The Pajama Monoblogs

The STAG Party

2012-01-26T16:08:00.005-06:00

While I know Rudolph is kind of cute with his rosy nose and all, but as horny beasts go I’m not really a big fan of deer or the cloven hoof set like politicians. Yes, only those ‘Pippi Long-noggins’ bloated H2O buffalo and maybe that dude the Devil, can count on BOTH of my toes as hoven beasts that I hold in high-hoof regard. Hey I know as marauding packs of wild politicos on the loose go, Bambi’s family should probably be the least of my beastly burdens huh?

The problem is that the herd mentality of ‘my deer friends’ reminds me a bit too much of the average voter; except here we don’t FAWN over politicians -we spew at them, and then I turn my white tail and run. Given my back yard I think that there is clearly room for a third party in local politics and it is the ‘Stag party’. Oh sure I know they won’t win many votes despite being overqualified in thoughtlessly using other people’s resources, but remember they’re bred to be fat n’ lazy and want lots of ‘DOE’!

I need to be careful however when disparaging deer and equating them to worthless politicians because whenever I leave my house the bucks are now apparently stalking ME and it’s making me paranoid. I mean GEEZ, like Congress wonks, where do these big dumb things hide all day, and then how do they magically show up at night under my mailbox? I’m so sick of coming outside every morning to see my plants stripped naked & then as a bonus several new lawn gnome cannon ball sculptures piled all over the yard? Every day around here feels like April 15th because my life is so TAXING!

Everyone seems curious about the motives of chickens but I want to know why dopey deer can’t show any patience and wait to cross the road, until AFTER I drive by, rather than DART in before? Am I that oblivious or is this the meaningful stuff that we REALLY want solved by our ‘dear’ politicians? After all, we already know they are all experts at laying around chewing over the same old cud forever, but better yet with FOUR equal chambers of governmental digestion, unlike myself, deer have the TRUE STOMACH for politics!

Fasting food

2012-01-19T16:00:00.003-06:00

I like a fine meal of quality kibble just like most old dogs, but usually for sustenance, I’m reduced to scraping the mold from bread heels and over-ripe jars of Cheese Whiz. You needn’t worry - I can afford the ‘good’ cat food; it’s just that I tend to be a ‘fast grab n’ go’, garbage grinding, eaten’-freak . Hey at least I’m not finicky and anyway can I help it that I happen to have a seven course appetite with only the attention span of an appetizer ?

Now the real problem is that the foods which are typically easy- prep ‘mono-meals’ for most, prove to be akin to rocket science for me. Though any kid can toast one, my wife refuses to buy ‘frosted’ Pop Tarts now, since the smell of my frequent stinky sugar fires triggers her un-naturally sensitive Pavlovian gag reflex. Curiously that Pavlov dude and I have a lot in common since THAT reaction is almost identical when my wife READS my ‘gags’ too.

Even the ubiquitous blue-collar and blue-box favorite ‘ Mac n’ Cheese’ puzzles me. No matter how hard I try to cook this gunk I always wind up to my elbow macaroni in a pan of slimy flavorless pasta paste. I think if they marketed a ‘head cold’ in a bowl it would certainly look just a delightfully pale yellow and as a bonus, might even a taste a tad more satisfying too!

Hey don’t whine to me about my unhealthy fast-food eating habits, because if I could just grab a ‘salad on a stick’ without all that drippy dressing, I would try to eat that too. At least I’m not sponging off my friends, sucking down protein shakes daily like those pasty-faced, movie teens and their ‘Type O’ positive personalities. Yes only Vamps, plants and Starfish are fans of liquid diets, and anyway is it too much to ask somebody to make some chow to chew that doesn’t take a Masters degree to masticate!

Throw 'Throws' Away!

2012-01-12T16:00:00.001-06:00

Who is the bright bulb that came up with the idea that decorative frayed bar doilies should be called ‘throws’? Oh sure these things are marketed as small blankets, but not to brag or anything but I have loin cloths bigger than most of these diaper-sized quilts. How can I be expected endure more frigidity in my life and yet make the correct ‘Sophie’s choice’ between a chilly chest and frozen feet with these 'tinker-towels' in tow?

Except for teenagers, don’t regular folks tend to FOLD larger hunks of fabric rather than THROW them all over the place anyway? Hey I’m not a monster, I understand the necessity of dragging around sheets by your teeth and leaving them in a spitty rumpled heap if you don’t have hands. But for the rest of us, save for the occasional wild HARE burrowing in my 'tum-button' lint, I expect a moderate degree of order for all of life's things that are warm n’ fuzzy.

I continually pinch my proboscis and learn to suck up the effects of ‘chaos theory’ when attempting to butterfly 'onesies' & fold oversized terry robes into crisp-cornered towers of happy linen. Despite advanced age and a graying dome of memory-foam, I HAVE softened my stance a tad on the evils of swiss-cheesed snuggie-smocks and their impossible-to-tame fleecy appendages. I have even given up trying to force fitted sheets to heel demurely in the linen closet without their defiant, wrinkled fuzzy tongue-flap sticking out at me!

But forgive my lack of compassion for the ‘rectanglely-challenged’ squares out there who find difficulty in lining up four corners of their decorative knit-napkins posing as Grandma’s favorite thigh-sized Barcalounger blankie. Do me a favor and suck down an ipecac smoothie and throw up heaps of those ‘eau de tiny-towelettes’ or at least toss ‘em out the window on Flag day. Yes it’s high time that somebody really low like me stood up for snappy stacks of Kong-sized king blankets; to BOTH warm the calloused cockles of my toasty toes and fend off the frappe' frost from my nose!

Trix is for Cereal Killers

2012-01-05T16:00:00.002-06:00

Don’t worry, I’m not here to pass judgment or ‘graham-bash’ your precious grainy breakfast favorites. No in fact, the gang around here seems to thrive on their morning ritual of whole wheat leaves, shredded twigs, and some kind of indistinguishable gummy shriveled n’ wrinkly, dehydrated ‘Franken-fruit’. I would probably even learn to love this stuff myself if I wasn’t always the last one to pry a near-empty carton of stale sugar coated corn meal and ‘flakettes’ out of my pantry’s lifeless and ventilated wiry grip.

I believe in ‘choice’, I really do but not if it ends up killing me. How many types of cereal does a big pre-sweetened mouth like mine need open at the same time for one’s life and gut-bump to feel truly fulfilled? Since I’m married and already an old 'frosted flake' by nature I do my best not to cavort with every random honey puff and marshmallow bit that I come across on the floor. But just once I’d really like to know the pleasure of a hairless, plain-Jane & palpable pablum in lieu of my normal morning ‘hodge podge trough’ of multi-sourced and generously gritty grains.

It’s really not a lot to ask to KNOW what goes into the cereal bowl you are eating every morning is it? Now honestly aren’t you a little bit curious if All Bran simply looks like gerbil food, or if it’s Really that tasty? What kind of nefarious contraband and fruitful goo-chews are they really hiding under that iced candy coating on the shredded wheat and extra puffy rice? I don’t know about you but I don’t trust that scoff-law Trix bunny since he is nowhere to be found whenever I have to finish off the dregs of a box of Bran. I'm SURE he’s hiding something and wants to harm me … Yes sometimes raisins can be suspiciously TOO fresh & uncomfortably plump!

Resolv-olution!

2011-12-29T16:00:00.001-06:00

Hey what’s the big deal with resolutions and New Year’s Eve? Honestly last time we hung out with EVE didn’t we learn anything after that little ‘apple incident’ back in the days of Eden? Wouldn’t you know it though, like everyone else, just before that big dumb glitter ball drops, I can’t help it – I want to start resolving stuff too!

The problem is that one minute into the New Year and I immediately begin to lose my resolve to actually follow through with those lofty-topped resolutions. I mean it’s tough trying to keep my vows and stop eating my own weight in chicken wings – especially since the farm ‘chicks’ I hang out with are never ‘down’ with that. Oh sure it would be nice to replace our clog-prone commodes with those bowls that will swallow buckets of golf balls; but whose got that much time to pilfer from the driving range?

We don’t need some arbitrary end-of-year date to tell us what to do and how to better change our ways. Anyway, isn’t December already kind of packed full of holiday hoe-downs and expensive excesses without the added burden of tired self-reflection and relentless regret rituals? Maybe my first resolution this year will be to dissolve the resolve of New Years Day and start a ‘Resolv-olution’ of sorts!

Just think how great it would be to face the upcoming year guilt-free while wearing any ol’ quirky lampshade you care to slip on? Even that fat, pink n’ ‘nekkid’ sash-ensconced New Years baby could eat anything and would appreciate the freedom from making hefty life decisions so early in the year. Without lofty goals or high-brow standards to get in the way, I could do darn near anything today and worry about those nagging consequences and restrictive resolutions tomorrow. Or better yet how about next month, or maybe next YEAR during some memorable & special event in time? Hmmm … why not when they drop that shiny New Years ball at Midnight – now that’s a revolutionary resolution solution!

Conephobia

2011-12-22T16:00:00.001-06:00

Ever since I donned my first dunce cap in a dark n’ dreary corner at grade school, I have never been a fan of cone shaped objects. Think about it, whenever cones shows up outside a party it almost ALWAYS means trouble - or at least a lot of traffic congestion. Yeah, it may be hip these days to condone garden gnomes and worship Harry Potter’s talking wizard topper, but let me tell you nothing good (especially my grades) has ever come from pointy-head geometry.

Oh sure you can use your Cone-dome to single-out South East Asians who truly love their Mekong rice-paddy hats to keep and look cool all at the same time. Remember though, not so far away pimple-popping Pacific peaks freely spit-up lava in your face, like a bad baby brimming with gut-gas and a craw full of over-ripe pineapple pablum. Yep, the only comely Cone-y that a big APEx like me will pony up to at a table, is one slathered in mustard, onions, and oh so fashionable neon-green relish.

Also, what ‘dim-tin-tin’ dog of a marketing ‘goo-roo’ decided that ice cream is far more fun in a pencil tipped ‘sugar cone’ rather than in the confines of a safe, sane, and POINT-LESS ‘cake cup’? Does this waffling world of ice cream wimps REALLY need two types of edible receptacles; especially when the one with the bayonet for a body makes us dig a hole FIRST before we can sit the drippy mess down?

Double ditto for phony-coney coffee filters – after all these years, other than the Easter Bunny and his marshmallow nougated ilk, what’s the ‘prob’ with packs of flat n’ happy BASKET cases? Remember though, since I’m from the Midwest, you have to slice me a scintilla of slack. Because around these parts, both alley dwelling funnel clouds and funnel cake blowhards like myself have been known to run amok on occasion which often leads to great damage of both the tree-line as well as my waistline!

My Dickens Christmas traditions

2011-12-15T15:00:00.000-06:00

Except for the stuffed and mounted Santa & sleigh on the wall, my family has a few oddball Christmas traditions too just like everyone else. Mind you I’m no Scrooge-dude, but over the years I have assembled a slightly warped array of holiday harbingers & habits to help herald n’ Hark the angels ‘BARK’, albeit a bit off-key. Oh sure our gaggle of odd ducks still suck nog and exchange gifts of cheap & waxy chocolate covered cherries and brickyard fruitcake, because Christmas is nothing if it isn’t about quality.

Anyone can buy gaudy and poorly made 3rd world ornaments for their family but I insist on contributing to our nation’s constant need for landfill refuse by making my own. Yes, nearly every year I try to show my Mother the meaning of ‘true love’ with a homemade or recycled ornament creation of hanging JOY. Who can resist some of these decades old deformed beauties when they are made out of rare Christmas finery like waffle batter, peanut shells, melted soda bottles, or my favorite art medium – dryer lint?

My wife’s siblings and parents prefer to exchange ‘gag’ gifts every year instead of the obligatory stacks of lifeless gift cards. It makes sense since doesn’t everyone love a holiday meal graced with a giant restaurant-sized can of pork n’ beans donning a glittery Santa hat at the head of the table? Not to be out-done, my own Father spreads a healthy helping of Christmas cheer too by annually competing with his Army buddies to distribute the ‘UGLIEST’ Christmas cards they can find and dare send.

So judge me not for my inner ‘hum bug’ and forgive my assault upon age-old holiday traditions. Clearly I am one pinched loaf short of a bread pudding and my lameness should remain blameless due to my family’s BAD genes AND taste. So now you know my relatives may see quality differently, but we TOO try to keep a Dicken’s Christmas “well’ – it’s just that we’re a 'tiny Tim' more ‘SCROOGED’ up than you.

HillBILLY 'Grinchmas'

2011-12-07T16:01:00.003-06:00

Hey just because I’m always scratching, walking around with spinach in my teeth, and usually hairy doesn’t mean that I am some hillbilly Christmas Grinch. The only issue is that as I get older I would prefer if all the holiday ‘Hul-la-ba-WHO’ would just get over with a tad quicker, that’s all. Far beyond the gallons of Nyquil I brew n’ consume from the still daily; effectively from one second after Halloween through New Years day, life compresses and besieges me as one big, bimonthly burr-blur.

Oh sure it’s easy to act all high & jolly and kiss random elves & animals when mistletoe, rum-laced nog and choco treats race to the brain to free my inner ‘DOPE-amine’. But I really don’t need any more excuses to do LESS work or accost my remaining un-institutionalized friends or their laundry, with good CHEER and random acts of Christmas. Anyway, who wants Santa’s stinking perpetual pine scent all over my trusty rust-bucket and bounty of hoarded stuff for one sixth of my entire life? As long as my wife, a.k.a. ‘Mrs. Claws’, gives me permission to goof off and keep intravenously beefing up my already well powdered and sugar-coated ‘gut-muffin’, every day IS MY holiday Right?!

Yeah I grouse and whine but it’s all in good ‘ol bum-country fun. Actually my inner ‘Grinch’ is rather endearing when I start to pass ou..t - uh sorry?, … the roast beast feast to my cousin, mother, and step-daughter - who all happen to be the SAME person. While city-folk rage over the age-old quandary of ham OR turkey, ‘round here, at our ‘Road-Kill rally’ we can score BOTH, cooked over a roaring Firestone tire fire by the ‘up-chuck wagon’. Usually by Christmas though, not only has my ‘Grinch-initesimal ‘ heart abruptly enlarged, but my beltline and the pan full of cat litter under my Lazy Boy has swelled thrice its size as well.

So you coastal dwellers and holiday snobs can keep all of your fancy long drawn-out traditions, seasonally-lighted houses with the wreath adorned doors, and fake snow on your window panes. In the Midwest we NEVER take down our lights without a court order and we drive around with REAL deer and bloody antlers stuck to our pick-ups. Yes, in the ‘Zarks, we can count on the pleasure of genuine snow and frigidity to brighten our toothless smiles far beyond just the months of November and December. Gee I guess around here every day must be Christmas and I am just an old ‘inbred Grinch’ after all!

Forget gyms just EXERCISE!

2011-12-01T15:58:00.003-06:00

Just because I don’t belong to a gym doesn’t mean I’m averse to exercise, it just means that in MY typical mental state I am not allowed to operate HEAVY machinery. No to stay fit, I want to get my ‘juice’ the old fashioned way by skulking back and forth between the refrigerator, recliner, and the litter box near the roach motel. I used to be in a lot better shape when I was young but once they invented zippers, TV remotes and the devil’s utensil – the ‘spork’, I got a little lazy and a tad flabby.

Oh sure since I type a lot and know my way around a can of aerosol cheese, you probably have guessed that I’m a world class athlete from wrists to fingerprints. Sadly it’s just the rest of my flesh that flaps and flags furiously in a stiff wind which makes me pause, not with concern, but to catch my breath. Apparently my wife worries about my cold, stiff, body too, since she routinely tells me where to ‘go’ to warm up, and she wants me to get off my coffin to increase my activity level and exercise routine.

Even during frigid times of the year I try to appease the spouse with a brisk walk together over the dark and cold Midwest tundra to Taco Bell for dinner. I don’t mind following carrots as long as they taste like tacos, and anyway you’ve never lived until you boot your way through recently thawed permafrost into a two inch layer of muddy ‘Mr. Ma-GOO’! Who needs a hot, expensive & sweaty gym when the great outdoors will suck off your shoes and offer-up 10 pound ankle anchors for free? After all bulky Hulks like me need all the help I can get, to lift and separate my Frankenstein gate, and enhance my already cartoon-creature image.

Like satanic thoughts, most of my daily fitness routine is thrust upon me involuntarily anyway, as I try to keep up with the stuff that makes trouble, breaks double, or takes a fall on top of my ‘un-loved’ Amityville shack. Inside this cavern, there is always a cold darkness stalking me, but that might be because I’m just ‘bats’ by pulling the shades and setting the thermostat too low? When it comes to graveYARD work I am taunted by millions of demon leaves and howling, windy, tree-things which need bunching, crunching, and perpetual decomposition. Now you can see I don’t really need to be banished to a gym to get in shape - I just need to be regularly EXORCISED!

Turkey Envy

2011-11-24T10:00:00.006-06:00

Being a fan of all things ‘foul’, you can probably guess that I sincerely love a golden turkey on Thanksgiving. As a butterball myself, I have a ‘pop-out’ soft spot for sharing a pleasant holiday meal with my dandy-fam and nothing but ol’ ‘tasty Tom’ will literally fit THIS Bill! Despite that, I honestly still feel uncomfortable when around naked tawny turkeys with their prickled skin and in their pre-basted state of undress. I’m clearly no ‘Freudo’ psych-pro but this apprehension most likely speaks to my repressed childhood where I would avoid the high school showers after P.E. for the EXACT same reason.

Hey I know my ancient ancestors were ‘real men’ who had to run down and dance with anything they could get their ‘grubbies’ on just to avoid starvation. But even the most ardent and skilled ancient hunters probably didn’t shower either, before dragging a ‘kill’ back for others in the camp-clan to stuff n’ slather to the turkey tango. So ergo in modern times, I have technically already ‘done my share’ of the Thanksgiving prep. by picking-up the poultry in all its royal plumpness from the market and packing it home, right?

Oh sure you think I’m a ‘wuss’ and feel all high and mighty just because you fancy yourself as a master at buttering up and stroking cold, dead flesh per age old traditions. Remember morticians are pretty good at that too and even with their big high-brow Cadillacs, nobody EVER says they’re the life of the party. Besides, my tribe keeps me around for the NORMAL Ozark side dishes and immoral support. You haven’t really lived until you’ve feasted upon red Jello with buckets of fridge leftovers in translucent suspended animation, or my famous ‘hillbilly’ fresh greens overflowing with classy cheese-doodle croutons.

Still I wish I had the right stuff to shove a cuff up a big bird when called upon. Maybe it’s just a matter of practice so I need to stop being a chicken by ducking the plucking and start small to work my way up through the aviary food chain? I figure a finch is a cinch and a goose should boost my ‘hands-up’ experience with the egg-layers & cavity union. I am a bit skeptical though, because even if I triumph over my turkey touching trauma I still have to come face to fowl with the business end of an ostrich, ten pounds of Oleo and a toaster oven. I still don’t know how I’ll do it but like blogging, the best way is to NOT think about it and just ‘WING’ it!

Happy Thanksgiving!

The SNUGGIE clause

2011-11-17T16:30:00.000-06:00

Well it may be my repressed n’ all-wet, Brawny paper towel guy talking, but if there is one thing in life that my wife loves for the holidays, it’s big, bulky, plain-jane, oversized flannel jammies. Who can resist the soft downy touch of a pile of (preferably washed) perky plaid lumberjack duds? Despite the occasionally dicey run-ins with Paul’s bunions and other hairy guys in knitted caps with axes to grind, who doesn’t want to know what’s TRULY BEHIND the ‘trapdoor hatch’ in oh-so- cozy ‘onesie’ pajamas?

Let’s face it though, anything flannel should never be in close proximity to normal department store silky lingerie. Do you really think foot-draggers like myself, have any desire to slink through the lacy & racy store aisles unless we’re yelling for ‘Sanctuary’ and being hunted by ‘clip-on tie clerks’ with torches? Those underwear enclaves with their nasty hooks, wires, and strings are the things of tortured dreams. I’m threatened by garments which won’t rack right and their intentions protrude unnaturally into the path of my cart’s personal space. In these ‘cess-dens’ of black satin & nude-colored hosiery, women’s burning eyes will just stare at me with revulsion and fear - but I almost always leave their stupid louvered changing rooms when asked politely.

With winter upon us I recently decided to surprise the wife with a brand new set of flannel jams to brighten her smile and warm up all of her other dark parts. Searching for new heavyweight matching P.J.’s is a big responsibility and believe me I don’t take the task lightly. The only beaten dead horse around here is me, so there’s no way I’m going to saddle my best half’s flesh with just any old flannel from Bangladesh – she’s deserves the BEST thread count that 3rd world child labor can loom.

Little did I know that my minor ‘mission probable’ would turn into a major pain in the impossible. What retail marketing genius decided that this Christmas, everyone wants NON-matching, ‘licensed icon’, half-calf, sleep separates anyway? In between the floods, famine, and random wildlife wandering the streets, did all of Asia run out of the same NORMAL ‘flan-jam’ palette of muted pastel tints, lints, and twine? Geez for $40 bucks the spouse shouldn’t have to grouse about jams with flying Tabasco bottles, Daffy rocket ducks, or even Santa’s own sugar plum fairies dancing anywhere near her happy-lap. Anyway she’s already CONTRACTED with ME if she wants a hulking , plain, & furry softy to keep her warm . . . all she has to do is enforce the holiday flannel provision known as, the ‘SNUGGIE CLAUS’!

Stinking Credit Card Colors

2011-11-10T16:30:00.001-06:00

You’d think one of the great joys in my life is to look in my wallet and see lots of pictures of Green dead Presidents. Yes, stacks of cash are a step above the obligatory lint balls, expired McDonalds Monopoly pieces, and torn n’ tattered school pix from when my kid was half her current age. But the real highlight of my low-life, faux-leather ’billy-fold’, is my true-blue credit card, used to plump up my ‘piggy’ with pennies from every purchase.

Oh sure, I conceal and carry the Crayola collection of ‘CRUDit’ cards in every conceivable shade of the rainbow. However, most of that collective credit patina simply props up my pocket, and evens-out the lopsided cellulite bulges when I frequently ‘turn the other cheek’. Who knows what any of these credit colors mean anymore anyway? When I was a mere pup, if you were lucky enough to have a ‘free’ credit card, it was a utilitarian, dirty gray short & fat springy plastic bookmark. If the banking gods deemed you and your big ‘snob-shot’ salary worthy, you might also get to possess that other card – the enviable holy grail of true credit worthiness . . . a glistening GOLD-COLORED slab o’ plastic.

But these days everybody gets offers for Platinum, Emerald, Sapphire, and Slate colored credit cards which up until now, I had always thought were just geological structures rather than actual colors. I even recently saw a politically incorrect ‘Black-faced’ credit card, tap-dancing around premium exclusivity, rather than the more realistic ‘black hole’ VACUUM of debt, which drains your veins faster than ‘Drac’ if you’re careless. Unless he’s kissing his own glossy promo headshot, NOBODY - not even that irritating, diminutively-domed Dyson inventor-dude, wants to face THAT KIND of a sickening sucking sound.

Regardless of your favorite tint, whatever color these cards start out as, they can all bleed gallons of red ink if used indiscriminately. That’s why I always wondered why can’t somebody make credit cards out something REALLY practical like beef jerky or thin-sliced Velveeta cheese? Then at least when you get in a little over your ‘credit –head’, you can still ‘eat ‘em up’ BEFORE your creditors bestow the same favor upon you. Hmmm, maybe not such a great idea to fill my hot wallet with perishable cheesy credit cards though? I clearly don’t need additional reasons to be the ‘butt’ of my family’s hairy, old n’ moldy ‘STINK’ jokes!

FOOD POLICE

2011-11-03T16:30:00.001-05:00

What kind of world is this which chooses to limit food choices only to certain arbitrary time periods of the day. So what if I want chocolate cherries with my Cheerios or O.J. with my mayonnaise? As long as I don’t 'spew' on you, what do you care what I eat or when I eat it? Well apparently the ‘food police’ are in full force and spreading rumors that cookies are NOT a food group and candy should not be consumed PRIOR to dental exams?

Hey I know I have been accused of being a little cracked but it’s no ‘YOLK’ that I love scrambled ‘chicken droppings’ more than most folks. I can eat those little ‘Mork’-orb eggs most any time of day, though my wife insists that they are strictly ‘Breakfast’ food. Who wants to live with tyranny like this and under the repression of a some cluck’s hindquarters? Just because chickens lay eggs in the morning doesn’t mean they have also squeezed out an IRON-CLAD ‘ipso facto’ fair-use contract too (‘cause that would be painful)!

I recently ventured into a highly recommended Thai food joint to experience the eye-watering joy of the ‘Bhut Jolokia’ ghost pepper. Now trust me these blistering ‘Pepps’ are one of the top three hottest peppers grown and they are extremely spicy but I use Capsaicin as cologne so why worry right? In any case I had to endure the restaurant owner’s 10 minute liability lecture and sign a written release BEFORE I could eat my lunch. Now society is policing my food so what’s next important stuff like socks that match, toilet rings, or heaven forbid, my GUNS too?

Needless to say I finished my ‘hot’ lunch and am proud that, ‘Yes’ I avoided the $20 ‘clean-up puke‘ provision in my lucrative, yet gassy, contract. Who knew that we have evolved into a 'regurgitation-nation' where a dude’s intestinal fortitude must be reviewed, to keep YOU, from being sued? All these weird fuddy-duddy foodie rules have gone too far. Who needs this police state - as long as I am willing to pay for the gunk in my trunk then just leave me alone already. By the way in the END, I did pay for my extra-spicy Thai food, but don’t tell the ‘privy-patrol’ - the stuff was twice as costly six hours later!

Pumpky le PEW

2011-10-27T15:55:00.004-05:00

I don’t mind fruit and veggies as long as they know their place in the home. They are supposed to reside in unused decorative kitchen baskets, so duped visitors THINK I eat healthily. Or if our produce has been particularly bad, I hide it in ‘the cooler’ so it doesn’t become even worse before I throw it all away. But recently for the Autumn festivities, I chose a large attractive pumpkin as the centerpiece for our seedy shanty. Even the grocery sack kid noticed that this pumpky was unusually light for its size but who cares, I’m lazy so less heft for me to carry home - right?

So I proudly presented the rotund orange orb to my wife as some kind of Harvest offering, and she immediately proceeded to make a heaping shrine to all things ‘Ween’ smack dab in the middle of the kitchen table. Now this presents a problem for me because ‘El Gourdo’ has broken the first rule of produce by partnering with me at dinner, despite the fact that he is not fried, buttered, boiled, or knifed. But to further my angst, our table is also not all that big, so now where am I supposed to wolf down my trough of chow – off my ‘gut shelf’?

I could probably patiently live with the first two problems until October 31st but little did I know my bulbous cucurbita consort, even in his pre-Bris natural state, SMELLS like it has dirty orange 'farmer feet'. Now I have been buying and defiling pumpkins at Halloween for a long time and I’ve never had one reek worse than me before. If I ever carve the obligatory triangle facial features into this rotto-‘stink-squash’, the only things that will show up on All Hallows Eve will be the flies and even they will have to wear teeny-tiny gas masks.

Every morning before I brush my teeth, my wife already endures a daily eye-watering Sasquatch encounter, so now she gets a double-dutch dose of ‘sasSQUASH’-stench too. Since I am such an environmentalist, I had no choice but to act and prevent this unholy gas giant from adding to the polluted air that we breathe. I pulled out the serrated long box and entombed that big orange melon ball from top to tail in shiny aroma-free clear plastic. I did leave a tiny ‘pew-gap’ in the wrap though, so just a whiff of acrid air remains suspended in our house. Not only does it keep the neighbors away but I didn’t want my method to work TOO WELL, just in case the wife might get some ‘funny’ ideas – and a LOT more Saran wrap!

NOW ‘EAR’ THIS – Be responsible…but do it quietly!

2011-10-20T15:51:00.004-05:00

Yeah you may ‘call me irresponsible’ (or even sing it) but I am not a fan of those disaster sirens or just about any noisemaking warning device. Isn’t there already enough barking, Aflac quacking, and ting-ding ringing going on in today’s society to drive most any Grinch over the edge? I’m all for safety but what genius government agency decided that a gentle nudge with a cattle prod was barbaric, but loud excessive auditory stimuli is humane?

What’s worse is now our emergency sirens have been upgraded so they can even TALK to me when frightened public servants decide I need a 3AM wake-up call. I mean c’mon crash somebody else’s REM sleep party - I’m already hosting a platoon of voices in my vacuous skull full of burping Tupperware, so who needs yet another one? Never once in my life have I seen an effective air raid over my hut or worse, a free-range ‘one-too-many’ tipsy Godzilla tearing down my town.

Also now when skulking around the ‘burbs’, every cross-walk I encounter seems to bark some kind of warning chirp & chime. Some even squawk a doomsday countdown clock if I haven’t blazed across 100 feet of tarry roadbed in 3 seconds or less? Geez I don’t even think that Jamaican ‘BOLT’ guy can run that fast much less a dragging leisure-geezer like myself? Believe me I’ve been married a long time so I don’t need a shrill harpy ‘ice-pick in the ear canal’ reminder to know when it’s time to clear out of the way – my wife has been defending our refrigerator for years.

So hey if you are dumb enough to park your bike directly behind a trash truck or semi no amount of high pitched peep-beeping from a ‘back-up alarm’ is going to save you from yourself anyway. I just can’t imagine Daniel Boone, the ‘Abe-inator’, or even those poker playing dogs memorialized in felt, requiring so much ‘hand-holding’ in their era. Unlike today, those folks let the chips 'clink' to the floor as they may and understood, THAT was their one and only auditory warning. Sometimes it's not fair but the tenets of self-reliance, responsibility and yes, even the possibility of death are significant tests in real life. But compared to our current needy and feckless populace, our ancestors just seemed readily able to grasp and MEET their challenges with a little more gusto - and with A LOT LESS NOISE!

Humbling Challenge

2011-10-13T12:51:00.002-05:00

Since I have a couple of gunboats that have been apparently mistaken for feet, my wife has decided to kill me with her personal Bataan march towards a goal of one MILLION steps by mid December. While that might be fine if she had informed me a couple of years ago but she must not have noticed they are selling pumpkins in the stores now. So that leaves us with nary two months to complete 8,000 steps per day to help achieve her stupid foot-fungus goal.

Oh sure I applaud my wife’s healthy ambition to pound the pavement and carve off the kilos, but how did I get sucked up into this Dr. Scholl’s delight of daily drudgery? As long as I watch my salt intake and clean up after my slime trail, I kind of like being the resident slug anyway. Street walking in the shadows is fine if you’ve got the legs for the job but it’s my calloused feet and personality that rub people the wrong way. If only somebody could invent a machine to handle the burdens of BIpedal locomotion, I would get on that Midnight express train in a hurry and turn into a ‘BUY’ guy with bells on to seek freedom!

So low and behold at an estate sale last week, the ‘Big Wheel’ himself must have heard my incessant whining and prayed to shut me up. Yes, opportunity rolled over my toes that morning, in the form of a drop dead price on a stealthy, 2+2 on the floor, black electric wheelchair with a seatbelt and cool joystick to match. Now this is what I call living – why didn’t somebody tell us new-age upright primate gladiators about these horse-less chariots before? Once I clean the dirt off between all of its ‘moto-toes’, even I can glide through a million steps in the next couple of months. Better still as a bonus, with this ride I can circle the wagons and DO donuts in the parking lot while I eat glazed ones too!

I mean honestly, chasing the mail truck and the neighborhood wolf pack down the street has never been so much fun, though now climbing stairs and reaching for the choco peanuts on the top shelf is an unbelievably sweaty pain. Currently I’m perfectly healthy, but whenever I ROLL in that chair, my TOOTSIES literally look and feel powerless and it’s very humbling. Unlike the truly challenged who need these wheelies to move-on with their lives, when I tire of complaining about my insignificant toil, I can simply CHOOSE to get up whenever I want. So my choice now is to WALK HAPPILY with my wife, however long she needs, and wherever she wants to go while I still have the chance. Oh and don’t worry about my milk chocolate covered ‘Robo-Rolo’ - I promise we’ll find it a good home with a much less whiney and far more worthy CHAIRity in need!

Everybody ‘NOSE’ it’S NOT syrup

2011-10-07T01:58:00.002-05:00

Rarely I wake up in the morning without a jump start from licking a 9 volt battery, but even then I don’t spring to life with limitless pink-bunny energy. Like most loony baboons, I ‘doo’ what I have to do, but little else so I won’t unduly embarrass myself in front of the troop and my homeless alley-mates. Of course I brush, blow, & baste like all good zombies, but I should not be expected to be witty, scratch-free, or even understand ‘Ghoul-ean algebra’ until at least 15 minutes after sunrise.

So the last thing I have energy for in the first of the morning, is to fend off a thick gelatinous ring of gooey ‘Food Boogies’ from the sticky snout of my syrup ‘ba-ba’! Oh don’t act so uppity - yeah I said it and how many times must I warn you not to read my tripe while eating anyway? I can’t help it if your gag reflex has not yet been battle-hardened to the horrors of a seeping head-wound from Aunt Jemima’s nasty noz-noggin.

Yes, around here, we seem to have a growing epidemic of coagulated condiments in that handy-dandy ‘flexi-squeeze’ packaging. I mean who doesn’t relish the fun in popping a top on a ‘gunkified’ ketchup bottle or fondling a dilated and crowning upside-down squirter, with a crusty mustard-pustule tip of Grey Poupon? The only thing worse for me then hanging those scabby ‘goo-cocoons’ over my burgers n’ brats is having to clean and blow-free their snotty little spouts into a wet-nap-wipey without weeping woefully.

I don’t know when those ‘easy to knife’ cavernous jars with lids suddenly became so out of fashion? My ‘wide-mouth’ still seems to be working just fine and has remained relatively paste-less and tasteless, even after shoving salsa pablum in and out of it for a half century now. Oh sure the sinuses suffer and that spicy stuff can make my rosy nose-y unruly and occasionally ‘run away’ by my flagrant use of abrasive Puff-less off-brand Kleenix. But never fear I’m a mystified ‘drip’ with a nasal irrigation plan ‘cause my nose knows just what it needs – an easy-squeezy sinus-schnozzle!

Rocky Road Recipe

2011-09-29T17:05:00.005-05:00

Despite the advent of those little GPS travel boxes, I still love the romance of maps. I can stare at them for hours and run my fingers along roads, rivers, and CREASES imagining the countless places I can go when people tell me to ‘Get Lost’. I love seeing rare oddities in mirrors and discovering unusual places like a ‘full serve’ GAS station or a Polish hot dog shop, which apparently in some communities, is the exact SAME PLACE!

I have no need for my usual ‘puddy tat’ toys, fancy entertainment or complex puzzles whenever a map needs re-folding. I can literally spend hours trying to get a 4 X 5 foot map back into its flattened glove-box ready state. More often than not, un-folded maps will never again escape the size equivalency of a crumpled basketball and therefore are more suited to be recycled as a lumbar support, or for those really long road trips – ultra absorbent seat pads.

For some odd reason the street signs in the Midwest U.S. all have the same standard street names like First, State, and Main. The only difference is that each sign will have a varied suffix tacked on the end of the name like Road, Circle, Drive, or Way, though I always seem to end up in COURT? To make matters worse, even neighboring communities in short proximity to different U.S. States will have the EXACT SAME named cities in addition to those common stock street names as well. What is the problem - along with steel, cars, and VCR’s, are we now so lazy and incapable that we can’t even invent original names for our own streets and cities either?

Now this map clap-trap is clearly an untenable recipe for taxi hacks, street-people and perpetually confused kettle-heads like myself. Why is it so hard to mix up a few random Romanic letters with a dash of hyphen and add some flavorful expressions to make-up an easily memorable, half-baked yet original street name? My family happily looks forward to the day when I will be able to sanely drive my pickled brain to the intersection of ‘FIRST light’ & ‘STATE-of-mind’ without the need for a wrinkled map or a straight jacket. The goal of course is to eventually navigate, and hopefully legally parallel park, with NORMAL people, along a very busy but narrow ROCKY road called ‘MAINstream’.

Airhead

2011-09-22T23:30:00.005-05:00

I am lucky enough to be born in an era where airplane travel has replaced buses as more of the norm than the exception. Unlike most people I won’t thumb my nose at a good airport scan & squeeze now and again, as long as those TSA folks keep the rest of their rubber-covered digits to themselves. The only person I want poking around in my cavities is the dentist and even he has to pony up with a soothing gum-rub, 5 minutes of Nitrous ‘me time’, and a double-cup of spit water.

In general, I don’t mind most of the airport / airplane process except for the waiting. You see I have never been a good ‘WAITER’ and only a marginal cook. Since time ‘flies’ at the speed of light I want to fly that fast too. Oh sure it is fun to pass the time and look down at the little houses and cars but I already get that thrill from lording over a good game of Monopoly with my in-bred fam-clan. Nope, once you seal me up in a pressurized sardine can I want to set my Omega 3 Fatty Acid down and get the show on the road.

Despite my granite face and even harder head I obviously bore easily since my gray matter tends to turn a brackish green at high altitudes. This in turn is only cause for concern because my wife must find ways to keep me busy, with minimal harm to my fellow (and girl) passengers. Like a big Baby Huey, she usually brings me a bib and a ball-point pen so I can go through the Airline magazines and black-out the teeth of anyone caught smiling in an advertisement. Once complete, the same magazine gets my makeover of random stubble and wild crevice hairs, to bestow imperfect 5 o’clock shadows upon the Aero-rag's 'perfect 10' models.

As I make the third magazine pass to finish my obligatory cartoon speech bubbles with juvenile comments, my lizard brain needs additional stimulation beyond that screaming baby two rows up. I reflexively reach for my olfactory arsenal of tortilla chips and day-old tuna fish. Wisely but irritatingly my wife calmly backs me down and tells me to wait. WAIT? - Didn’t we already discuss this kitchen analogy? I am too old, hairy, and sweaty for THAT gig, especially when trapped in a flying aluminum cigar tube. From now on I think I had better stay grounded since apparently I am better suited as a ‘BUS boy’!

Stinko de MAYO

2011-09-15T13:28:00.004-05:00

Oh don’t worry I’m not going to attack your precious Pinata’ holiday, which is only celebrated by the unholy union of alcoholic Americans and Mexican food joints anyway. Nor am I going to squeeze the OLE’ out of your Guacamole despite the fact that no matter how great the taste, it will always look like the spew-stew from a well exorcised and very envious cat. No this rant revolves around a condiment of another color and my genuine dislike of everybody else’s favorite ‘seagull sauce’ - plain o’ Mayo!

Yep, I know that certain lobes of the globe are in love with the tan-less Mayonnaise bread spread, but I’m not sure if I’ll ever know why? I thought in school the one thing we universally agree upon is that, it’s NOT a good idea to eat the paste. So what’s the rush every morning to call-up a dairy dollop of emulsified oil and egg to better butter our buns? I mean honestly nobody really ‘gums’ this goo do they - its only real job is just to be the ‘Elmer’s’ between the turkey and the toast right?

Hey don’t get me wrong I don’t play favorites. I rarely relish few relishes and only periodically will I pop for the Poupon to pique my passion. Yes I’ll head for the bread anytime especially when paired with a fresh roadkill & peppercorn roast, but why do these rubes want to lube my food so liberally anyway? Is this slop they serve-up so bad, that the only hope to savor its flavor is by Miracle or Whip, or maybe a heaping helping of both?

Whose the ‘yolker’ who decided that slathering my Chik-Fil-A ‘sammitch’ in a blanched blanket of wet & greasy ‘egg-toplasm’ is a good idea? Can’t you read my beak - “NO MO’ MAYO!” If chickens wanted lots of eggs surrounding them all of the time, don’t you think they’d cross the road and buy a carton of their own? Oh well I guess, like my writing and my whine, when it comes to food, I’ve just become a plain spoken and a DRY kinda’ guy. Too bad as I get older and older, my pants can’t say the same.

Cheap thrills in the lap of luxury

2011-09-08T19:11:00.004-05:00

Being naturally stingy with my shekels, when I saunter into a store I almost always head for the ‘day old’ bin or clearance aisle first. I can’t help it if I am naturally attracted to dented doorstops which in a former life were canned yams, or donuts with that extra special sweaty sparkle. Hey I’m not a slob, it’s just I know which hairy side my bargain bread is buttered on and it is all about saving the GREEN these days!

While the rest of you fat cats feast on your Friskies, luxurious pillow-soft 12 grain buns and wear pants with working zippers, I am THAT guy who eats p-butter and toe jam sandwiches off of the 99 cent kids-food menu. No really, I gnaw that stuck-stuff right off the kidlet menus to help build-up my ‘rug-rat’ germ immunity, while hopefully strengthening my teeth and breath as well.

If you don’t finish that last cold shriveled fry, hot pepper or undercooked bite o’ burger, you can bet I’ll be asking for a take-home box and feasting on it tomorrow. There’s nothing like ‘hot water chili’ and donning the dream of a hobo-king at somebody else’s expense. Yes the only Wet Nap luxury in my pocket will be AFTER you’ve used yours; because when you’re flying as high as I do there’s little room for oxygen and even less for pride - that slipped through the holes in my lining long ago.

Oh of course I jest, despite my thrifty proclivities I clearly have had a pretty lucky life. I’m not complaining and have gotten used to clawing my way out of the sweaty throws of the bargain basement. Being cheap is my personal success thrill-quest, where every ransacked trash-can is one raccoon away from a winning lottery ticket and the lofty lore of living large. The only thing is if I ever REALLY do find myself snugly cradled in life’s easy breezy luxurious LAP – I wholly hope at least one of us will have holy intentions and wear a pair of ‘un-holey’ pants.

FACING the FUZZ!

2011-09-01T23:56:00.003-05:00

I doubt it would surprise you if just like most people I don’t fancy ‘da’ fuzz’. No I’m fine with the police as long they aren’t cinched up tight in ‘Reno 911’ shorty shorts with their khakis hanging out. No the fuzz I’m talking about is from my carpet and its odd newlywed reproduction habits in nearly every room of the house. I have had this same mangy carpet for over 4 years now and our Roomba is starting to complain even more than when I demand my bi-weekly nook and cranny ‘vac-baths’.

Now I knew when we went to the rug doctor and the prognosis favored a steam-o chemo treatment, it was likely that our rug might shed a tear or two. But after a few trips around the calendar you’d think the biggest fuzz producer in our kennel would be that floss between my teeth, or the emergency peach I keep stashed in my all too-roomy, gut-button. But no, as fate would have it my ‘pile of nap’ carpet is a virtual fine fur warehouse where even the dust bunnies' shadows have five o’clock fluff!

This unfortunate rug revelation in no way means I have abandoned my lurid love of all things linty in life. Vacuum bags and their seductive stash of inner secrets still call to me like Fabio finds frustrated, feckless housewives. And lest we forget the oft ignored dryer trap, which never fails to fuel my fuzzy logic with great joy and the freedom of reckless self-expression. Clearly I have faced and embraced my inner fuzz even if most sane people I know aren’t ‘DOWN’ with it.

Yes, despite the unrestrained side of the family tree and their best efforts to straighten my jacket and un-rumple my hump, I won’t be denied the dust. I lasciviously laugh at your locked and loaded laundry rooms and haughty British bag-less ball vacs with genuine desire. Because let’s FACE it, anyone, given the chance, would surely love to shove, my goofy glued-up mug into the lint-hole of a hot dryer. But be forewarned, I may sprout a ‘bad to the bone’ crazy biker beard with a ‘tude to match, or of course I might be just EXACTLY the same - ‘FUZZY’ brained!

Branded for life by MASCOTS

2011-08-26T00:00:00.002-05:00

Despite their popularity, I have never really been a fan of sports, school, or corporation mascots. Beyond the obvious lingering trauma I suffered through college as an ‘Anteater’, I just have never embraced the whole clowny circus, noisy ‘branding’ thing anyway. I mean what reputable organization really wants the image of a nightmarish, A.D.D. riddled, oversized hunk of dryer lint, dancing PANTS-LESS pantomime - right?

I guess I can understand the big, lithe jungle cats like Jaguars, Panthers, Lions and Tigers as mascots to help promote a tough and graceful global corporate or sports image. However for a folksy local feel, I’ve never understood why domesticated feline breeds like the ‘brown shorthairs’, ‘Maine Coons’, or the ‘Puddy Tats’ haven’t caught on? You’d think dog names would be good mascot monikers as well but other than the Greyhound and Bulldog, I can’t recall any company or sports team marketing themselves in the image of the everyday ‘Schnauzer’ ‘Shih-tzu’ or ‘Shnoodle’?

Oh sure a mammoth Clydesdale mascot is a shoe-in to help define a brand fan-base if all your customers are constantly marinating in vats of Nyquil brew while rubbing elbows and foam fingers in sweaty stadium seats. Sadly I too am not immune to the mighty power of the Madison Avenue mascots as they have a death-grip on my beady brain as well as my busting beltline. More than once I’ve sat with a mouth-watering Whopper, donning a paper crown, only to succumb to prison-guilt from the hypnotic lure of the curiously creepy burger KING. Clearly you know I’m weak if that evil balloon-headed Jack in the Box ‘dude-cot’ has hooked me with a toxic affinity for his fragrantly fried n’ flat tacos.

Except for cow boys & girls, as well as the chap-hardened folk who herd ‘em hard, branding is a fairly difficult concept to burn into ones … uh - Memory. So organizations naturally turn to these stupid obnoxious mascots and other TOOLS to help me, the lowly consumer, remember them more easily. My real problem though is that I am SO simple-minded that it doesn’t matter if is the Santa Cruz Banana Slugs or Chik Fil-A’s Jersey cow, I try to remember only ONE IMPORTANT THING from mascots – my PANTS!!

Milking the Color Rut

2011-08-18T14:18:00.004-05:00

What would the world be like if our established ways of doing things were ‘snowglobed’ & shaken up a bit? Oh sure we all talk a good game of how great and colorful ‘CHANGE’ is, but most of us actually prefer wads of those dull green pictures of dead presidents in our pockets. Like the lopsided lobes of my beanie-bound brain, I generally prefer when things are actually a little off-balanced. However I am the first to admit that if ‘ruts’ were Velcro loops, my burr-head would be permanently hooked and extra ‘linty’!

So would our kids still drink milk if it were sucked out of serpents instead of cows? I say ‘Moooove over’ ubiquitous ungulates - make room for daddy and the rest of the animal kingdom to let loose with the juice. Since most everyone drowns their cereal sorrows in white power anyway, then few should complain when we start to drain Albino snakes for sugar flakes. Let’s face it, milk is a two-timing color sponge chameleon anyway that can’t be trusted. My Cocoa Puffs bow to the brownie cow, while the Crunchberries continually cry crimson; but Lucky Charms n’ liquid lactation always warms to a hinty tint-of-mint libation.

Do you really want to play in downy white snow or better still, eat it up, if it were naturally yellow? What if brown sugar was white and refined, while white sugar was raw and came in both light and dark brown shades - would our cookies taste the same even when tossed? Would we dream about rainbows if they were triangles in shades of gray, and the gold pot at the end called its kettle black? Would you still squeeze blackberries if they made rude sounds like raspberries or ever cut cheeses if they didn’t?

Would you drink gray water if it was clearly safe or hide under an umbrella from purple rain even if you weren’t a Prince? What if strawberries tasted like hay and blueberries were always depressed – would their memory leave a permanent stain? What if old wrinkled elderberries got brown spots and fragrant when past their prime and jaundiced bananas turned green with envy when ready to eat?

Wow, I’m feeling a little woozy – this ‘off-balanced’ thing is highly overrated. Too many questions and possibilities for change, when free-associating color paradigms, challenging logic and abandoning Aristotelian Physics. I feel like I am back in Mad Hatter class again at my alma what’s-the-matter, ‘Lewis Carol College’. Ok I’ll say it – ‘I LIKE being stuck with my immovable ruts, blanket assumptions, and ridiculously predictable habits’. I promise to make at least one significant change in my life however - this is the last time I’m ordering the ‘FUN GUY’ special from that hippie joint ‘Psychedelic Pizza for Psquares’.

Streetwalker Mission

2011-08-11T23:35:00.004-05:00

Despite my Yeti proportions and head-kettle full of noodle soup, I actually do leave the silo once in awhile to walk the streets. No I’m not looking for handouts or willing to worky for jerky yet, but that’s not because I’m too proud, it’s just because I’m too lazy! I am not averse to an occasional recreational opportunity to exercise my spare tires; however usually when my Dr. SOLES are stuffed to the brim with yeasty pink piggies, it is for genuine bipedal locomotion not a random troll stroll.

What always amazes me on these treks, is regardless of duration, at least one oily 'Bondo-mobile' full of toothless youth will roar by giggling and shouting in hopes of garnering my glower. I know it’s rare to see a foot-dragging, sweaty blog-zombie by daylight. But honestly other than the eagle nesting in my uni-brow and that Green Mile movie, I don’t understand the real entertainment value of heckling a dead man walking?

In my two footed travels, I have observed that humankind also seems to DIG digging. I mean on every corner, somebody or some machine is piling up a healthy pyramid of dirt and rock with an inverse hole to match. I’m sure it’s all important stuff and way above my Google Adsense pay-grade, but honestly what is so devilishly interesting down there that you can’t already find up here?

I mean we’ve cornered the market on Santa, the Tooth Fairy, and word has it, even GOD himself has signed a long term contract with over 80% of the world’s faithful. So what’s all this fuss to uncover one more hot n’ horny, fiery-tempered devil when our high schools are already overflowing with them? If we were smart we would try harder to bury the skeletons in our collective closet instead of exposing our impressionable MINERS to even more dirt!

Though TRASHY is an ever-present adjective associated with street walkers, I can happily say that due to recycling efforts these days, I finish off a lot fewer brew bottles and cat food cans while touring on my tootsies. Oh sure the obligatory paper cups and fast food wrappers are still bountiful, however they prove useful as bread crumb trails when hunting down a mystery 'beast-eatery' for a meaty grease feast. But I’ll always remember my primary shoe-cruise mission is to keep my peds in their KEDs and clean the streets while dodging the dangers of CRACK – after all my mother’s BACK is depending on it!