Sweet Potato Delivery System

Potatoes and I are a lot alike. Oh sure my skin may be a bit thicker and my eyes are a tad glassier but otherwise white starchy spuds and bulky buds like myself have always been the best of friends. I know I should focus on less caloric carbs and eat more greens, but when you cater to taters of that particular sheen, they can inspire unexpected ill thrills for the gills and wet public scenes.

So with my predisposition to tasty tubers I guess I need to look for a more acceptable color in my favorite ‘booty-building’ rooty foodie ? Maybe a cool shade of red, gold, or if recent restaurant reconnaissance is to be trusted, a fake canned tan Orange, like something rusted. Yes, why so suddenly does the lowly sweet potato get to show its bronzed complexion on the front of every menu, yet its ashen cousins are thrown back in the mud under the dud-spud truck.

Sometimes I think these eatery geniuses all steal the same ideas and rush to shove the same exact stuff down my gullet all at the same time. Why must all of my tots, chips, n’ fries be spawned from a Yam daddy to insight ‘sighs’, but  the poor old Yukon, red skin, and russets among us face turned up noses and get cussed at. If only there were a way to eat the sweets with all their fiber and healthy vitamins A through E without the endless 'benefit' campaign haranguing me. 

Yes I guess when I eat out and graze, I’m a little sensitive about facing the tater terrors and being ‘saved’ by half-baked nutritional potato heads at every turn of the laminated menu. I’m not bitter against the sweet potato itself just the uber tuber fanatics who want to boil me in butter if I potato-pamper myself to a spud of any other color but orange. A truce is in order to this civil war since my issue is more about delivery than what yam I can ram into my fam. So I turn my big mouth South and set beady eyes towards mashed surrender and compromise, with food of true-blue orange hue and healthy ties – a double oven dose of Sweet Potato PIES!

Ice Man Pleadeth

I do not particularly like snow but then again, other than food there are few things on earth I enjoy shoveling on a regular basis. However, when I do have to clear the white stuff from my walkways, I consider it a chance for a little extra exercise and an opportunity to breathe a fresher sack of smog into my stale lungs. But frozen water is another matter and it’s difficult not to harden my icy personality when the house, car, and driveway are all encased in the rime for all time.

  

While I appreciate the serene TV images of pretty icicles and glistening crystallized trees, the beauty soon turns beast and my skin wears too thin to walk on when subjected to this relentless frozen cocoon. To avoid becoming a REAL-life POP-sicle, retrieving the morning newspaper requires an armor plated carcass and noggin-topper defenses to dodge frozen stalactite daggers and other squirrel droppings. I have forgotten what parts of my driveway and curbs look like since they spend so much time hidden under glaciated moraines and towering ice parapets up to my armpits.

Clearly somebody around here forgot to light the pilot light or open up the check-book and pay the sun’s heating bill and guest appearance fee. Yes my permanently shaded and ill-fated igloo is now so haunted by ice sheets that I have decided to switch my bedding to plaid flannel and strap on figure skates before every bedtime. After relentless conditioning, even ice cubes clinking around in a cup give me the Pavlovian chill thrills and make me bark like a hot-trotting Siberian Husky in heat.

Hey I know at times I may be ‘Jerky’ but who said I want to live life like an old preserved hunk of mummy-meat at subzero temperatures? If that were the case, long ago I would have cozied up my fatty flank next to that biblically significant hunk of ground round in the back of my kitchen freezer. Please remember, whenever in the future I beg for the ‘double frosted’, I am ONLY referring to the icing on cupcakes and Pop Tarts – NOT the 32 and below H2O frozen flow that I have been facing heretofo'.

Animal Noises

Despite my reputation as a bloated bellower, I tend to equate my natural animal state with that of a more mellower fellower. Oh sure I ‘caw’ loudly back at the ‘bird police’ when they beak the peak of my head while poking around nests, but how else am I and my raccoon raider DNA supposed to eat or entertain guests? Even fat raptors like owls  and me give a ‘hoot’ once in awhile after a big meal, but overall our noise impact is pellet-sized puny and slim like an eel.

In today’s times though, my Dino breed must be dying off since good, bad, happy, and sad sounds all assault the bones closest to my cochlear like a clamorous triceratops spear to the ear. What fat squirrels like me can’t see is a peaceful stroll in the park anymore without somebody’s radio pumping and thumping with a cacophonous roar. Clearly the world is gone deaf and have turned up the juice to my dismay; my Dumbo flaps have had more than their limit so I plug and cover them with hair every day.

Even the fan in the bath blows more blitzkrieg ‘buzz’ than it quietly sucks and why is the wind so pushy and sounds like Mack trucks. My only considerate neighbors are the squirrels, worms, and deer who are particularly quiet when seen flat from my car’s rear mirror. Too many sounds from cars, planes, or beasts; too much noise which needs to cease if I’m to be pleased and you wish to quiet the beast.

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not demanding peace and quiet from the animals in my kingdom who are forced to swallow peas and ‘try it’. There is always an exception to any rule and a good reason for a bad dog to bark in protest and dabble in discord. So on those days that I whine and complain, show up ready to throw me a meaty bone, by keeping your music to yourself and your words in hushed tone.

Stylish Snack Personality

Pretty much when you arrive at Mack truck size, most foods are frowned upon unless they taste like tree twigs and look like green leaves. Overall I agree with the idea to eat a bit healthier but that doesn’t mean I’ll be first in line to suck on broccoli stalk crackers or cauliflower curds that get in my way. If you want me to eat more of something then you need to provide some proper inducement that befits my personality like Cracker Jacks do with those primo prizes they hide inside every box.

Obviously geezers like me can be tasteless at times, so that’s why even if the flavor of snacks lacks, then at the very least I encourage everyone to stock up on  pantry foodies which can do double duties.  Who needs kitty litter clay when a boxed brick of Grape Nuts will take care of “Fluffy’s” nuggets n’ stain needs in a pinch. Better yet after a quick sift and a truckload of sugar, that pan will be as good n’ gritty as ever and ready to serve up 12 essential vitamins and 100% (or maybe more) of your daily grain intake. 

While everybody loves an orange cheesy cracker, why choose a stuffy square Cheez-it over a new wave cracker that tastes just as good but also tops off your aquarium with Goldfish food too? If those fishy-faced-down floating bite-sized crackers aren’t filling enough for your dining pleasure then simply shove a toothpick up their rudders and VOILA – Fishsticks for Friday!  Oh sure they quickly turn into bait once they bounce on the bubbles, but at least now you’ll have a seeable reason as to why your other fish regularly swim upside down in that cloudy pea green tank o’ soup.

My Parmesan flakey brain clearly is NOT a head and shoulders above sanity and I’ve simply taken food style a bit too far. In the future I should probably just stick to chewing the chaff rather than demanding healthy double-dips from my crazy deli designs too?  If that’s true then the Pringle’s people should get a ‘CLUE’ since ‘hyperbolic paraboloids’ are best left to the mathematicians and their distant duck-lipped n’ swayback, horse-faced ancestors. But please don’t bellow to the ‘Bugles- crew ‘to change the personality of their cornucopia snacks a bit; since I just scored a handful for a matching set of corny claws and a-MAIZE-ing fangs which for ME, tastefully FIT!

ValenTIMES

As I have gotten older and have grown a bit wider than my white-ish diapers, I don’t embrace the Valentine’s day fervor like I once did as a younger chunky cherub. Part of the issue is I never have understood why getting SHOT in the heart by a nekkid winged bow-bound baby could ever be a good thing for romance or my health. Hey I listen to NPR you know – BOWS are for violins and when I want my wife’s attention I’ll just crawl into the cast iron bathtub NEXT to hers out in the woods like all contemporary coots.

I never envision my ValenTIMES all that romantic anyway since I routinely attract the WRONG kind of attention from the opposite sex when I’m out in public. Can I help it if nobody appreciates the fact that I run a little hot-blooded and chocolate melts in my hands instead of my mouth. Regardless of how often I try, few people other than my mother appreciate a good Hershey kiss and the resulting choco lip print I leave behind.

Also I sincerely love my family but c’mon $5 for a stupid pink greeting card with a red heart and insipid inscription on it? At least with those big boxed foil candy hearts I get one or two nasty waxy chocolate chews for that kind of costly cold cash. Funny too as pricey roses goes-es, the longer the stem - the better to pick noses, and ironically the more thorns to drive home the sincerity of my love.

  

Nope keep that little rosy flying seraph’s spell far away from me ‘cause V-Day is really just a chance to stock up on devil’s forks and fresh tiny pink hearts in case my bloated Cajun blackened one needs a spare. Don’t worry I’ll get in the Valentine spirit as soon as I open a bag of those ‘conversation hearts’ and have a sexy talk with my sweat-shop silkworms on why I cotton to silky skivvies. All I need to do is embarrass them just enough so that they will spin me some REDDENED twill and a slippery ‘G-string’ thing – which if I’m lucky I might get to strum some with ol’ Cupie’s Pernambuco BOW!