High DEAF and Coddled

I don’t know how the world functioned before the advent of high definition TV to show us what REAL life is supposed to look like. Did media REALLY used to only come in two colors – grey and greyer, where we had to guess which one of the fifty shades Flipper actually was or worse, LISTEN to his persistent twitter feed?  I mean honestly, who can survive today without a daily dose of good glowing visual stimuli like zits, pits, and craggy faces to deliver the bad news every morning. 

In those caves, our ancient ancestors must have been truly in the dark without today’s modern rainbow of weather maps to guide them through typical tasks of daily bargain hunting and coupon gathering. Poor hairy cretins actually had to shove their matted mugs out into the open atmosphere and breathe unprocessed air to forecast a typical day of  'just a touch of famine and a high probability of death'. Now self-absorbed and chamois-soft meteorologists mutter monotonously, and tell us more than we want to know about their humid warm ‘lows’ and icy cold fronts – why can’t they forget their pants and just talk about the weather instead?

Isn’t it in the Bill of Rights somewhere that no one should be subjected to low fidelity scratchy speakers, ‘free-see’ TV and analog radio programming since digital satellite crystal bliss is LITERALLY gracing our fingertips. Anyway who wants to use their precious time to bend those rascally rabbit’s ears when it’s so much more fun putting that ‘check-signing’ hand to better use, paying for recurring overpriced subscription services. Better still why wait to grow old and go deaf slowly the old fashioned way, when all that ‘hear-clear-over-here’ sounds now makes it so much easier for today’s budding brainy teens to blast 100 decibels of bass directly into their ear canals daily.

Hey I know I am slower than a snail when it comes to adopting new fashionable trends and cleaning up after my own coddled slime trails from kitchen to privy. I’m just not sure if I’m ready to commit 100% of actual LIVING life to learn everything about anything by simply sitting on my tufted tuchis and matching tush cushion, staring blankly at a beckoning bag of noisy electronic conveniences.  Anyway I have heard that seductive siren’s song all before which wickedly works in mysterious ways to  make one deaf, dumb and ‘quarter-less’ in REAL life  - Can you HEAR me now PAC MAN? 

Bird Brains

I’m generally not a fan of machines with more brains than I have so typically I spend most of my free time in the bathroom where life is simple and both the facilities and myself rely on water power for performance. Technology is fine to a point as long as it is genuinely a time saver, faster, cheaper, or maintenance free. Sadly few ‘Gee Whiz’ gizmos and electromechanical gadgets today actually meet those tests and instead cost lots, break faster, and confound me continually.

Unless I can claim them as a deduction on my taxes, clocks and mindless machines had better not ask me for random extra information or I won’t give ‘em the ‘time of day’. For example, why does my microwave need to know what day and year it is in addition to the time – does it have an appointment or second job that I don’t know about? Hey I smell like rancid buttered popcorn and have food particles stuck all over me too and I never know what day it is, so what’s a microwave want with all that info?

My phone and GPS devices don’t really need names or brains either because I should be their only master, yet when they ring I’ll ANSWER to do their bidding even if I’m the one on the auction block. Of all the far more comfortable places to stick a helper in a car, why did the Onstar people go off and shove somebody into the rear view mirror for safekeeping? There are no airbags up there, it gets hot in the sun, and besides I don’t like talking into my REAR view mirror because it feels like I’m bossing myself around BEHIND my back. 

Clearly I must be the last of a dinosaur breed that likes real hand crank windows in my truck and a foamy mattress on my cot that CAN’T remember what my hefty sweaty sleep number is. I don’t need a dishwasher that has a 4 hour push-button delay before it washes the dishes when I myself can easily delay washing the crud off dishes for days on end without mechanized help. High tech machines don’t need more, chirps, squeaks, or warning squawks for attention, all they have to do is confuse me with the MINIMUM tasks that I ask, and for that - trust me, any ol’ Bird-Brain will do!

Southwestern Shirttail Relative

I have a special dull checkered shirt that suits my wild eyebrows, hillbilly personality, and naturally unshaven serial-killer vacant gaze. This flanneled frock is unique in that it feels ‘Just Right’ in all ways except one – it’s too heavy to be a shirt. I know, I know - what makes me the arbiter of all things ‘hefty’, since my hunger for such detail ordinarily can’t be trusted to discern the real advantage of a bloated libido over a loaded burrito. 

Well for one thing I need to wear leg braces when moving my truck-like tunic from washboard to wringer because it retains more water than a 50 year old Tajikistan dam. It’s no wonder why smart ducks avoid hunters in their sweat-soaked spongy sportswear since when wrapped in flannel, water never rolls off MY oily back either. Yes you can forget those wimpy Wal-Mart wire hangers to lift a blousy fleece-beast as brawny as mine, ‘cause it will always need a chain to hoist when moist. 

So on colder ‘rain-away’ days I have resorted to using my soft n’ puffy smock so fluffy as more of a parka pelt to help me button-up OVER my ordinary button-down, overstuffed-shirt. It makes sense because anyone who knows me knows that if CHILLY is on the menu, in the End there can BE NO better relief than to cover-up with a double ‘wind-breaker’. Hey I’m sorry but it still stinks like Winter around here so ‘frosting’ or not I’ve yet to turn my nose up on both a layered cake or a stratified stack of civvies harboring my abused but surprisingly still silky skivvies.

Recently on a visit, my obviously jaundiced-eyed Southwestern Sister-in-law descried my day after day, same-shirt attire and accused me falsely of being NUN the wiser and never changing my bad Habits.  Beyond my rejected offer of a ‘scratch n’ sniff’ test, I tried to explain my flagrant flannel flagellation as a relative act of survival within the bounds of the ice-box tundra in which I trudge. Anyway, little did my lawless sissy know, what really makes old ‘Pop tarts’ like me so special, is that the flavor underneath remains forever fresh, even if that dusty crusty off-colored COATING never changes.  

The PERFECT floor covering

Oh sure I have been around the block a few times - that is of course if you are talking about my HEAD full of chedda’ or the perfect choice for prison floor covering. Other than my sandbox and the fridge, not many things in this Cracker Jack shack full of surprises gets a bigger workout than the floors and what I use to protect them from prancing, dancing and reeking feet.  Somehow though most surfaces seem to stand-up to my earthy ‘GIRTHly’ abuse yet every choice I make from bugs to rugs needs something more.

Since the wife hates feeling BURR BURR we prefer wall to wall polar bear in the bedrooms to encourage a cozy igloo life even if it makes the window SEALS feel uneasy. I don’t use vinyl anywhere in the house anymore except for the drool pool under my pillow or in the music room since CDs are so much better.  In the bathroom surfaces must be hard and impervious to water like Porcelain or my heart since SUBmersing showy shag daily in dribbles makes it stink worse than I do, and it’s hard on the SUBflooring.

Most folks are excited by wood but I don’t favor that flavor since when I lube up the halls with WD40 the termites prove to be slippery critters to kill and worse yet - BORING. In high traffic areas like the kitchen (or the laundry AFTER I’m done eating), I’m a fan of tile by a mile, because it’s easier to slide around on eggs and oatmeal should the mood, food, or lightning strike me. Concrete is the perfect hardness choice for the garage though I prefer soft serve in my cones especially in dry and arid Dessert environments.

Clearly I am not too picky about what lines my bird cage or stomach for that matter. All I really want is a patch to scratch and a place to bury my cares away in case of a bothersome buffet blow-out in me bloomers. You see due to my bad habits, spastic colon and ‘porculent-pig’ physique, the perfect floor that I ‘m suited for doesn’t matter … as long as it’s covered with straw, dirt, and SOMETHING to eat!

Hooker Hang-Ups

Given the typically rumpled stumps n’ skin that I sport it is probably no surprise that I am not a big fan of hangers. With stupid hangers horning in all over the place, what good are the backs of chairs anymore? Don’t you think if somebody balder than me took the time to invent handy door knobs all over the house, shouldn’t we take the time to hook stuff onto them.

Closets and the sagging shirts on sticks that populate them are fine for Regular SANE people but given my pink eye, tongue , and Pepto bill,  irregularity IS my middle name. Oh sure hangers are the perfect tool for organized people like my wife who orders her closet by color and a first-in first-out rotating inventory control system. But I on the other hand, only need ‘em to spruce up the reception for my digital T.V. or as a fancy flexible finger to flesh-out those twitches from itches deep down in my britches. 

Part of my problem is that hangers come in too many styles, colors, and materials so my clothes vault looks like a crazy clown party - or perhaps that’s just my personal choice of cheery checkered oversized formalwear. Even though I prefer wood or plastic to hang my hefty habiliment on, unlike metal wire hangers, they are so thick and heavy that they take up more space in the closet than my ‘bull-writing’ shirts and ‘Monteras’ do.  Even when not being worn, if my jodhpurs are jostled they always fall from their proper place of grace when precariously perched on those top-heavy ‘s’ shaped open-sided pants lances.

I admit it though, my prudish and unorthodox hang-ups with ‘hookers’ probably stems from the fact that we purchased our ‘DUMPicile’ from former clothing shop owners, who favored us with crates and crannies filled with the bulky bendy things as a house-warming gift. Their thoughtfulness would be hard to nix if their hanger handouts had not all been scrambled and mis-handled like a twisted mix of pick-up sticks. Anyway who wants to spend days deciphering how to dislodge my duds from THAT mess when any ol’ floor is just so much more convenient than a claustrophobic closet full of dangling triangle-y things!