My read on REEDS

Who decided that bagpipes should become associated with classy ‘American’ pomp, processionals, and memorable occasions? When I was young, I don’t recall legions of long legged and skirted men parading around their instruments except if I frequented West Hollywood Halloween parties. Now if I lived in Scotland or some other European culture that shuns pants I might understand, but didn’t my family forerunners sprint for the sea long ago to cover-up their bell-bottoms and avoid the blare of these bloody bleating bags o’ pipes?

After all who can listen to an instrument where its fundamental parts consist of a ‘Bag’, ‘Drone’, and a ‘Chanter’? In practice, any ONE of these words swirling around your dome for a short time will give you a headache, but together in concert they will always lead to serious migraines and ultimately formal funerals. Hasn’t America already suffered enough HARMonium at the hands (or slobbery chops) of obnoxious accordion and harmonica ‘windbags’, with their wheezing reeds and congested nasal nuisances?

Amazingly, not all REEDS rub me the wrong way unless they have to do with swamps, Hobbits, or irritatingly inane teenage Vampires. Musically, English horns and clarinets played well can be curiously captivating and who isn’t a fan of good SAX whenever they can get it?  Also remember to make it a double when it comes to my orchestral fave-flavs, the swoon of a bassoon expertly blown, or its baby bro, the oboe - even if played just ‘so so’. 

A few of you critical canines  might now howl in protest when I croon a tune at Karaoke or have the brass to‘bag’ on your beloved pipes n’ reeds without heed. Hey relax, I was hatched into a hill family of pro musicians and played trumpet too, so blowing-off fellow belIowers is just a form of tooting my own horn - right! Anyway I must admit, I’ve never looked very sophisticated while pants-less with my bagpipes showing. So I had better stick with the CLASSY instruments that I know and love - the hobo-band ‘chug jug’, slide whistle, and ubiquitous saliva-soaked jaw-harp!

Never Scratch THAT patch!

These days they make those sticky-backed modern medicine delivery skin patches to take care of just about any ailment a person of pirate persuasion might encounter. I hear those things work well to prevent smoking and overeating, but since I still cry and whine a lot, I think  the ones to prevent BABIES must still need a bit of tweaking. Honestly though who cares about all that little stuff  –  with the world wallowing in couch potatoes, THAT’s the exact preventative patch society REALLY needs!

As a card carrying sloth myself, it also got me thinking, why are these pesky patches only good for STOPPING stuff – why can’t we use ‘em to keep us juiced on the goo we LIKE too? Since I’m corn NUTS and a self-admitted hillbilly gourmet, it’s hard to scrape up a daily dose of teriyaki roadkill, fried bologna, or powdered donuts and dump it all into my face-placed, cavity-laden cavity. Wouldn’t it make a lot more sense instead to just use a shoe to pound all that stuff into a SOLE patch and then glue it to my chin, head, or some other fat n’ flat spot? 

Despite the fact that I AM a doctor of divinity (and other carnival nougat confections), I am no scientist so sizing the patch dosage and practical placement on the body may present some predictable problems.  I’m worried that as the younger folks perspire and heat up during the day, that happy-patch will start to leak ever faster and dispense the ‘juice du jour’ at the rate of a blur, down shirts, shorts and knee-socks too.  I certainly don’t want to be blamed for causing my sweaty biscuit-sized brethren to look like they belong in Boca prematurely, or worse still, overdose them on a mammoth patch-patty full of sausage gravy, sized for my own hulking loaf. 

Clearly like everything these days, it appears I’ll have to down-size my dreams and patchy pirate plans to the least common denominator so I can squarely put my stamp on  and sauce-up society with fairness and waterproof adhesive. Hmmm ... this idea is beginning to sound like it’s going to get sticky and become a lot of work. If there is one thing I CAN stand for it is, ‘I can’t stand for a lot of work’! Maybe the brightest buccaneers of legend n’ lore had it right after all – ‘you’ll raise FEWER eyebrows if you strap on a patch to conceal the lazy in the eye’. I wonder what size pillowcase-patch I’ll need to inoculate MY indolence, since I’m usually sitting happily couch-bound below decks on my big fat BILLge?

A Quibble over Kibble

I know that it’s been hot because I’m shedding more these days and my doghouse has the odor of a lot more than Febreeze. It’s ok since when my tum’s toasty, I tend to eat a lot less junk like cauliflower and cantaloupe and keep my belly brim-full with carbs, candy and K-mart calories. I know it’s wrong to fall to the siren song of the market’s pet food aisle, though at times it’s hard to back my beak off from its heavenly scent when hungry for a late night meat treat.

Other than myself, no foaming mouthed rabid animals actually live in my pound, but that doesn’t mean I am restricted from giving pet food the sniff test and a welcomed pause for the ‘Schnozz’ does it? Honestly, INSIDE the store at least, why does the dog n’ cat stuff smell so much better than that turkey stuffing that we humans are expected to eat? It is obvious that those ‘Pup-eroni’ meat sticks already LOOK yummy and more fun to gum than the ‘Slim Jims’ for dummies, but what’s really frustrating is why do they have to cost half the price too?

To this day I cannot open a can of corned beef hash and not think of a double dose of Mighty Dog. You know if the stuff looks and smells EXACTLY the same, it has to taste the same too right? Who needs fancy pate’ at parties when my guests can coat their crackers in a heaping helping of Fromms or other gourmet goody foody for pets and be just as happy. 

Let’s face it, if fancy folks are dumb enough to eat tripe in soup, roe on toast, and endure ‘liverWORST’ sandwich breath then they have no right to turn their nose up to my Milkbone when I flash it in their face. I have simple tastes and IAMS the first to admit that the vast majority of them are ‘Honey Boo Boo’ BAD, but there should be nothing wrong with loving a little nip n’ whiff of Purina in the morning. After all I can accept that people will always quibble over my kibble, but for society’s sake it would be well advised to steer clear and let me be, with a personal choice of body shampoo for my ticks and fleas!

DumbYOUNG Deer

Since I don’t look good in camo and I’m not a hunter or a gatherer, I don’t get goosebumps at the thought of either shooting a deer or scooping up after pooping deer. My idea of fun doesn’t include a night of frigidity hugging a gun in a tree and waiting to capitalize on the first sign of an animal’s mistake – heck; I could stay home with the wife if I wanted that! Just because I suck on a salt lick pacifier all day flicking my own white tail at strangers, doesn’t mean deer are my mental equal and therefore as easy to fool.  

  

No, the deer anti-defamation league would not be happy with the thought of gawking at Google to find themselves represented by a grainy profile of ME staring at a nightlight, frozen with fear. Even young deer don’t want to be known as THAT dumb, so they try hard to preen their media image with Bambi at the box office and that ‘oh so brilliant’ Rudolph during the holidays. All this 'talking deer' hype is an attempt to pass the BUCK and make lots of DOE for teen deer by showing the glee in singing BETTER than me and avoiding my life rife with ruts.

Though I did marry a DEAR 30 years ago, since then I’ve never once engaged any other talking ungulate in a meaningful conversation. In fact those haughty cloven-footed devils think so much of themselves, they refuse to FAWN over me and are always in a hurry to scoot when I show-up at their STAG parties. Oh sure my flowers and plants are good enough to sit with for a snack and leave a few of their PEARLS of wisdom, but these scat-happy beasts are entirely too stuck-up to stay for my STAKE dinner or at least discuss their just desserts.

Yep these dummy deer must be a lot smarter than the ranch dressing ruminants who I typically compete with at the salad buffet, since they have figured out how to eat limitlessly for FREE while avoiding the rigors of idle chit-chat. I guess it’s been a long time since I’ve seen any living things so wide-eyed, rude, horny, hairy and HUNGRY! It must be obvious that my kid’s been out of the house for awhile now, since I clearly don't remember anything about teenagers at all! 

Why I’ll never be a keynote speaker

Like many self-flagellating Americans, I have checked in on both mainstream political party conventions. I particularly like the fact that these ‘cirque du DULLe’ spectacles come on late in the evening and save me a lots of coin on ZzzQuil and warm milk. Now honestly, I think it takes a lot of guts to emphatically expel indiscernible grunts  in front of mobs of people wearing weird hats and carrying signs – if you don’t believe me, just ask Frankenstein!

Also don’t get me wrong, I am not afraid of speaking in front of large groups of sweaty, disinterested, and insane people filled with fiery rhetoric, after all I’m still the spokesman for my homeowner’s association. In fact, to my father’s chagrin, my mother was a champion debater in college and spoon-fed me early-on to speak freely with a flavor-laced forked, yet tender, tongue. Once my horns grew in as a 'deviled HAM' , I too was a decent debater in school and grew increasingly comfortable with subjecting others to the horrors of my oratory offerings.

Though despite my incredible aptitude for the platitude, sadly I’ll never be called upon to be a keynote speaker at a dog eat dog political gathering full of howling woofer wonks and squealing tweeter types. Oh sure, just like everyone else with a orotund open orifice of odor and emanations, my reptilian brain has a few right-minded ramblings to relate. But unlike those podium pros you knows, the truth is that I usually tire of listening to myself mutter far more quickly than the floor’s first comfortless cough cracks the calm. 

The truth is I just wouldn’t fit in with these modern talkers anyway. Despite my mirthful musings I still come from a primal time where what I say and the way I say it actually means something and I’m DUTY bound to fulfill my spoken promise. You see I know it is best to leave the ear blithering and bleating to those puerile pointy-headed politicians who strive to show us all so eloquently what ‘sweet nothings’ ACTUALLY sound like when deafening our ears.  Like most folks here in the Midwest, I prefer to put out only my ‘CLEAN’ undies on the clothes line for public display – not the useless ones graphically revealing the transparent holes in ‘em!