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’!

Thursday, June 19, 2014

Compelling Smelling Revelation



As I have wandered around for more than a half century I have tried to breathe regularly despite smog, pollen, and a clogged ski-sloped schnoz stuck atop my jaws. Since I have apparently been born with hostile nostrils, I have come to accept choosing sides daily when it comes to sucking in air or shooting out organics or the occasional stray legume. What my stuffed potato head clearly needs is a new snap-on proboscis perfectly perforated with a pair of pierced portals so I can breathe heavily on the phone again like other people.

Clearly a long nozzled ‘neti pot’ filled with hot green tea to un-stuff the snuffer is in order and even if it doesn’t work, I still will tickle my adenoids with the healthful benefits of flavonoids. These days my only excuse for green stuff up my nose is the brackish pool water that I swim in though no matter how much I try, I still can’t breathe underwater very well.  As I recall even that rubber-headed mouth-breather, The Creature from the Black Lagoon had a better wet ‘bill’ than I have plus a great set of gills to impress the HAUGHTy girls on the beach.

It’s not all bad though since depending on the size of the fipple I force into my forepart, I can make a pretty impressive whistle to ‘cat call’ to attractive wolves or unattractive cabs that happen by my hovel. Since the prow below my brow is so often closed for business, I rarely have to pump the bilge since my beak’s not subject to leaks or close encounters of the wet kind. If I ever catch myself running behind too quickly or just need a brake after a rat race, I simply tilt my head back and flare the face and brace for resistance from wind and any terrified onlookers.

The REAL problem as I see it is that I have no frame of reference as to how a good or bad performing nose behaves, other than having a pointy one seems better than a flatsy like that Phantom of the Opera nut. Yeah I might be a little too nasal-nosey about strangers olfactory but I just want to be sure that I still smell right and have always smelled, at least as good or only a little worse than everyone else! Hmm, maybe I’ve been wrong to doubt my snout and I should reconsider that my horn is more the norm than I at first thought? I’m sure my thinking will be clearer with a box of Kleenex , a vat of Vicks, and a can of spray paint in an unventilated space, just so I can put my finger in – uh . . . ON IT!