m dealt a big chili-mac snack and draw a deep desire for a royal flush, it’s smarter to have fewer people waiting in line for the throne rather than a full house! 

Golf ABC's

My wife plays golf in a league, so on occasion I will accompany her to the driving range where she can spend some quality time with the white dimpled sphere atop my shoulders as well as those at the end of her clubs. I usually hit a few balls too and of course expertly coach her on all I know about slicing shots out of bounds into the trees and hooking professionally. Obviously my ‘caddie’ comments and use of ‘Wite-out’ to disguise range balls’ red stripes for regular tournament play, clearly shows that her handicaps are LARGE, both at home as well as on the course.

The spouse seems to appreciate my excellent driver discipline since I yell at every club in the bag when they make careless mistakes regardless of how nicely I address them. Being cave-raised has its bat-benefits, but it makes one ill-prepared to stare at the sun in search of little rocket-launched balls while dodging skeeters, cart-geezers, and my wife’s dirty looks. So soon enough she tires of my persistent putter muttering and sends me off to sweep cat treats out of the sand traps and perfect my Zen garden raking readiness. 

Of course venturing so far into nature, away from the protections of my house-bound pen carries a certain amount of risk, especially for those un-lucky enough to view my knobby knees in a pair of plaid shorts. Apparently insects however find my CROTCHety crevices and dewy exposed skin an irresistible puffy pin cushion draw, despite death as discipline for the price of admission. Yes I seem to be a big bloated beacon begging to be browbeaten, by every bug, bird, or unidentified orb that dives n’ flies through the air in search of a sample of a salty simp. 

But alas the tables are truly turned on my buzzing brethren when they dare flare for touch-down anywhere near my face for a taste. Just like my much wiser human acquaintances, a sad driving range bee discovered this windy weekend that it’s best to steer clear of any orifice of mine that is frequently flapping. Don’t worry though, despite the temptation I didn’t bear down on the black n’ yellow fellow and make him face the ‘grind’; I simply shot the drool-drizzled dude out in a warm wad of my own ‘nectar’ as a warning of what fate awaits Any Bee I Cee.

In Depends Day

Ok I admit it I am a bit of a ‘pyro’ pirate at heart so Independence Day always enlightens my life and makes me long for a fuse more days a year to love the smell of gunpowder in the morning. I do miss my old black powder musket and eye patch that made opening a safety deposit box at the bank, or boarding a Caribbean cruise ship so much more fun on Halloween. The sad thing is that as I have gotten older, my younger trailer-neighbors have a certain expectation that we ‘geezers’ aren’t to be trusted with matches around a BBQ heaping with oily charcoal, much less bottle rockets, smoke bombs, and firecrackers to light up the night sky. 

Hey I still know what ‘Lady Fingers’ are REALLY for, so that’s why I never object to the wife lighting my fire especially under the water heater or those silly pump-up camping stoves. Just because I happen to have the initials B.C., enjoy fatty Caesar salads and dine nightly by exploding candles doesn’t mean I was born in ancient Rome. No I'm not so ‘Nero’ to death yet; I’m lucky to have been hatched in more civilized times where ‘stabbing someone in the back’ or blowing up pressure cookers in ‘Publius’ only happens in the bad' sections of our bottom of the bird-worthy news rag.

So now at July 4^th celebrations, all the young whippersnappers get to goose the good stuff while I  guess I’m the gray geezer relegated to portray the lunk with the pre-lit punks for everyone else’s ‘double-FLINT’ pleasure. You would think that oldsters as ripe as me would benefit from bathing more often in a ‘Fountain of Youth’, though showering under sparks regularly wreaks havoc with my grizzled sideburns, nested nostril, and wild eyebrow hair. Apparently the younger set believes no open flames equals ‘no harm’, though from personal experience, being branded by hot fudge or shot with an air gun south of the equator would change their tune up an octave or two. 

Anyway, what do today’s coddled kids, and even their parents REALLY know about our nation’s fiery history and the prideful heritage of our Incontinent-al Congress.  I bet none of them have ever had to even make fire when the chips are down or wherever else gravity takes ‘em in a pair of elastic plastic old people pants.  All I know is at my age you get pretty good at going independently about your business all day long so lighting matches becomes second nature, even though it DEPENDS if the nosy neighbors are nearby or not.

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!