Closet Talk

Like most of my non-nudist moth-y friends, I too feel compelled to greet every morning with a trip to a suspended bare bulb inside my coop’s cloth lined crypt known as the bedroom closet. I am not lucky enough to have a hangar big enough to store both my ego and tent-sized tighty whities, or even make a good impression in a gym locker room. So sadly, I must thrust my duff daily into a tiny textile tomb of trappings, wrappings and togs in a zesty quest to dress my best instead of a mess.

Due to my oversized Kong body and undersized donkey dome that simple goal for most souls, of seeking apropos furbelow, is a challenging chore for me. To make matters worse, I admit coming out of the closet in the Winter can be difficult since along with my nose at night, I tend to keep the igloo blue and crispy cool too.  Even if the dawn doesn’t mind breaking daily I DO, so I lament stubborn buttons and fleecy duds that stick or won’t clip zippy-quick to prevent my pipe from freezing stiff.

Not only in the closet but obviously my wife and I frequent many of the same places, so it seems every organization to which we belong we receive a pair of matching logo polo shirts - one in her size and one in mine. Of course in the full light of day any ‘knit’-wit should be able to see the difference between a blouse and a rumpled blimp-skin. But then again can I help it if  my aging ‘ojos’ and bleary before-breakfast brain, only have enough sense left to interpret shivering and some kind of shapeless shirt?

Hey given my evolving age and devolving fashion sense, is it any real surprise that I truly am facing a dim outlook as to my closeted life and inadvertent foray as a fatter yet slightly less wild-haired version of RuPaul? Remember in some ancient cultures of the Caribbean and South Pacific, a big gut straining at the seams of a stretchy hide shows a rich life of abundance - and a mouth watering crew BBQ for a whole week! No matter how well I fill-out my wife’s closet frocks into ‘Eww’ too–tight muscle shirts, I know I’ll never be a stylish fashion PLATE … I’m better served upon a greasy dinner ONE with fava beans on the side.

Grown Man Nanny

It is probably hard to believe but I’ve been known to procrastinate now and then especially when it comes to a grimy friend of mine - personal hygiene. Now don’t distress and get your togas in a twist, there won’t be any need for a keelhauling on this short voyage. After all I’m not a 21 ton baby Huey anymore and most of the time I DO double up on the Depends so as not to drag my duff through the rough, regardless of the load in tow. 

Never fear, my bodily burdens are more of the HAIRborne, nails, and  ‘stuff’’ sucked up and stuck in the grill variety, so that targets me as the charter inductee into the lame Werewolf hall of fame. I don’t like having these crosses to bear, especially around hunting season, mirrors, or balloons at children’s parties because trimming twigs off my trunk and buffing the bark from my bite takes so much time. Since both my mother and wife apparently have dropped the ball and indignantly refuse to lift a middle finger to help, it’s clear what I need now is to nab a new man nanny sans my family’s attitude. 

Just think of all the ablution solutions and dermis concern-less we could have together if I had my very own, grown man ‘nan’ to care for my keratin. Finally someone I could trust more than All Bran to bring some regularity into my life and service my rosy personality and other misbehaving chapped Macaque parts. Who better to tend to the day to day flossing and saucing of my scaly uncharted cracks and crusty crevices, bushy brows, and double-stuffed n’ damp snout?

What – you don’t approve? I thought these days society was supposed to be truly drool-free and completely color blind, so I don’t see why pink nebbish newborns and gray sulking seniors are the only ones who qualify to be nurtured and ‘nannyfied’? What’s wrong with a pale n’ pants-less over-grown ‘man-ne-CANT’ service monkey like me needing a little extra claw-clutching comfort from a callus confidante or hair care Au pair? I still will do all of the heavy lifting like eating  3 squares or more per day and hauling at least half of my wide load to and fro the commode – uh … at least MOST of the time.  

Meating People

I’m not sure if it’s that my refrigerator has gotten smaller or my gut has gotten bigger, but it seems that I must venture out among the living a lot more often these days than I prefer.  I never had to sneak out of my cage when I was a young primate, primarily because my parents kept my kibble dish topped off, and our CB radio tuned to the titillating teachings of truck drivers at the local Motel 6.  Now my wife cruelly leaves me alone without nary a paw-massage or flea picking for almost 8 hours every day; so what choice does a rabid werewolf have other than to eat strange meat and meet strange people, but usually NOT at the same time. 

I instinctively know that it is hypocritical for me to be irritated that others are out getting in the way of MY world when I try to go to a food market in the afternoon or during ‘off-hours’. Can I help it if I wonder why  these people aren’t at home doing something productive like watching TV, thinking about ironing, or better yet DYING OFF? At Wally Mart, can’t a simple Scrooge try to anonymously purchase a lot of guns and a little butter  after midnight without 20 carts commandeered by the slow, wrinkled, and soon to be so, multiplying and converging around his space like ‘chips’ from a Buffalo?

Hey I get it, times are tough and a few more folks are out of work. Anyway people are living longer now so they need to STRETCH, but can’t they find anyplace better than where I’m at – like let’s say, a GYM! I am not really a sourpuss by nature and would tolerate meeting new people more if they would simply get on with their business efficiently, shuffle out of my way without leaving any discernible trail, and could only raise their voice while completely contained within a vacuum. 

Of course there is another alternative which might provide just the right incentive and social conditioning I need to become more tolerant of my fellow man. What if society simply agrees to individually wrap and license everyone when away from home,  so they look and smell exactly like bacon? Finally,  just the positive motivator I need to MEAT n’ greet my greasy brethren between the Beano and Halloween candy clearance aisles, without having to explain away my damp n’ deathless drooling.

Toss Your Cookies Carefully

Like my underwear, I too am slightly imperfect and inelastic, so it is not for me to judge why hurried thoughtless people do what they do. I know folks are busy, routine driven, and rarely care anymore about time tested and TRUE philosophies like ‘Don’t speak until you’re spoken FOR’ or ‘Mind over PLATTER’. Still, when it comes to the really important choices in life like ‘paper or plastic’, ‘regular or decaf’ or where is the best place to ‘TOSS your cookies’, I expect a tad more care and respect from my fellow man. 

Around my ape cage for example, cookies are a celebrated semi-sweet staple and major food group which cannot be eclipsed. It really doesn’t matter if my ‘flour-y friends’ are frosted, sandwiched, soft, waffled, or bagged. All races and creeds of cookies are revered and treated to a place of prominence in my air sealed, compacted, and vessel-lined junk-food vault. Whatever leftovers I haven’t EATEN, end up perfectly organized in a crumb and saliva-free cabinet that my wife swabs down and secures shut like a greedy Keebler elf in a hollow tree.

Many thoughtless cretins on the other hand simply throw their Nabisco’s au naturel’ into some kind of ugly bust of a ceramic cookie crypt. Not only are those poor mistreated sweet choco treats chipped, abused, and subjected to ‘crumb-y’ accommodations; but who wants the harried and unwashed hanging over and handling my favorite discus desserts with disrespectful disregard? Further who decided it was an appetizing adventure to yank ol’ Santa’s or Mother Hubbard’s noggin off willy nilly to extract their internals for a random after school snack.

How can this obvious kookie cookie abuse continue to go on unchallenged, unchecked and unchanged from generation to generation? I don’t pull your pets from their filthy cages and immediately subject them to extreme temperature ‘waterboarding’ in a hot carafe of coffee or mug of chilled milk do I? Today’s society needs to think more and dunk a little less when it comes to drowning  our lowest of the lowly cookie’s sorrows merely as a dalliance of dairy delight or ‘cream-between’ guilty pleasure. 

My taxing Uncle

Every January my mind turns from joyful gift strapping and family evergreen burning rituals to genuine terror. Oh sure those holiday bills now due add a few buckets of blood to the night sweats, but the real fear is that my tax-happy Uncle is lurking in April with his freshly sharpened fangs and an insatiable hunger in his wallet. Yeah Valentines Day and Easter might provide a little milk chocolate relief from the heartburn as long as you don’t mind getting shot by arrows from a little nekkid peanut butter bunny – uh … or something like that?

What makes ‘Unkey’ Sam so taxing this year is H&R Block is running this overly happy advert with a glowing and smiling tax preparer lady telling me how she loves to sift through my complicated steamy bedpan mess of a tax headache. Where did they drum this girl up from –  Chucky Cheese, a prison, or mental institution? Only if this tax preppie is a Morlock, Vampire, or a rat would she have an excuse to be so far away from enLIGHTenment.  Nobody; not even stupid people who get back big refunds, can actually be THAT happy about worming their way into piles of tax road apples.

Yeah I get the fact that the tax addict on TV has a fun job of telling me anything she wants to and I have to believe it no matter how little sense the lies make. The last time I was lucky enough to have that much fun my daughter was only five years old. Yep, I proved to her, until she started driving in high school, that she could operate the car’s wipers, windows and lights by simply barking at them in morse code.

So that dark shadow hanging over me and my 8 foot wide interstate estate is not just another eighteen wheeler parked on the overpass. No it’s time for me to accept that my Uncle Sam is a morbidly obese hungry HUNGRY hippo and I’m just one more fleeting mid-day treat to eat and bleat about paying my ‘fair share’. Well I have news for you dear Uncle, your excessive appetite is rapidly making you an unwelcomed guest at my park bench covered with the Slim Jim pickings and Spam scraps of celebrations past. We’ve all read this book before in high school and I remember the ending  well – when it comes to fat succulent pigs like the ‘Sam-man’,2 legs are JUST AS GOOD as 4 legs when they are covered in goo on the BBQ … or something like that.