Grease the Fleece

No matter the temperature of the weather, these days the catch phrase for comfort is to ‘Layer’. Seems like an odd term for comfort especially if you place bricks in mortar all day or worse are a penned hen in a cramped chicken den. The term works for me though no matter what, since I am always happiest when I am laying about on just about any surface except for that cold stainless table at the morgue.

When I do have to prepare for unpredictably cold weather invariably I will zip up with at least one or two light and soft fleece jackets. While I appreciate the fuzzy bear quality of these garments to insulate me in fickle weather, they have an irritating habit of picking up lint, hair, and grimy grub faster than I already do on my own. No wonder the fleece fad has never made its way into my Underoo drawer as that might be asking for far too much cleaning ability from our feeble washing machine.

If I knew these jackets were so attractive I might as well roll around on the carpet and compete with the robotic Roomba for crumb-y attention. If I wanted to be true ‘dirt-bag’ I would have taken up a life of crime instead as an out-of-work double-plus sized fashion icon. Anyway I already have enough random fur and wild hairs growing from odd n’ dark places so I really don’t need more ways to tease my last outcropping of noggin follicles and make them jealous. 

Apparently it’s time to update my hunchback resume since amazingly I have mastered yet another way to alienate the general public without even trying as the ‘Fleece Beast of ultra wrong’. If only I could still enjoy the Wooly Mammoth layering power of fleece outerwear yet repel the frequent funky fiber flotsam instead of people. I guess society has no choice but to break-out a barrel of Brylcreem and grease up my fleece before it breeds yeast – but you had better make it a double rubdown, since given my girth, even a ‘fat dab’ will NEVER do ya’!  

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!