My Shot at Olympic Gold

I think if there was an Olympic sport for old moldy dudes who shouldn’t compete in the Olympics then I would be a fierce contender who would ‘meddle’ in every event even without trying. Yes it’s tough to be ordinary, un-noticed, and uninspiring but I work at it hard every day and by all measures I am fairly successful. I am a reasonably strong Kong and tenacious type but to really take advantage of my tiger-like competitiveness, donuts, greasy food, or a Cracker Jack prize have to be somewhere in the mix as a motivator. 

One of my primary problems with organized sports is that they are ‘ORGANIZED’. It just takes too much work (and malt liquor) to find a crew of athletic inclined homeless people willing to run around and get sweaty for quarters and halftimes. Even then, the really good ones all have agents that want to negotiate for shiny new shopping carts and matching t-shirts with the holes and sweat stains all in the same places.  

Frankly the proper footwear for the proper sport has always been a constant bother for me too since tying shoes has never been my strong suit. Yes because I make ALL toe-toppers into slippers whether they tie or knot, more than once when bounding after a ballistic lawn dart I have inadvertently thrown a shoe or two. For ordinary sports like chasing after cars or dancing with the devil it has never been a problem, but sometimes after backgammon in a Middle Eastern coffeehouse, tossing either your shoes or cookies across the room can be seen as a tad disrespectful.

So don’t look too hard for me at an Olympic venue unless you catch me flee’n the Agean or in a Greek sandwich shop named ‘Olympic’ as I leer-o at a Gyro but ultimately go fo’ a Hero! Too bad networks won’t telecast true endurance sporting events showcasing an adept sense of balance and important life skill like I have honed over the years. Since I’m a master at balancing a hot laptop on my soft gut-spot in a red recliner, I know those 5 ring judges  would be so impressed with the prowess that I possess that I would have a sure shot at the gold … ‘Gold Bond’ powder that is!

They call me ‘Hairy WEARwithal’

Even though my hide prefers to hide in my hovel, once in a blue moon my spouse expects me to shake off and run a scum-sponge over my sag-sack before she’ll be seen with me in a fully lit room. As a not too bright troglodyte I try to comply as best as I can, but good grooming is not my strong un-rumpled suit. Anyway proper ablutions to my grill, gills, and undercarriage (of which I’m not fond), requires a full roll of quarters at the self-help car wash and usually at least one intrusive round with the de-greasing wand. 

Since I am thrifty, invariably worn-out grooming tools don’t always work as well as they should or worse, fail in mid-makeover leaving both halves of my speckless Jekyll and dirty Hyde to fight it out in public.  My razor in particular is literally a pain in the grain as it buzzes along happily UNTIL it runs into actual face-fiber, prickles, n’ quills. Yeah I’m a flexy-face-fleshed grizzled geezer so my mug-stubble dodges deftly like an NBA star to avoid abrasion, but I thought at least one of those THREE big rotary razor heads might actually be able to cut my tiny ONE on occasion.

It’s not that it just takes some strong voodoo to make me sparkle, but all that stuff to do the job has to be able to resist my autoimmune system to make my bone-bag pleasingly pink, stink, and kink-free. Can I help it if my birth-sharpened vampire incisors shred floss just as fast as they strip fleeing chickens and ribs from an all you can eat buffet? Is it really my fault that the Jello-hardened keratin in my digits dulls dog-paw clippers so much that I have resorted to just cleaving off every other fingernail, and only the toe-jammed tootsies on red-letter days.

Don’t get me wrong I’m not all that distressed about my sloppy state of dress, or those social expectations which rest with people pleasers and wide-eyed tidy types who are whisker-less. Oh sure I squeal about leaving my porky pen at times and wish I was a leaner, cleaner pretty prized pig instead of dried-up disheveled dust-deviled balut of a coot. But I figure if my wife didn’t crave my half-baked bacon-laced brain as it IS and wished me malice, then she would have married some hairless Latin rat named Alopecia Universalis.

Self-Absorbed Cheapskate

It may not surprise anyone that I am a cheapskate especially when it comes to expendables like paper towels, tissues, and toilet paper. That stuff is going to end up all wet, abused and thrown away (like my dreams) anyway so who cares if I foul the foremost or stock the shelves in name-brand nose-blow boxes. The problem is that I also tend to quibble when quality is lacking so therein lies my quandary – the delicate dance between the pocketbook and perfection.

Yes when I wolf down a Subway ‘sammie’ while getting coated in crumbs n’ goo is hard on you, I guarantee it’s a lot worse for me with their skimpy single-ply lack-napkin policy. Even if I try to wipe my grizzled n’ chiseled chin to please, any shadow left from my shaver will shred those folded flimsy rags with ease. I can’t afford the famous lumberjack-backed paper towels which are apparently tough and made of real wood to last forever; so I’m stuck with those wimpy prints that melt at the first sight of moisture in my feed trough or behind my ears. 

I don’t want to brag or anything but when my bodily fluids start to flow, absorbency in my arsenal of paper products is a real plus especially if I can save mo’ dough. I just wish God would try tough-talking to the Angel Soft TP crew to induce cost-cutting cues, so when I produce I can confidently sit on a pew or loo without shame, blame or need for a flame.  Now even my Band-Aids need to be triple thick when I ask for ‘em, since my cereal taste like sticks and is teeming with minerals and 12 essential aspirin. 

While the minimalist impact world’s all abuzz about going ‘Green’ with intent to environmentally appease, apparently someone forgot to remind the Kleenex folks THAT’s NOT a good thing when spewing a sneeze. Some say I’m ‘self-absorbed’ but both my skin n’ sleeve do deny, if it’s not blotted the ‘eww-glue’ will crawl off onto you too, like a soggy pet peeve to die. Hey when it comes to the stuff that I want to share, I prefer to do it in writing rather than ON person so keep my paper goods strong and the size of a sheet but more importantly to me - keep ‘em CHEAP!

Self ESTEAM

Being a fun guy like me can be a tad risky around here since all of our bathrooms are stocked with antibacterial soap, alcohol wipes, and highly polished mirrors. Who really wants to wake up first thing in the morning to sniff n’ see a wild-haired colorless monad staring back at you, so my wife arms herself with a cross and a bottle of Febreeze. At least for now the shock is tempered since I still grin with most of my real teeth and any that are missing were replaced long ago with caramel popcorn hulls for a near perfect Hillbilly smile.

 

Oh sure I could employ some industrial waterproof adhesive or pasty Pomade to do something about my perpetually sweaty bed-headed cowlick coiffure. I could also probably find a toga or two-a to wear that is wholly hole-free, or at the very least made crease-less by a hot rock to hide my wrinkled wide hide. True I guess too, I could hose off a little more often and try to embrace the grace of society’s commercialized perfumery rather than gag violently at its long-lingering stench in excess of my own.

Actually for most folks repulsion is something they avoid like the plague but for me, similar to a skunk’s self defenses, I like to wallow in my own scent of imperfections and unique wafts of flaws. What better way to fend off people who desire to engage me in the mall or while shopping for a warehouse barrel of Beano at the club discount store? As a rule on the rare occasion I do venture out among the living it isn’t to talk to strangers but rather to restock the bunker, or treat my spouse to a luxuriously erudite dining flight of faire from our local sticky-floor Mickey D’s to share.

So that bedraggled bed-wetted n’ walking dead headed homeless-looking dude you shun while you shop isn’t always as bad off as you think. Those unlaced shoes and that matted thatch all may be clues to a ruse that they live by their own rules; and society’s playbook which most of us see is simply not up to their cup of pee. Anyway since it’s cold outside, take solace and know that at least in my case, few plumes of fumes that surround will wreak -  ‘cause that’s just excess self eSTEAM I leak.

Squirrel Tale

As I huddle in my igloo over winter I have little to do but watch my nails grow slow so I can scratch places that ordinarily require a hooked fireplace poker to stab in the crannies and jab under the nooks. Occasionally I will turn my attentions to the outside world when I’m forced to interact with a rival rabid Yeti, a mail fairy, or the late paper carrier pigeon. Consequently, squirrels are the only flea-bitten n’ fuzzy foe around here (other than myself) who face daily frigid forecasts of a freezing tundra, and our fat frozen TAILS way down ‘unda’.

Our dance begins on a whim, high in a tree on a flimsy sprig as I hang a durable oversized bird feeder filled to the brim to lure rodent rivals for exciting wintertainment games so close in. When temps fall low smart birds won’t show, but simple squirrels will freely unfurl, from nests as guests to play, with gusto at my seedy buffet. No matter how precariously placed the chow or deep the abyss, there’s always at least one rodent-Rambo who refuses to bow, and embraces the risk.  

Hence from my squirrely visitants I expect a good tease, and with single-mindedness and an unrelenting effort to seize, they raucously rock n’ knock my foodie taunts to appease. On a half inch branch, tails splayed towards sky, those acrobatic rats fight gravity and balance shyly to belie, a possibly impossible chance to die. Indeed for both sides the reward is great - worth the brisk risk in icy air to tempt fate; if the squirrels steal but a small snack for each cold show, then I’ve got a month’s worth of frozen fun lined up quid pro quo. 

But wait, my gray, fuzzy, buck-toothed brethren had a clandestine angle all of their own, to which was not privy me or trusted to be known. The shaking was relentless and it wasn’t from weather, the fearless fiendishly toppled my treed feeder to ground, and got not only one over me - but one better. In retrospect now too brave or too dim, my intrepid tree-bRATS weren’t content dining out on a limb. Clearly this crafty rogue rodent clan, prefers ‘take-home’ over pleasing me and conforming to plan. Since with no homage or a hint of respect for my deed, to the forest they hauled off WHOLE, both my pricey topped-off seed-feeder, and left me tounge-‘Teed’!