I could 'Carrot' Less!

My wife and I recently discovered that those little pinkie sized carrots at the market don’t grow that way but are actually carved from their big orange brethren into the mini ‘nary- a-carrot’ versions. Sadly I am all thumbs so to cut up skinny carrots in my own image is impossible so no matter how hard I try, they will end up too fat. Fortunately I am not a quitter so inadvertently whenever I get hold of a peeler now, even if the carrot starts out as long as a leg and as thick as a tree, in the end, it will always give me the finger.  

I know it would be a lot cheaper to just buy the banded bunched carrots instead of paying for the cello bag full of of washed midgets. But the problem is to this day I can’t eat a cleaned raw carrot while the stalk is still on for fear of being shot as a fat gassy rabbit raiding the root cellar. Of course that means just like most folks, I resort to the store cut packaged variety and must always entertain myself with a temporary orifice insertion or two before eating.

Honestly other than an occasional yam around the holidays, I can’t think of any other orange food I would shove in my face without serious second thoughts. Oh sure you marmalade fans will disagree but I gag just at the sight of those disposer chunks of rind and whatnot floating around in some translucent synaptic gelatin.  Also lets all acknowledge right now that slimy ‘punkin’ guts’ might make for a good pie with enough sugar and spice but they won’t win any beauty or smell tests right out of the gourd’s raw craw.

Though good for me, fresh carrots are a bit of a pain to snack on since I can’t hear the television over the sound of the carotene-crushing reverberation through my skull.  I know they can cut them down to size but can’t they grow these things in the image of lettuce or something equally feckless and flaccid so I can eat in peace? Oh well,  It seems like other babies don’t mind glass jars full of orange n’ messy goo so maybe if I stew a few, bear down and coo,  I DOO TOO!

Carnival-vore

Despite a half century of ignoring my bod pod’s potential, somehow my elephant hide has unapologetically endured omnivore food abuse without major malady or a corn kernel of care. I have always had good intentions of leading a healthier lifestyle and shunning pig ribs in favor of long tongs for salad, but somehow when my gut rumbles, my brain is blocked and my mouth unhinges for ‘imMEATiate’ input. Actually any kind of caloric consumption is crackerjack to me but my tastes tend toward the salty rather than the sweet so lining my pockets with jerky instead of Jello makes for a lot less messy snacking.

I do not necessarily shun greens however most of the ones I come in contact with are growing on the inside of refrigerator Tupperware and don’t seem particularly appetizing. If I’m going to sneak a salad, I prefer the least nutritional Iceberg lettuce as a base laced with some sliced turkey or cubed ham and a drizzle of dressing. While small sprigs of spinach are ok too, I don’t consider those giant multi-colored leafy rabbit patch greens, flapping and fanning while I struggle to stuff my mullet gullet, face-friendly or fun to eat. 

To spice up my droll personality and aging geezer sneezes I eat a lot of red pepper flakes in soup and on just about everything else except cold cereal and warm ice cream. Hot salsa pairings too are a staple in our dust-hut (except oddly on eggs) though it makes the paperclips jealous when eating behind their wiry little backs. I don’t shy away from fried buffets, but doughnuts and greasy foods in general won’t make my top ten hit list even though most other breads, baked goods, and pies in the face do.    

Cheese appeal is probably this clown’s real Achilles heel to high n’ mighty long term health, since I like it cubed, curdled, shredded, or sliced on anything or anywhere I feel free to stuff it.  Soon if I don’t want to be buried in a digital piano case though, I’ll have to curb that bad habit along with a hundred other fiber faux-pas and blender close calls. On second thought though, I could remain a true blue, red, white, and yellow, ballooning ‘carnival-vore ‘ fellow and continue to face life as a giant side show curiosity. At least then, I’ll never go hungry since I can always pick- up a few extra rupees for quick lookies under my BIG tent!

Robot Fever

I dream of a future where robots will pick ticks off my hide better than that lazy service monkey I put up with, even though he works for peanuts. However I’m a bit concerned that machines will never be up to basic tasks especially given my negative experiences with that painful Epilady I shave with everyday. Lately even my rug Roomba has rejected my advances since its battery has become weaker and meeker as the dirt on my carpet becomes bleaker and streakier. 

It’s true that I’m no ‘shoe-in’ and a little out-of step with tomorrow’s high tech trinkets. Even easy remotes spook my simple skull and don’t work all that great when covered in grime and fist-foods that I ate. I also  can’t understand why those motion sensing lights refuse to react if my elephant carcass lumbers under one, but when a runt of a rodent dashes past, the thing lights up like an immolating monk? Though I have figured out how to turn off most digital clocks with a hammer, I am still perplexed as to why my microwave needs to know the date before giving me one to heat meat and eat freely. 

I’m probably just in a bad mood since I found out that my electronic coffee pot has a really high fever and feels hot to the touch. Actually I am pretty sure it has worsening Alzheimer’s since its brain regularly forgets what it is doing and just stops brewing in the middle of a cycle. Just my dumb luck – why couldn’t my Pyrex pot be just nuts or have Parkinson’s disease because then at least I might be able to start the day with a delicious protein ‘shake’. 

I just wish today’s pocket robots required a little less babysitting  as compared to real babies which actually protest even more loudly when you almost sit on them. It just seems I spend too much time buying bricks of specialized batteries, software, cables, and compatibility accessories to keep all of these needy new-age gizmos from getting sick and becoming a burden to me and the rest of society. Luckily humans are so much less demanding - all they want is the basics like free healthcare paid for by somebody else, a wing, a prayer, and a Diet Coke with a Mentos chaser that DOESN’T blow up in your face.

Halloweaned

Sadly as I have gotten older and my permanently mounted gray mask has gotten scarier, it seems my interest in Halloween has waned a bit. This is particularly irritating given the fact that the rest of the world seems to be turning toward the orange light and embracing the pseudo holiday with invigorated fervor. Why now is everyone showing up so late to this party since when I was on board, my Mummy used to preach to me about my impaired judgment for handing out candy to kids from the back of my van.

I really did not see the problem since children scare me every other day of the year so what’s the big deal with putting out a little pay-back every 31^st of October? What else am I to do with that big bag of five year old fun-sized bars of chalky chocolate and a dusty dish of ribbon candy from last Christmas? You don’t expect me to feed that stuff to my pet llama do you because I’m almost positive he will spit it out at me.

Who really likes this season of the pumpkin except for the reason it gives to make tasty pie crusts, play with cans of aerosol whipped cream, and lord over locker room sunflowers with the sheer size of their seeds? I don’t need some ghost holiday to tell me that being hopped up on sugar and glowing in the dark is a little more fun than a carefully regulated lifestyle. Hey I already know a little something about being a ‘batty’ pagan, irresponsibly wolfing down a week’s worth of overpriced chocolate in a day, and hanging out on the web so what’s so special about All Hallows Eve?   

You see geezer-creatures like me naturally lose interest in celebrating one dumb day a year of terror, since every day already feels like Halloween as I repulse reflexively at mirrors due to my bloodshot vision and a plethora of personal hygiene nightmares. It’s one thing to appear more and more like those moldy n’ craggy sleepy hollowed out pumpkins heading for a REAL crypt, but it’s quite another to smell like them too. So it’s probably best that I continue to act my age and avoid ‘going over the top’ with my inner-Weener; but believe me it’s difficult since every October a little part of me still dreams of donning a hockey mask, fake machete and a ‘too loose’ pair of PANTS!

Expanding Closet Case

Recently I had to hire a Sherpa and obtain an ample supply of oxygen to take on a dangerous expedition. No it was not my aim to conquer Everest, K2 or even the speed bumps at the mall. My toes and fingernails are already black enough from digging around in the litterbox without the risk of frostbite.  No my goal was a TRUE challenge and that was simply to clean-out and paint our walk-in mystery closet.

As the name implies, left un-checked, those caverns of racks and shelves are dark, puzzling places where moths, animal skins, and things of all persuasions are able to walk-in but rarely walk-out. I thought it high time to conquer my fears and unload the clothes dungeon so I could paint, organize, and re-populate the space before my spouse got lost in there too. Amazingly it took 3 rooms to splay out the tangible effort and energy from several generations of sheep and silkworms before the work began. 

As a rule all went as planned however I was shocked that apparently in a fit of passion my ties must have been hanging around like lonely teens doing a lot of necking! Clearly there is no other explanation how in dark seclusion my ‘clip-ons’ had fervently reproduced into so many offspring considering I still have only the one pencil neck.  I don’t remember Dilbert or that bon vivant Christian Grey needing 49 extra ties to get the job done so what’s my excuse?

While drawer-bound, it seems my aging Underoos and Crews have increased in stature too but that may be an illusion due to the flaccidity of the elastic weave or the fat I routinely pack into ’em.  One thing’s for sure though, just like me, those poor abused skivvies and hop-socks are now markedly ‘holier’ than thou and certainly GRAYing with age.  Despite all the expansion  going on in that magical mystery closet, none of that mojo has rubbed off on my belts, shirts, or pants – because oddly,  all that stuff just seems to be getting smaller and SMALLER!