Thursday, July 24, 2014

Microwave Missionary

Although spies like microwaves for a completely different mission, hungry for something hippos like me only use the common cooking nook appliance to bombard electrons against cold pizza and occasionally chilly FEET-za. What better way to give my beltline a bulging boost than with a pushbutton box that takes frozen pasty pablum and turns it into bold tasty hot n’ tots. Of course the fridge is still my secret kitchen-mistress though unlike ‘mikey’ she is cold-hearted and always wreaks of feet even after a thorough scrubbing .   

As a fan of the ‘wave’ I’d like to see a mini-micro in every spare pigeon-place in my home and car, since all should heed my call to count down their next mandatory fragrant bacon injection. Who wouldn’t benefit from a transformer family van with a magnetron on board ready to jump start a bun in the oven or toast your toes during a cold commute. At least the built-in blocky clocks would keep better time than the tinny Timex hanging from the Rear view mirrors in both my car and bedroom. 

My only Radar-Range recurring issue is whenever I stuff something rank inside, half of it boils over and spits out onto the walls and falls on the sides of the box yet the remaining food left on the plate is still stone cold? I have enough trouble cleaning my OWN steel can much less the one that surrounds and scorches my supper Tupperware too. Don’t worry I solved the problem by just covering stuff with gold rimmed china – not only is there no need to scrub crusty crud but I get a feisty fireworks show too.

Honestly what kitchen occupant other than the microwave has truly revolutionized cooking, unless you count ME with a potpourri of popcorn and pork rinds revolving around my ample roll-hole. Even that spice queen I ride hard in the corner called ‘lazy Susan’ is mostly just a pepper flake and easily replaced with a rack if it gives me flack. Too bad my wife probably feels the same and would jump at the chance to show me the mesh-lined door of ‘merry-Mike’s’ dizzy core for a quick SIT n’ spin if she dared. Except  the spouse would surely grouse that the clean-up risk is far too great, since so often I’m stuffed brim-up with lots of hot what-nots on my plate and dangerously round-throne prone to SEAT-sickness!

Thursday, July 17, 2014

What’s it all about SELFIE?

All the talk now on the news, clap-trap-yap TV, and mindless media programming is ‘Selfie’ this and ‘Selfie’ that, so much so I need a NAP! When I had more luscious locks and a gut that could stay stuffed in a shirt we called the EXACT same activity a ‘self-portrait’. I can’t even stand looking at myself or other vampires in mirrors now because if I see one more lifeless selfie I think I’m gonna’ be sick. 

Since we are sensitive to a more enlightened, politically correct world now why choose to popularize a term which discriminates against those who are unable to take moronic still photos of themselves? Frightened criminals , alcoholics with the D.T’s, and even some pizza employees might feel left out unless we call their personal photoshoots the ‘Shakey’s’. Of course clandestine spies should shun the term and practice all together but if they did ever take a shot in the dark they surely would prefer to call it a ‘Stealthy’.

Clearly like everything these days the more formal expression of language has been compacted small and made cuddly cute for incurious kids. I think society has become immune to any word that consists of more than one or two syllables and an occasional ‘grunt’ for comic emphasis while texting. I bet if we filled our planet full of apes even if they couldn’t speak, they would still bark, bellow, and slide their way through school as long as they had a CELLfie camera phone.

As my brain gets moldier, nuttier, and more mellow like Brie cheese, it would be better to note my self-portrait’s as a ‘Softee’ instead of ‘Selfie’ anyway. Oh sure I know that moniker is not too flattering for most men but for me it’s the most positive self-reflection I can ever hope for. You see it beat’s the only other obvious option of ‘Stinkee’ since ‘Scrawny’ I’m afraid is still about 100 pounds out of the question. 

Thursday, July 10, 2014

Ladder Man Lunch

Though I have never been too good at climbing company ladders, the ape shape inbred into my heredity allows me to scale their A-frame namesakes and scarf small hands of bananas in a single bound.  Step stools, buckets, padded chairs – you name it if I can stand on ‘em at precarious angles, then I’m the primate who can’t wait for lunch on a ledge. Don’t worry I’m usually safe since in addition to my freakishly flexible feet, I always unfurl at least one prehensile appendage to assist in my ascent, to manage a branch office and a delicious deli ‘sammich’.

Extension ladders are fine too as long as they are not automatically pretzel shaped and snapped compact with dozens of hinged jointy jaws and clickety-clapping pinchy bits. My tiny mind is already awash with webs, glue and tasks to do atop the ladder, rather than the matter of cognitive effort of how to un-spring the thing and sing its amazing praises beforehand too. Just be sure I have something harder than my head to lean on, and land to stand stronger than quicksand, or risk a strident screech from a Howler monkey in heat and an involuntary Grey Poupon discharge from sub to street.

You see the true fear I flee has more to do with the swish to and fro than the height of the tree. So whatever towering fermented turnip I tear up rarely matters but keep your bad breath to yourself and lets blow our separate ways to keep that sway far away. I get dizzier on a boat or a roller coaster than I do on a ladder but that’s probably because my Korean munches won’t roll with punches and often end up as Kimchi chum for fishes lunches.   
Logically I know the pole I shimmy has got a thicker skin than I do yet still the only flag waving and chewing I should be doing when windy is in town is firmly footed down soundly on the ground. So I must vow to ‘do’ lunch like everyone else with my paw grasped tightly to trencher shoveling carbs to craw; soft buns safely terra-firma bound to a gooey booth at the Hometown Buffet. Drinking diuretics though is another matter and a true hypoxic thing of beauty at high altitude for only real men who dare reach beyond the simple stool. For who among us can deny living life on the ledge with a topped-off bladder, yet not answer gravity’s depressingly relentless siren call with a forceful and resolute ladder-man SPLATTER!

Thursday, July 3, 2014

Containing burps

Given my transparent need to keep stuff, it probably comes as no surprise that I  love a clear tub with a lid as long as it’s not a coffin and makes a satisfying belch when expelling air. Who cares what the contents is or what the packaging was originally meant for as long as I can see and slosh around the bloated stuff inside. Too bad nobody makes a completely transparent car because I would be the first to sign up for one, though I would be too cheap to buy the sunroof option.

Tupperware branded bins are dandy indeed but typically too fancy for my plebeian need or the way I feed. I buy highly processed and pasteurized red tagged deli meats that usually live in the clearance corners of Costco for my hill-people hunger. Of course the skinny limp lids don’t Frisbee fly as well as the heavy duty stuff for real or clay pigeon practice, but they are fine to keep nails in or anything else that drops out of my toe clippers.

Anyway terrific ‘T-ware’ comes in too many colors for my pale tailed palette and sorely poorly achromatic attitude. Last month’s leftovers stashed in the back of our furry fridge are typically molded-over in green, red, and blue so why do I need the outside of the containers decorated in rainbow colors too? On the off chance I ever have a pyramid marketing party at this ant hill, I want see-through stuff to view the age of the victual kibble n’ bits that grabsters take home as parting gifts in their top-notched ‘Tupp’.

Though I have to admit that I do miss the pleasure of goosing a burp out of those fancy brand tubbies stacked high in the cubbies. Next to the joy from my whole tank-topped clan joined arm and pit around fire and spit belching planks from the Bill of Rights, in the end nothing’s more fun than forcing air out of a small flexible container. Just ask any lucky lug who dare hugged my young swaddled spud after I made her into a double bubble dose of a sinner by downing an organic broccoli and green bean milkshake dinner!

Thursday, June 26, 2014

Signpost Suggestions

No matter where I go in this great country I continually have one pet peeve which is consistent from sea to salty sea. No I am not whining about fat cat politicians or just fat cats in general, it’s that I don’t ‘get’ why all the street names in every city are named the same. Oh sure ‘Main’ is ok for a name and City administrators like to prove they can count so I can see a First street up through Three but after that, it’s high time to find unique and better names for our dull mailbox-laden streets.

I am not sure why it is so hard to find memorable and creative names for streets when all one has to do is crack the fridge for a slew of good Nouns along with a bonus pungent whiff of overripe fruit. What bar-b-que weekend warrior wouldn’t relish the chance to live at the intersections of ‘Catsup and Mustard’, ‘Mayo and ‘Mato’ or ‘Chips n’ Salsa’? What’s wrong with changing a flat by ‘Monterey Jack’ and ‘Colby’ or navigating by nasal to the dump in-between ‘Limburger Lane’ and ‘Roquefort Road.

Since we are all fired up about healthcare these days, why not get the drug manufacturers in on the fun and let them pay royalties to advertise their offerings. I think even if I sucked up plenty of Vitamin D and calcium in a sunny city, I still would be comfortable with speed-walking at the corner of  ‘Boniva Boulevard and Osteoporosis’.  I doubt if old dudes would have much trouble populating a singles condo complex at ‘Via Viagra’ and ‘Cialis Court’ but I’m not sure if the address would be popular with the macho college set.

We should think about more honest signage as well so why shouldn’t every place have a ‘Potential Death Drive’ or the meandering but easily explainable Colorado byways of ‘POThole’, ‘POTpourri’, and the ever-risky ‘POTshot’. So how hard is it to come up with some fresh names other than ‘Oak’, ‘Lake’, and ‘Hill’ – just seek out the most inspiring and creative places you can. In my case I just head to my favorite ‘thinking’ spot where I do my BEST work to come up with signpost suggestions like, ‘Throne, Plunger, and Can-DOO Avenue’!