Guaca Talka

Despite the awful name for a dip which sounds more like something the cat coughed up rather than a delicacy, ‘Guacamole’ is a fav-flavor to savor around our scullery! Though I ordinarily have found it practical policy to avoid eating anything bean green and gooey, I guarantee I’ll never knock a tip-topa ‘guaca’. Yep you can keep your wimpy red dips n’ chips ‘cause as long as I can butter up my corny crunchers with the ‘cado, a festive and culturally sensitive ‘OLE!’ will always be my motto.

I know given my propensity to rebuff bunches of soft n’ brown bananas makes it hard to believe that avocados decorated in the same dark n’ dreary shade could ever make the cut. After all who wants a salad bowl full of creamy goo in full view which clearly looks chewed.  Happily between a twist of lemon and a dunk of the nut in the guck, the resulting electric green mashing stays table fresh and rather dashing. 

Oh sure life can get a bit better by soaking the green butter batter in a hot swig of salsa too. That spicy shot of verde is just the thing needed to unleash the wild side from my dumpy black ‘Avo’s personality and get my brain a humming. But beware of sucking up too much of this gut-bubbly mix before bedtime because if careless there will be a lot more than your ‘creative juices’ furiously flowing long on to the yawn of dawn.

So if you ‘HASS’ a little time and can find a few leftover Doritos crumbs in the couch, don’t forget to make more of an effort to know the oh-so-holy ‘Mole’ grail. Respect the lowly avocado because simply by shunning the sink, it can turn you green around the gills without having to work that nasty worm out of a bottle. Remember only true DIPS like me talk and hawk Guaca lots since it takes real guts to consume Kermit colored cuisine that looks EXACTLY the same prior, during, and AFTER consumption!

Gallery Gripes

I always thought galleries were for untouchable things like fancy paintings and sculptures of nekkid stuff that I never get to ordinarily see without a chaperone or a mirror. Why is it then, every stupid mattress and furniture joint who tries to sell overpriced polished n’ processed pine tree tables, and soft tops for beds label themselves a gallery? Who would buy a haughty hunk of wood to put next to your big puff n’ overstuffed ‘Sleep Number’ mattress if it’s ‘too terrific to touch or leave a water ring on either one of them?

How can I afford these high-brow furnishings anyway unless I break into my life savings glued under my hobo-hammock in a locked-box spring. Who knows, maybe the value of these ‘top drawer’ trappings is in the bed thread spun from 1000 count silken Egyptian skivvies; or possibly it’s that hard to make fancy footboard since calloused artisans always seem to put their ‘SOLES’ into their work. As far as I can tell though, the only thing that differentiates the price of the posh pads from my classy cot is an embellished embroidered cover, and the fact that my roll-a-way’s ‘ergo-WRONG-mics’ tend to disturb my bowling ball from its Brunswick slumber when I bound into bed.

if only I could get past both the yellow tags and the stains on Goodwill’s mattress bin,  I surely could find some MITEY fine bed bug buys at a bargain price, or at the very least an oversized plastic bag to play in. Oh sure the stuff hawked by those snobby spring-thing dandy dealers  at the mall smell a little fresher, but to be truly worthy of a gallery exhibition I think somebody famous should have expired on the ‘flattress’ first - or at least they should’ve been eating something expired. To the sales gurus credit though, I’ve heard that the memory foam carcass-cushions really do work; since you’ll never forget their sky-high prices  and will always remember that soft spot the salesman so smoothly shoved his ‘FUTON’ up to get you to buy.  

Hmmm on second thought instead of a bed, to save some ‘Green’, I guess I could always pound down a patch of it out on the lawn or commune with a trampoline as a bouncy bunk for bedtime. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not knocking new bedding booty – it’s just that jungle bums like me usually find our sleep-time creature comforts in parks, landfills, and under overpasses. That strategy seems to work just fine for the ducks, deer, and bear … uh as long as they don’t wander into one of those expensive, high pressure arcade galleries – of the SHOOTIN’ kind! 

Boggled by the Bagel

I’m a simple single cell-phone organism so usually when my beady peeps and I slither into the kitchen for morning sustenance I’m not really in the mood for mysteries. I prefer my eyes red, the coffee black, the butter puddle yellow, and the bagel tanned to a perfect shade of cocoa. Just like bread, bagels too should be factory sliced but unlike my white n’ airy ‘GLUTEnous’ wonder loaves, the Einstein who makes these bulky bagged bagels won’t cleave them COMPLETELY clean.

Can someone explain to me why cutting beans from the vine or bananas from a tree is apparently so simple, but to perform a basic bilateral ‘bris’ on a bushel of bagels is beyond belief? Really is it that hard to sharpen up a saber saw-toothed tiger or take a karate class or two and learn to cut my stinkin’ bagel through and through? Maybe I need to help those bagel-boilers learn how Gentiles around here traditionally ‘break bread’ better and wetter, with a little extra wine to make hard tack and tasks go down easier. 

I might forgive the lack of cuttin’-production if those 3^rd shift factory vampires were naturally repelled by everyone’s favorite breakfast breath freshener – the GARLIC bagel. I can even understand the soporific slicing of the PLAIN ol’ holey rollers can become boring, bland, and banal even for the bravest of bagel pirates who will remain ‘CUT-lass’. But I specifically bought the upscale ‘Everything’ ‘beigen’ which I think clearly implies that not only are the flavorless, indistinguishable seeds and crumbs on top included, but also somebody put in EVERY effort they had to hack the hoop completely in half!

Sadly this bagel-ballyhoo mystery is giving my mush-muffin a fork-SPLITTING headache. Not only do I have to go bankrupt to still buy a decent ‘steam-free’ bagel, but now I have to rent a knife-wielding Ninja too to cut them in two? So what's the answer as to why in the world even the BEST of the bagel breeds won't make the ‘cut’ - obviously some old school bagel bakeries are still not comfortable making breakfast for seedy beady ‘BISECT-uals' like me!

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!