VanGoo Gut

Despite being farm raised, and on really special occasions barn fresh, when it comes to appreciating the fine arts I am in a special class. Oh sure it may be a really LOW class with only 3 pupils counting myself and both eyes, but it’s true I do enjoy all kinds of unique art. Since both of my parents were involved professionally in the arts, it’s no wonder from an early age I developed a honed, high-class AIR of sophistication on the subject - though that may be just the talkin’ broccoli and beans barking.

Sadly my own artistic skills have been more typically limited to the scratching of straight lines along the back of a ruler, but my wife says it irritates her so I try to contain myself. Oh sure I’m a master at blobbing fluorescent paint by the numbers upon fancy black velvet, but as my eyes age it is getting harder to pay homage to the passing of Elvis by reading to black lights in the bathroom. I’m lucky though since I still have at least one artistic outlet that I carry right on the FRONT of the only clean shirt I have left on my back after taxes.

Since I’m naturally clumsy and as a necessity must maintain my road-hugging girth, I am forced to eat at least ten times a day. Don’t worry despite my Yeti dimensions I am health conscious and always demonstrate the ‘split side’ of my personality when Dr. Oz is on by turning my back to the TV, before eating a magazine of Girl Scout cookies and a carafe of cow. Inadvertently however, during my frequent feedings, can I help it if I’m genetically part sow so not all of the colorful chow that I plow actually makes it downtown, but rather ends up on top of my shirt though I don’t know how.  

While a top-drawer gallery is the way most folks get to see the best of abstract expressionism, my artistic dribbles n’ daily drool make it far easier for me, since my canvas-covered abs-sack n’ pecs dresses in ‘em. Yes despite the best that a jug of bleach can leach from my frocks, over time all of my sticky shirts look like unseen smocks from a closet of  the late Jackson Pollock.  Needless to say by day’s end, my fun drum of a ‘tum’ becomes a bit dotted, spotted, and sprayed by colorful food trays and an array of buffets making me truly a classy part of all things ART! 

Dimpled Dilemma

It seems to be a universal truth that dimples define the beholder as being more ‘attractive’ or ‘nicer’ to the outside world. After all doesn’t the movie hero always have a commanding cup in his chin or a pair of charming concaved cheek treats to peek out and greet us upon the silver screen? I too generally believe this theory since newborn babies rarely have told me to ‘get lost’ and only once has an obese dimpled ‘sister’ tossed her cookies n’ tray my way at a ‘Nun Chuck’ Chinese buffet. 

Though most men like me prefer to remain soft, shallow, and dip-free, sitting on a bloated brick of a wallet all day makes my duff and personality, lean to the deeply divoted, distressed and gruff. Who wants to sit and spin repeatedly on a giant leather sandwich short on green ‘lettuce’ but always ready willing and able to dent my DOWNtown dermis. Dimpled darling Shirley Temple never danced with junk in her trunk so why does society hold my hurting heiny up with such calloused disregard and un-pampered expectations.

It’s no wonder guys like me are growly and grumpy by mid-day lunchy since we pack the back of our pants and lean into the large load we lodge under our rumpy. I’m tired of reaching behind me for a pittance of Pesos only to find that one side or the other of ‘Thing 1 and Thing 2’ is usually depressed and unusually blue. Yes it’s high time that my backside moves up to front and center so as to stop being abused and pressured by money-carrying conventions (or double stuffed burritos) and to be recognized for its daily sacrifice. 

What I need is some kind of a ‘man-purse’ to let me carry my lack of loot and shopping plastic around without all the persistent pressure of a ballooning tri-fold lump in my Levi-logoed lederhosen. I’m tired of having some dumb credit card caddy crater my caboose and shadow the natural arcs of my ‘tocks with the marks of dark pocketbook pocks. Hmmm – maybe I can solve this dimpy derrière dilemma simply by invoking my elephantine size combined with my given name? You see I will simply keep all of my cards, photos, and cash handy in a few of my secret nooks, cranny flaps, and doughy-soft overlaps – better known as “BILLfolds”.

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.