Scrambled Egghead

Even though my family members have successfully proven to the world that they are considerably smarter than I am, given enough time I’m planning eventually to be an egg-head too. No I’ll probably never know complicated math or be able to do crossword puzzles without adding in a few extra black squares to fit MY solutions. But fortunately, time is on my side since every day nature takes my soft n’ boiled noodle one step closer to naked noggin nirvana. 

Overall I’ve had a good relationship with my follicle fur and we usually have remained friends through thick and THIN (though recently our times together have tended toward the latter). When I was younger my fuzzy filaments did not always do my bidding or act the way I preferred, but what teenager ever listens to its guardian so it was understandable that whenever we parted ways, grease was ultimately involved. I guess I have been lucky overall since most of my life I’ve had ample hair raising’ close calls even though they usually concerned curly cowlicks and bed-head lasting impressions rather than any actual downy danger.  

As I age though, I have begun to notice that I am spending less and less quality time with my old and gray shock of locks, and it’s clear we are heading for ‘splits-ville’. Even my hats don’t want much to do with me any longer and seem to use any excuse to abandon my shiny dimpled dome, though that may be just the sweaty ski-slope n’ sunblock up top talking.  The good news is that with every hair that I share and shed in my travels helps me lose weight and better yet conveniently distributes confusing DNA evidence in case I’m ever accused of a CAPital crime.

Clearly my scrambled ‘Mount Baldy’ with all that new found fresh air circulating when bare, will finally give my soft spot a sure shot at inviting  true EGGHEAD envy from my bookish friends and family whiz-wits. Yes, respect surely will be mine as I continue to exhibit evidence of my advancing age by putting my wisdom-laden exposed lobes prominently on display for all to buff for luck like the belly of a laughing Buddah. No on second thought probably not, since sadly I already tingle way too much there since I admit, the only legal briefs I have ever opened, cinch too snugly under my slacks and when I sit, cut-off far too much blood to the brain!

A Sucker for Silverware

Despite all their shiny, pointy, and HANDy parts, surprisingly I’m not a fan of the silverware drawer. Being a simple one cell phone organism like myself makes eating already complicated enough without all of the rules associated with directing soup scoopers, tinny tines, and serrated blades toward food. I prefer to paw and gnaw through piles of leftovers rather than perch formally in a proper high-brow dining room, dabbing a cloth napkin to my goo-graced face.

Maybe my problem is that I just don’t understand what all those chrome-colored food tools really do for me other than dare me to stare at the glare over dinner? Let’s face it a small fork usually can do the job of a long one and a huge spoon will twist my tea twice as nice as those junior-sized dudes do. While I understand why loons like me don’t get to touch ANY knives at all, you would think if that silverware table-twins is a rule, dinner hosts should break out both a short and long blades for safe n’ sane folks too.

I think the flies and butterflies probably have got the right idea when it comes to consuming food. There is no need to dabble with a paddle in soup or stab a slab of meat with a fork for sustenance. In fact sadly for me, there probably isn’t even a need to longingly linger over fattening finger-foods for fun when all that I really require for a tasty treat is a built in STRAW in my face.

So you can keep your fancy-dancy flowery runners, mats, and dynamic duos of glistening stainless steel flatware at the formal dinner table. Yes, like my closest insect relatives, I have ‘seen the light’ and have decided give-up spooning and throwing knives at meal-time by giving-in to my moth-eaten instincts.  From now on when it comes to formal dinner parties, I promise to stop complaining and seeing double in the stainless – instead I will get with the program and simply ‘SUCK it up’!

Bacon for Turkeys

I have not gotten sucked up into the bacon craze mostly because the real stuff is nearly $5 per pound now. Who can afford to buy or eat a sub-class of meat that is veined with about 75% of fat in the strip and 100% fat in the head of those who buy it. Now don’t get me wrong, just like everyone (except for my wife), I love the taste of some skillet piglet poached in its own juices, I just can’t afford to eat it in more ways than one.

On occasion I will indulge in the turkey strips which are colored to LOOK like a piece of real bacon in drag since we all know what the stuff is trying to be even if it never quite fits the bill.  I still can see the fat draining out of the turkey version but at least there is something comforting about a piece of  flaccid fatty meat that will lay flat instead of curl up and writhe in pain in the pan. Admittedly I think the taste of the ’ fake-on’ has gotten better and at least a little more appealing than those nasty red soy bits, that I shake on my buffet salads.

I started to wonder if turkeys are OK with some of their brethren posing as pigs for profit? I mean isn’t carrying a false ID or passport still a crime in this country, so why do turkeys get a pass to suddenly get to strip n’ swing with the swine?  Believe me just because I was raised by wolves and have been called a turkey more times than I like to admit, I don’t think I am yet ready to embrace my inner pig too.

The good news is that I have a single fist-sized tomato growing on a vine this year. Oh sure it’s still green but it matches my skills as a farmer so we’re even. I figure if I’m lucky enough to corner a herd of turkeys shaped like bacon in the yard, I will be two thirds of the way to a tasty BLT for lunch.  Now if I can just convince the crabgrass to look and taste a little more like lettuce – YUM! 

Pathetic Pillow Case

I know hospital orderlies and hotel maids seem to have figured it out well enough to keep their jobs, but despite being drawn to drool, I’m still clearly pillowcase challenged. Kind of like gas tanks, logically there should always be a tad more room to top-off, but I never can decipher the secret to stuffing  my fat sacks unless we’re talking about socks n’ snacks. The softer and loftier the contents, the worse it is to puff up enough, and NO I’m not talking about my king-sized graying goose-down dome and easily cracked eggshell ego.

First off I don’t think racking and packing crummy pillows should be harder than shoveling yummy bread crumbs into the business end of turkeys for Sunday chow. Why don’t those stupid softies just drop into place easily without tools like batteries in a flashlight? I am sick of trying to cajole frustratingly flaccid cranium cushions into their spit bibs without the aid of a shoehorn and a paint-shaker.

Oddly I never seem to have a problem stuffing ballot boxes or padding invoices especially when I sit on ‘em with the cushion of my tush’n. Apparently my expertise at cramming my caboose into crowded Chinos doesn’t directly translate to handling high thread count cushy linens. Usually with a liberal coating of Crisco and a few minutes in the hot sun, I can slide my hide into almost anything, but pig-headed pillows refuse my persuasions no matter how politely their prodded.

Even though my wife is an expert pillow-pusher, she doesn’t lord her soft skills over my pathetic lack of tough puff-primping prowess and fragile pride. Of course she probably would prefer if like most folks, I could finesse the foam with a little less force and a little more form, but she knows that I have honed and toned other skills which make her life more interesting. You see beyond the cliché killing of bugs, without me, who else would be ready, willing, and able anytime to FILL-up her giant car with GAS for free . . . too bad it’s usually right after a really big beef and Frito green bean burrito!

Not So Hot Dog

Since I am so classy I’m not usually one to make ‘fun’ of other people’s names or business no matter how tempting. This is primarily due to societal survival since my own last name is routinely associated with the smell of burnt wood and nasty CAMPsite crescent-moon commodes, filled with a ‘dunny’-pit brews of wonder. Apparently however this New York mayoral wanna-be all-beef candidate Anthony Weiner, LOVES making news and putting himself out there (literally), so who am I to reject such a generous train wreck of a gift?

What drives a guy like this toward politics anyway rather than a less public but more honorable profession such as a street-corner sausage mascot. If you were lucky enough to have this ‘turkey-dog’s’ last name wouldn’t it make good marketing sense to become a Dachshund breeder or invest in a portable biz like a Nathan’s hot dog cart outside a Home Depot instead? Oh c’mon doesn’t everyone want to pound this guy with a hammer before tarring and feathering him with eggs and flour - ‘cause we all know he’d make a better schnitzel than a politician right?

Maybe I’m just old fashioned but I prefer my politicians to show the masses how stupid they are with their policies or debate performances rather than text messages to convey their un-zippered agenda. Oh sure everybody wants better fitness for our youth but trying to win voters over one at a time by sending pix of a leaner Weiner to constituents half his age doesn’t seem to be a very efficient campaign strategy. Maybe I’m too harsh on ‘der Weiner’ since he obviously wants to set a good example by NOT showing his texting prowess while driving, instead preferring the privacy of his privy for pointed politicking. 

Obviously all those nitrates, artificial coloring, and fat have gone to wrong pinched-end of the former Congressman making him a not so hot dog commodity these days in New York and nationwide. It was a self-fulfilling prophecy all along since with ‘Danger’ as a texting alter-ego didn’t Weiner’s buns and onion breath expect a ‘CHILI’ reception from voters? In my opinion the press and public need to ‘relish’ in their ‘rolls’ by grilling the Weiner longer (preferably on beach weekends and 3-day holidays). If the‘wanna-be’  misguided mishugenah mayor won’t reveal the truth with a better clandestine moniker like ‘Curly’, ‘Kraut’, or ‘Foot-long’, then clearly he can’t be trusted with the public’s BUSINESS either.