MULCH ado about nothing

Now that fleeting Spring has fully ‘sprung’, I’ve been sentenced to another year of ‘hard time’ in the yard in hopes of prolonging a blooming bounty of fancy foliage to foster and frequently fawn over. Typically in Mother Nature’s cruel yet unusual judgment, showy flowers and bursting buds should quickly wilt, drop-off and take up asylum in the neighbor’s gunk lined gutters as soon as seasonally possible. So my thankless job, along with millions of martyred garden minions like me, is to mount mountains of mucho mulch-o in an elephantine effort to garner the gift of greater growth-time in our gardens.  

Yes the unending cycle of nature’s fickle exorcism to ‘wash, rinse, and rePEAT’ soil from poor soul-less plants with dirtier and crustier barks than MY OWN has begun. This of course signals a time of ignorance, mulchy indecision, self-flagellation, and poorly manicured ungues except for my one ‘Hulk-green’ thumb. Between the rain, frost, drought, and neglect, there’s just too much pressure already to segregate bus loads of mulch varieties around the trees, lotsa’ hostas, and our habitat of inhumanity. 

Anyway I thought we were all supposed to be colorblind now so why does mulch come in so many flavors and grinds? Even coffee with all its dedicated legions of fancy corner cafes and mountaintop rarities still shows up handsomely cup after cup in a similar shade of ‘SAME’ every day. I don’t need a more colorful life since I’m already black n’ blue from working around this barnyard; green with envy of those who don’t have to, and  my grimy neck and a rosy ‘RED’ have always been such good friends?

Why should I care about a bunch of pushy bushy troublemaking trees n’ shrubbery who’s only purpose should be to filter the air, break wind, and ‘creak’ only when spoken to. All this work for a bunch of thoughtless organics who haunt n’ taunt me by unfurling millions of  little ‘flyers’ every year which they LEAVE all over the place every Fall.  Hmmm . . . maybe I should just move to the Amazon.com since this mulching thing  ‘ain’t’ my ‘BAG’ and I could shake my spear in peace. At least there the RUBBER trees make their own mulch and when they fall down around the hut, it’s delivered  and spread out for FREE!

The BIG SLIPPER

Unlike most folks who have their faces crammed into the leaves of People magazine and salivate at salacious gossip and celebrity turmoil, I like stars too but with a tad more Celestial seasoning for flavor. It is not unusual for me to creep around in the still of night peering out windows with binocs, or a telescope sporting a twinkled eye for stimuli. Far past the neighbor’s hushed huts and crisp night air, there is always a good show to be had when searching for Orion’s belt, the Big Dipper, or if it’s unusually cold out - the LITTLE dipper instead.

Obviously that means I spend an inordinate amount of time skulking around this shovel-ready shed in a pair of clown-sized sloppy slippers. I would prefer to tread lightly nightly to the poop deck in just a pair of wooly socks, but that would require negotiating our waxy wood hallways with training wheels and a mandatory field sobriety test. So unless I stay true to my SOLE-less reputation or lash on some leathery overdone rubber steaks to my feet, I have no chance against frictionless surfaces and earthbound gravity.

Actually on bare wood and slick surfaces my naked feet too of are no use anymore, since like my heart they have become enlarged, calloused and hardened to all true feeling. Oh don’t worry I can still run when necessary to the facilities, but fortunately both the geezer buffet and bingo parlor are of ample size and fully carpeted.  Otherwise my fat flat feet-skis are just permanently attached skates which are admittedly convenient, since I’m always on thin ice with my wife and penguin fishing buddies for hogging the krill.

Oh well with all the telescoping tumult in the universe, there are probably a lot worse things than being bound forever to an indefatigable future of furry fleecy footwear and spying on strings of strung-out stars. I guess since I can’t beat ‘em (‘cause it’s illegal), I will join most of Hollywood’s ‘ditz and lameness’ by stepping  down a notch in the animal kingdom, off my sand-box into cat litter for better traction. If nothing else it will make the den smell a tad a better, absorb incessant drooling, and if I am lucky - help me avoid falling on my ‘Ursa Major’ ASTerism!

Fragrant Gourmet

Recently due to my daughter’s worldly travels I have become aware of people consuming gourmet oddities like snake wine, elephant ear fish, and baby octopi served with bone marrow. I’m no transplant or culinary expert but isn’t bone marrow what dogs like to gnaw on when doing humiliating tricks for their human overseers. Maybe it’s just me belly-aching but I cannot see what tasty treat EVER has exited or been named after an EAR or anything associated with the word LOBE?

Let’s also establish the fact that pickling weirdo creatures inside jugs of alcohol and calling it ‘cool’ is nothing more glamorous than saving ‘specimens’ to dissect later in a high school biology class. I’m thinking then why don’t I do this with members of my own dog pack and save some costs, space, and time of those fancy-schmancy burrowing rituals.  In addition to fermenting a tasty brew for the accompanying wake, if my own flesh n’ blood beverage is well received it will give a new an even more special meaning to the term ‘LOVED ONE’!  

I don’t mind being adventurous with the types of sprinkles on my donuts or maybe the occasional pair of gray socks to match my long ago white silken skivvies. But what’s this fascination with gourmet geeks savoring goo that normal folks would ordinarily scrape off boots and palm off to stupider siblings as hot PIE?  Please waft, cough, and wave your fragrant fetid foods in your own direction and if it’s still moving, slimy or contains eggs that don’t come from crates then keep ‘em to yourself and ROE on out of here.

Hey I’m no yokel and have a well versed palette in real food fineries such as ramen, bullion cube stew, and instant grits because at least around this dump-hut, stacks of dehydrated stuff only fit on the TOP SHELF. Anyway there is more class to me than bow-tie pasta ‘cause I don’t need to go gourmet to prove that the size of my cummerbund and my tastes are already ‘out of this world’. You see I can stink up the joint just fine the old fashioned way with over-ripe broccoli run-ins, brown spotted bananas and those steamy HOT dinner dates with a double-sized ‘family’ can of condensed Campbell’s bean with bacon soup.

Button Fly Genes

You can bet being born with a girlish girth like mine I’m no stranger to buttery muffins, especially when they flaunt their top floppiness over my beltline. Sprouting a couple of monster-truck size spare tires wouldn’t be much of an issue if only I had pants that would cooperate with a little extra room in the ‘trunk’. Yes it has always been daring duty for my dungarees to show some ligature love for my hearty handles and contain at least some of my tons-of-fun ‘gut-bucket’.

I’m not complaining for comfort sake alone mind you, because given the right conditions there is a genuine community safety concern here. Oh sure you scoff but it is irresponsible pushing my plump bumps around in public without a red flag tied to my denim-covered tail and no ‘beeper’ when I back up. People need to be forewarned to clear the area whenever I leave the crypt to venture among the living, with but a single button to cinch my withers and bind my booty.

Unsuspecting spectators should be particularly mindful if I engage in a hearty laugh or take-in an ill-advised deep breath followed by a cacophonous cough and sneeze at the trough. Those kind of untimely table manners among the good and guiltless can sadly result in potentially life-scarring tragedy and terror.  Who among us is ever truly prepared to face the wrath of unexpected pasty projectiles of varying fiber content, and the frightening possibility of a bursting button bullet to fly in the eye. 

Clearly for the sake of innocent bystanders if not personal pride alone, I am again at a ripe ol’ age which requires ‘rear-wrangling’ rubber pants or other devices to safely provide tum-tucking button back-up. I have already begun to greet geezer-dom with gusto so I’m becoming something of an expert at ripping and zipping Velcro especially when bending my supple rump-skin over for a sophomoric snicker or to simply shore up my Scholl’s.  Though I have indeed gotten a lot wider than wiser with age you shouldn’t worry how I buttress the buttons on my britches since apparently jean splicing is in my genes … after all as a baby I was told that I really knew how to ‘fill-out’ a diaper! 

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?