Plateful of Reruns

It may be hard for some to believe that somebody of my physique can be in love with food, but this petite-framed booty weighing in at a buck thirty and some change can really put it away.  Eating utensils have racked up the frequent flyer miles by taxiing into the human terminal called the mouth since my mother made little airplane sounds as she fed me Gerber classics.  Metabolism cunning as Lebron James’ tongue lashings toward the Cleveland Cavaliers have helped me flirt with the fatty foods without my back end draping a wide load sign like that of a haulin’ 18 wheeler.  The dinner table gives me a welcoming pat on the back as I come to its showcase each meal time; however, it can quickly transform itself into the Antique Road Show when it displays the throwback special attractions called left overs.

Left overs, you are the retail store’s returned, restocked, reduced price items of food.  Like the hitchhikers of meals, you position your thumb up as an indication of a ride wanted to one’s stomach.  You’re like a crew of hold over passengers at an airport waiting to fly stand-by. You stand together at the table much like nerds at a dance party with no dates who line themselves up against the wall and protrude a caption of “Rejects.”  You are the sad-faced puppy at a pet shop, and the doggie bag is your kennel.  In the line of food, you, the left overs, are the dysfunctional guests on stage during the taping of a Jerry Springer show.  A second hand serenade to a second hand taste bud.  The second edition, volume II of food.  Second-string players who were just as good during the meal, but were designated to warm the bench along the sidelines of the feeding trough.  The “As seen on Dinner Table” replicas of the festival held along the buffet line’s parade. You are better known as the understudies to the Broadway stars of food.  When on the table with freshly made cuisines, you are the “extras” needed to fill the scene.  Carrying a confidence rate of subzero, you list yourself as an edible out of work porn star. Left overs are defined in eatery urban dictionaries as the white trash of chow.  Some of your redistributed dishes posing on the plates could be the pictures on PeopleofWalmart.com of nourishment.  The senior citizens of kitchen productions;  the crotchety old man, residents in the land of misfit toys of menu items, you sit in the pity party circle wearing sweat pants three times the size of your bodies while eating junk food and watching reran showings of Twilight.  You not only smell like death, but you taste like it too. The castaway of sustenance, as Limbaugh is the shoe-in to Hall of Stupid. 

I could go on forever, but I feel this gave an accurate portrayal of reheated food. So, somebody better give these left overs a sympathy card and a tissue because they’re crying a river like Oprah Winfrey when she announced she was hangin’ up her show of 25 years. 

The Real Black Sheep of the Family

Back in the day, like three years ago or so, T.V. Land produced a great commercial advertising a little something called “The Family Table.”  To earn some credibility, this television station would ask a few famous Hollywood celebrities to endorse this ideology; however, each star involved would frantically search the Google internet machine to which they would perform a query as to what exactly a family table was.  Perhaps the most popular response from the computer would have been a sassy, Are you sure you don’t mean Bube Tube?  Who sits down at the family table anymore?  That went out on the curb with Beaver Cleaver and black and white television.  I take that back, I believe the Last Supper was the last time anybody sat down to the table as a collective group to eat a meal.  I don’t think even the family table would know what to do if everybody decided to gather around it for dinner.  It would probably start a process of elimination—Let’s see…It’s not Thanksgiving, or Christmas, nobody looks like they’re going to die…Maybe I should look at my handbook in reference to how I should act… With that being said, I’m pretty sure you could find one easily and in like new—if not mint-- condition.  Rarely do you discover anything on craigslist that is still in its original packaging and has that “never been used” profile, but this item could possibly win you some bar bets for sure.   It doesn’t have a sense of humor since nobody tells outlandish knock knock jokes in its presence.  It’s not aware of current events that are occurring at home or abroad. It doesn’t offer a neutral ear to a healthy debate while sitting over a plateful of mom’s Rachael Ray wannabe cooking.  It’s not possessive of a well-rounded personality; a stick in the mud and yet does not have to register as Republican.  Heck, it probably can’t even name the members of the family that live in the same household of the once well-known family table.  At one Easter dinner, it recalled putting on a name tag that read, “Hello, My Name is ‘The Family Table’” and introduced to everybody as such.   In an era of bank bailouts and closures, many family tables are posting up signs that read, “Will work for food…God Bless!”  Ask this home furnishing if the “Summer of Recovery” regarding the upswing of the economy out of a recession is in effect.   It is not uncommon to find family tables having to moonlight their talents elsewhere in order to make ends meet; much less make a buck period.  You think your days are long?  Try sitting in the dining room drumming your fingers and feeling the dust settling on your face due to pure boredom.  A written statement to the keeper of the house was once found on a legal sized tablet resting on the tablecloth:  The bowl of plastic fruit that you have as my centerfold to decorate me is the most hideous thing since watching Reba’s sitcom on Lifetime I have ever been in contact with in all my days as a junk inbox.   You probably thought that it was going to be a suicide note, but counseling has had a resting ripple effect on its life.  So, sit down to it.  Read it its rights.  Don’t wait for it to go postal on a 30 second “The More You Know” ad before you make your first move.   

A Socially Inept Hush Up

I would like to thank you, the reader, for taking time each day to read the posts that I put on this blog.  For some, it probably brings a line laugh line or two on the ol’e funny bone, others it helps cut down on the consumption of sleep aiding drugs.  For me, it brings sweet relief.  I use this as a vehicle to direct some of that sarcasm that I can’t steer properly in REAL life without entering into a verbal brouhaha, and direct it in a way that is therapeutic.  In fact, after composing such a “treatment,” it’s as if I rubbed my whole body down with Flexall Maximum Strength 454.  Did you like that?  I pulled that one right out of the clear blue sky.  Just yanked it out.  Yanked it like Katie Perry’s skit with Elmo on Sesame Street.   

OOOOKAAAAY…AAAAwkwaaaard silence…

I’m kinda glad that you could hear a pin drop after what I just said once that silence crept in for a little visit.  It gives me something to chat about for a minute or two.  Awkward silences are social interactions with a touch of nausea.  They put a little Alka-Seltzer fizz in the tummy juices of social meetings.  It’s a Hoveround wheelchair of talk that suddenly loses battery power RIGHT in the middle of the pedestrian crossing.  A teleprompter that suddenly becomes camera shy.  The conversation that folds like a bad hand in poker.  An “F” bomb that social interaction drops between you and your homies; an awkward moment accompanied with its cousin awkward silence.  (At least that’s what Reverend Jesse Jackson described it as after his comments he made about Obama on LIVE television) Better known as the pause button on the VCR of conversation, pushing it on the remote just to see the reaction as awkward silence tip toes on speech as if it were weaseling around landmines.  It’s a social situation on the side of the road with hazard lights flashing like a car in desperate need of AAA.  Awkward silence is social communications “stoned” on pot.  It’s also known as Conversation sitting like a sad puppy in front of the baggage claim carousel looking for its lost luggage. Well, that’ll teach you for flying in coach on United Airlines now, wont it!  The proverbial dead-end in the conversation that even Google maps didn’t see coming.  It’s a two-party speech which suddenly became a statistic in the Wall Street Journal’s unemployment numbers.  (Don’t worry; I heard that being without work in this country has numerous benefits.  All paid; compliments of the U.S. taxpayer)  Awkward silence is that prompting that yells, “The Best OF conversation” which fills the gap of empty balloons above social contacts.  It’s the “Be Back in 5 Minutes” sign that social interaction post on its front door in order for it to regain composure.  An interaction clipping along at hearty speeds with a sudden sprain ankle, pulled muscle or slipped disk in the back. (Insert Brett Farve’s NFC Championship performance against the New Orleans Saints here) Conversation that is thrown into the water and can’t swim due to the deflated blow-up muscles on its arms.  It’s like one of those annoying dropped calls or dead zones.  (Here’s to you, Sprint—The Now Network.  You guys walked right into that one) Awkward silence is orchestrated drama in social interactions’ silent movie.  Social relations suffering from a quadriplegic tongue.  It’s conversation in the middle of a social interaction whose smile exhibits a snaggletooth.  I think you are getting the jest of where I’m going with this. 

It suddenly got really quiet.  I just told awkward silence to go to H-E-double hockey stick by telling it, “Mum’s the word.”  It’s out like a light and sleeping like a baby. 

Momma Drama

For those who actually read and follow this blog, you will have noticed that an entry was not made for Sunday, September 26^th.  When the No. 2 pencil I write with becomes a sixth finger on the hand, it is a sign to step back and take a short break.  Okay, so obviously I was just putting on a front in that last statement.  In all actuality, the ideas in my head were far and few between, and the ones that did stop by didn’t pose as a group of Jehovah’s Witnesses.  If you have ever been confronted by one of these groups, you know exactly what I’m talking about.  Once you let them in your house, they will pitch a tent and will stay until forever comes.  I’d say that they are like the government, but at least you can vote the politicians in Washington to expire after a long, dusty shelf life-- which is unheard of with these folks.  U-Turns are permitted in scripting, so I am going to do as such and navigate my writing toward a subject that was for its intended purpose.  I wasn’t sure where I was going with that topic anyway except for out in the middle of nowhere, beating it and leaving it for dead. 

I spent some time visiting with Mother Earth last weekend and found some habits that she dabbles in to be quite astonishing.  It was as astonishing as the FBI agents who were caught cheating on an open book test.  Let me restate that last part one more time in case your eyes weren’t listening:  Cheating on an open book test.  During my pop in with Madam Planet, I was not impressed with the hypocrisy she lead in point blank fashion.  Resting on her mantle above the fireplace was framed the golden rule, “Recycle, Reduce, Reuse,” she had coined and suggested to be the backbone to conservationists.  Yet, the guest book she had me sign did not have stated anywhere “Made from 100% recycled paper” nor was there any reserved container (other than the garbage) to put my empty aluminum can. 

When I sit back and think of this well-respected woman, I at times, picture her to go on a scavenger hunt around her house and find random material and fibers and reuse them by knitting a pair of socks to keep her feet warm or go on an arts and crafts craze.  Such was not the case.  Literally, walking proof of this was the Hanes Her Way stockings she proudly styled while giving me a tour of her place not equipped with energy saving features.

 In her garage that already was utilizing the heating option, stood, not a typical hybrid automobile, but a child-molester-like van that probably hadn’t passed emissions since 1987, and leaked more oil than the BP rigs along the gulf.  Gas hogs—both her and the vehicle—each doing their part to contribute to the California smog index.

Leaving lights on with nobody in the room, confessing that she indeed leaves the water run while brushing her pearly whites, and scoffing at the thought of “Going Green” are three commandments broken on a daily basis. Still requesting paper to the grocery store bag boy at every visit, she finds the pre-purchased canvas bags to be outright theft of shopper’s money.  Momma Big Blue Marble opted out of the option to “Adopt A Highway” and defined carpooling as transportation for moochers. There went HER reward for leading by example, huh?  Whatever happened to the idea of one day marrying John Denver, planting trees for your tomorrow, having kids and getting a polar bear as a pet?  I asked this to yahoo answers, but they weren’t available for comment. 

Go ahead and dump your coffee cup full of cigarette butts in the parking lot.  Gotta keep those chain gangs busy picking up after you, oh mother of the environment.  I guess I had forgotten that the world IS your ashtray.

This has only been a slap on the wrist to your character, unlike the slap in the face you gave your supportive fans when you wrote a letter to the editor with a statement describing how much of a sham Earth Day was.  Step down, you phony, you’re a hazard to your own health!

Nothing from Nothing Leaves Nothing

There’s no such thing as a free lunch.  Can I please get this cliché laminated with a little glitter bow on top and have it sent via UPS to the moochers in society? I don’t want to pay anything out of pocket for it to get delivered V.I.P. class, however.  Just point, click and ship.  “What can brown do for you?”… With nothing in return.  You probably thought I was going to belt off a few lyrics to the song to which this title was attributed to, but I threw you for a loop like the statements that Roger Clemens made to the Senate committee concerning his involvement in steroids.  Hmm…I must have misspoke like Rod Blagojevich.  My bad. 

Where are the people that live off of freebies and free samples? I have a very calm, cool and collected response for you:  (Looking frantically) Does it say “nonprofit organization” anywhere in the words “capitalistic free market”!? Geez, maybe I should’ve switched-up to a stronger prescription in reading specs, because I didn’t see any correlation between the two.  The way I see it, one of the phrases is telling the other to go suck a fat one! What do you expect for free? NOTHING packaged in bulk with the traditional “handle with care—this side up” written boldly in all caps along the top.  Better round up some strong able bodies to assist in the carrying of items weighing up to ZERO.  Redistribute the wealth of NOTTA to others. While you’re at it, hand it out with a LARGE side order of BONE DRY.  Businesses are cutting back in this economy because you don’t get a lot of NOTHING for NO charge like you once did back in the day. Take advantage of it. Better bottle up that ZILCH and save it for a rainy afternoon.  The P.S. on the invite I sent to you, moocher—Bring a plateful of EMPTY to share with everybody to enjoy! NOTHING is now tax deductible, and just might get you that moolah missing-in-action refund you’ve been banking on.  Side note:  Uncle Sam wants his fare share of the BIG GOOSE EGG as well.  This country doesn’t run on EMPTY.  Be prepared to cough it up in the form of a DRY HEAVE.  DO NOTHING; schedule accordingly, ya lazy tool!  From the blank stares flow the rivers of NOTHING.  Great volunteer work; will dedicate it as the deeds of the VOID!  Spend NOTHING get NONE with NO payments until NEVER!  You get what you pay for, cheapo.   STOP!  Your subscription to NIL is about to expire.  This CLEAR space is your final issue.  This week only, don’t spend a thing and receive an assorted choice of NOTHING.  You may receive other options online at our site that states, “Current Page Unavailable.” NOTHING. NOTTA. ZILCH. ZEEEEROOOO.  Looking for a spacious one bedroom apartment with a nice view, respectable tenants, water, heat and central air paid for $0 a month?  I know a place.  Great location too—it’s called the STREETS!  You can take your EMPTY promises and stuff ‘em in a sack, mister. NO money? NO problem.  NO service.

NO offense. 

It All 'Ads' Up

Usually, in the past, a prerequisite to opening my George Castanza wallet was pinpointing the source to assist in the peeling apart of this cheap imposter leather known as vinyl.  An investment that pinch hit well when the chips were down was the use of a crowbar, but lately, I’ve gotten into some sort of trance that defaults to “leading the piggy bank to anorexia.“  As a matter of fact, one afternoon in a department store, I reached for my wallet and already found a hand in it. Surprisingly enough, it was not the I.R.S., nor was it a gas pump scrounging through my paper bills threatening that I pay up or risk broken thumbs and a forfeited license.  Sit down, because this is going to come as a shock to you—kinda like when Kathy Lee made an announcement that she was divorcing Frank Gifford—I was being pick pocketed!

Who was this individual taking the manhood away from my billfold? Ironically, it was me under the side effects of the drug called “Influence” that advertisers traffic through their little media ring.  They find the tall, dark and handsome types, clothe a subliminal message on their eye-candied bodies and sell them out like prostitutes so that we the driver will be in awe when we cruise by and retain in snapshot quality of the product or service being displayed. Now, thanks to you, the billboard, I have to have a chain on my slobbering, coveting wallet (like a leash on a chiwawa) that loops from my rear to front pockets in order to restrain it from indulging in the wasteful practices you encourage. You ought to be ashamed of yourself in the way you parade your upstanding personality and whisper love sonnets to the dead presidents chillin’ in the back seat of my pants.

Mr. Advertisement, you used to be such a gentleman when you’d stop by my humble abode.  Even though the entrance to my bachelor pad is closed to creepos such as yourself, you continue to keep a steady foothold in the door as you constantly disperse your presence through the medium of commercials.  I REALLY appreciate how you overstay your welcome as I try to follow my favorite television shows.  Sitting down in front of the tube, I actively practice my hunting skills as I maneuver from station, to station in search of a channel that does NOT have one of your 30 second paid endorsements.  You TRY to add a little flavah flav to the encroachment of my programs with humor, a catchy jingle or, God forbid, sex appeal, but I turn a deaf ear to your persuasion. Selective hearing is second nature to someone of the male gender like me.  I could care less to the fact that the individual supporting the Debbie Downer of the small screen states that they “approve this ad.”  We already are well aware of that, you douche bags and bizzos of salesmanship!  If you didn’t approve of it, why in the holy name of frick would you air it!?  Stop trying a one-two step in your erotic dance moves with your small print and or fast talking disclosure at the end of each promotion.  You don’t come across as being attractive when you streak naked across the screen with that action—truth be told, you don’t have the booty for it.  Dowsing yourself in cologne or perfume and pitching a tent in a highly read magazine is yet another turn off.  Animated, flashy ads on an internet site with exposure to the public, is your turn of the century method to force feeding an already fat Gerber baby.  Haven’t we seen enough of your white sorry fanny in baggy sweats?

There is no restraining orders, any rehabilitation centers or shelters to hide from your little hoochie momma marketing strategies.  However, there is a “no fly zone” disclosure on the rump of my trousers that will drop kick your attempts like a Chuck Norris to manipulate the disposal of my greenback gravy. Take heed!   

You Just Read My Mind

I was doing some dusting up in my brain a short time ago, and as I cleared some of the cobwebs, I thought that I would go one step further and follow up by leaving a few streaks of the lemon scented Pledge behind along the membrane. You know, kind of freshen up the joint a bit. A panoramic view, shot like a low budgeted movie, filmed boxes and boxes of junk that I stored up there which triggered a thought of possibly having a garage sale.  Now, who, in their right mind, would purchase things stored up in my mental attic for years? Craigslist would have had the bar raised for trashy items peddled on that site if that were the case. A can o’ SPAM invite if I ever saw one.

 In fact, some of the items smelled like mothballs which lead me to think to myself, what GREAT ideas did I have to preserve that I needed to ward off moths?  I seriously laughed out loud when I walked over to the motherboard and found the operating system of Windows 98. That explains in detail how my brainpower ran so efficiently.  Apparently I never invested in the extended warranty, though, because a few “viruses” seemed to take some of the files (brain cells) hostage.

 Shuffling around a little more, it appeared that an offer, in post card form, was mailed to P.O. Box Insanity entitled “Tired of Annoying Pop Ups?” It puzzled me how I could have gotten on a mailing list targeted towards ADHD. Burning a fuse was not on my list of things to do so I immediately ended the thought process. Not all together, mind you, just on that issue.  Possibly a make-shift sign that reads, “NO SOLICITATION” will do away with some of these starving salesmen that knock on the ol’ frontal lobes to make their quota on house calls; except if they come to offer a package deal in the installment of a vending machine that houses a little get-up-and-go juice for the think tank.

That drill I was eyeing a few Christmases back sure would have come in handy after spotting a screw or two loose in the drywall which held up a picture or two of my childhood.  I have to admit that even as a wee lad I could never get away from the paparazzi.  Either that or my brain was quite the creeper and took snapshots of me when I was younger.  No magnetic force is drawing me to either one of the previously stated options.  I would have taken a pencil and check marked N/A by either selection, but the “make a mental note” option doesn’t seem to be top priority up here.  Over a hot cup of coffee, or some other highly-fueled caffeine liquid, I’ll have to bring up the awareness to start making that a practice. 

 A huge revelation fell upon me as I discovered the subscription to the GPS had expired.  Soooo thaaaat’s why I can never find my car in a parking lot, or downloading error occurs when deciphering map quest.  The pieces of the puzzle are starting to come together to make the likeness of an outlined wheelchair symbolizing handicapped.  Central Intelligence Agents on a lunch break for an undetermined amount of time, and a very low watt bulb has been screwed in its place. 

Unfortunately for me, what you just read is the result of when have a faceoff with your computer screen for a few hours straight, and you allow it to say, “Why don’t I start for a change.” BIG MISTAKE!   

Cha-Cha-Chaaaaange...Change of Fools (Not Obama Related)

The dancers in Little Orphan Annie had a spring in their step that was JUST admirable.  Buuuuut….Unfortunately, we’re not going to discuss that issue in today’s reading.  The blinking cursor to Microsoft Word held a protest outside my keyboard in demonstration against topics more feminine than a roundtable gathering on the set of the View.  What we ARE going to chit-chat about, however, is the jingle that can originate from the pocket. There’s nothing wrong with having a little playlist of songs that derive from the Levi 40 Regulars now and again; especially when it’s the vocal perfume of some of our dead Presidents.  Although I have to say, Honest Abe, you were a little pitchy at times.  That acapella clanging of metals rubbing shoulders with each other is music to the ears of pants as Michael Jackson’s moonwalk was footed love making to the floor.

Since I have a sincere interest in contributing some currency cabbage to the Federal Communications Commission, I thought it would be fitting and proper to shoot my mouth off like a gun owned by an NRA member concerning a certain type of money issued by our neighbor to the north.  In fact, when the moment arises and satisfying the fines slapped on my wrists by this Commission is an order, I want to come in person with a handful of Canadian change with melody in my voice as I say, “Yooouuure Weeelcoooome!” Aretha Franklin obviously didn’t have canuck coin in HER pocket when she sang the lyrics, “Oooo, your kisses sweeter than honey And guess what? So, is my money.” Because unlike the U.S. mint’s productions that have the engraving of “In God We Trust,” Canadian coin has the scent that screams, “Return to Sender!”  People have an inbred sense to recognize Canadian change when it is handed to them for payment, and it’s like giving an obscene gesture when used as an exchange for a product or service.  Why is that?  What is it about this coin that makes it such a taboo?  I don’t know…Do I look like fricking Ask Jeeves.com? If I had all the answers I could tell you why the economical GDP still severely suffers from erectile dysfunction. 

Three magic words that were associated with the game Battleship always scroll across my mind’s eye whenever I pawn this forbidden change to a cashier or customer:  Hit and Sunk--like the seat cushion belonging to Rush Limbaugh.  It is an accomplishment that should be mentioned in response to a behavioral question during a job interview.  Give me an example of how you were able conduct a well-composed ponzi scheme.  Well, just recently I noticed a sale on generic cola. When paying for it, I was a smidge short so I dug around my pocket (trying not to look like that kind of a pool shark) and scraped up some spare change.  It just so happened that one of the coins was of Canadian descent—an illegal immigrant in the form of moolah.  Realizing this, I smuggled it with some regular pah-ching and skillfully passed it through to the clerk.  You’re a real Bernie Madoff, now aren’t ya!  Whatever POOFS! the genie out the lamp, right?

A Little Less Talk and A Lot More Action

Would the AM radio frequency please come forward from their seat?  I need the hosts of talk journalism to please rise to attention as well.  I will allow the two of you some time to make your way up on this sarcastic baptismal stage.  Thank you! Now, I need the both of you to lie down in the middle of this B.S. session because I am going drive a Greyhound bus close by and throw the two of you under it.  Your cooperation in this manner is truly appreciated among the listening audience, and will attend to your cries at the top of the hour after a few short words from our sponsors and stations have a chance to identify themselves. 

“Professional drinkers of the one-sided opinion bottle company”—that’s what faithful people who enjoy these radio broadcasts put as a job description on their tax returns every fiscal year.  Unless, of course, you live in Washington as a politician and can skillfully deter the tedious task of forking over U.S. currency with portraits gagged symbolizing the hostile takeover of taxpayer funds. (That was all in one breath)  But for those who loyally tune in to these poor excuses of verbal entertainment, the Kool Aid man will be coming around during intermission to refill your cup so you can continue to drink up the imitation NPR nonsense.   

On the other side of that syndicated microphone sits some of the most arrogant, Shrek-in-look, gabaholics whose false pretenses in their minds state they are God’s gift to man’s ears. Insert an eye roll whenever you audibly witness these residents of the speaking occupation in idle complaints.  Suffering from symptoms of the common cold? An old football injury giving you some ‘tude? Give me a break!  Stop pussy footin’ around like a back alley Tom cat, and deal with it! Last time I checked, you only had to work for a petty couple hours a day.  Let me crawl inside your brain and play the world’s smallest violin.  Think of it as some dinner music to enjoy as you eat the foot currently planted in your mouth.  Obviously, the revenge of my voodoo doll must be in effect as I  manipulate it “with half my brain tied behind my back…just to make it fair.”  Next, I will “take a stab” at the voice box area which will be disguised as a little visit from the internal Tonya Harding side seeking another scandal opportunity.  She still has a lack of anti-freeze in that bitterly cold temper reservoir to make Ed Schultz look like a baby Jesus replica in a church Nativity scene.

The written speakers implanted in this passage are due for replacement since the hate volume was turned up to the max.  I have two options:  Not heed the warning and let the stupid drool out of my mouth like one radio psychologist did previously (to protect the innocent, we'll call her Dr. Laura), or invest in scripted cochlear implants that EIB’s Mr. Limbaugh could construct using his grandpa-like hearing devices as a template.  Neither sound promising enough for me to continue this train wreck of a perspective.  So the mute is officially activated.

Death Sits Down for A Game Plan

I’m going to violate cyberspace noise control, and aim an extreme decibel keystroke monologue at a group of people in society who I’m going to rename as architectures of made from scratch Kodak moments.   You probably had a look like Ronald McDonald did when the Furby doll came into existence after you read that, but that reclassification is new street talk lingo in blogosphere for “Planning.”  I just kinda wanted to put a little footmark on this passage, but apparently it looked more like a footprint left by a cheap pair of moon boots. 

I sat and pondered this ideology because basically I had no life, and I was desperate for a blog entry—desperation much like Toyota when they recently came out with the $1.25/mo for 36 months lease.  Not only do these non medicated O.C.D. people reinvent the wheel, but they give it bling, pimp feva, and a lamentation for the vehicle to be left on blocks due to provocative eye candy appeal.  Planning that is taken to the next level.  I mean, these people are not only glamorous, they’re so glamorous they fricken piss glitter. 

But one conception gets shoved in the corner, passed over, and dumped out as if it were a Cash for Clunker automobile.  People plan showers, birthday parties, anniversary gatherings, weddings…etc. etc, but where is the Grim Reaper in all of this? Does he not get a say of the time? A penciled rehearsal of what would occur if you were to see him through your peep hole is almost inevitable. Perhaps, it could be seen by some as being self-centered and or morbid. Would it be a mating call to the Pale Angel of Death if one were to script what they would like assembled after their passing? A little fling with Daddy Deceasor? Who cares!  Fischer Price toyed with the affections of Playskool and look what happened to them.  Bow Wow Chicka Wowow!  Just because you buy life insurance does not mean you are going to drop dead after you sign the contract. So…  If you’re late with a little style and class, you could have it imperative that you enter the front of the church at least 2-5 minutes late.  I’m sure that could get a few tears turned in to cackles. Maybe drama follows you like a wannabe soap opera star; your casket could roll in stride, diva-like, to Amazing Grace played to bagpipes, or the lyrics, “I-N-D-E-P-E-N-D-E-N-T  Do you know what that means...” Possibly, orchestrate a photo slide show in sync to Green Day’s “Good Riddance (Time of Your Life)”.  Go ahead.  I’ll keep it on the down low. 

You get the point.  This would be the last time people are going to see you, and pay their respects. It’s bad enough you are dead; might as well time allot it to YOUR watch and format it to fit YOUR screen.   A little THX sound effects can’t hurt the situation. In fact, see if you can get Warner Bros. to film the scene while you’re at it! This could finally be the block buster hit that leaves those Twilight sequels in the dust—directed and executively produced by you.  Too bad you would be busy packing, getting a boarding pass to pushin’ up daisies and unable to see it first-hand though.      

Its Waking Moment

Who’s your biggest enemy Monday morning?  Who laughs at you when THE time rolls around and has a tow truck service on speed dial in order to pull your poorly paid fanny out of bed? Who calls and leaves voice mail messages on your boss’ answering machine informing them that you are late because you failed to heed the friendly advice of a close acquaintance? I’ll give you a hint:  The noise it makes EVERY morning is annoying as (expletive deleted here).  Give up?  It’s your alarm clock.

During the semi-annual performance review that I had with my waking aide, I listened to it continuously rant and rave of the fact that I over extended its patience by pushing the snooze button.  Coming prepared with a legal pad and pen, I wrote down its concern with intent fashion.  In fact, I had to wipe a single tear from my cheek with a Kleenex enriched with aloe to keep my skin moist and soft.  Ha!  Yeah right!  Who am I trying to kid? I slammed a response back in its face like a steroid-filled hit of Barry Bonds. “You knew when you accepted this job the possibility of getting blown off!”  Somebody must have flipped the switch to its teleprompter ‘cuz there was no comeback to that one-two punch.

The previous Christmas I did compensate by gifting it with a Rolex wristwatch.  Did I mention the engraving on the back?  “Thank you for the gentle nudge every morning, and not going on strike like a group of writer’s guild members back in ‘08.”  I understand that it was a little long in some parts, but there wasn’t a dry eye in the house when I presented it for the 21 years of service.  Of course, it was just me up against the clock, and I still cry at the end of Disney’s Big Green, but that’s beside the point. 

However, I have come to the conclusion that the random flashing of 12:00 is a sign of mental breakdown.  At least that is what the psychology students at U.C.L.A. have troubleshot the problem to be.  Personally, I’m rethinking that this symbolizes its revenge; especially, when it occurs during the night.  After the review of surveillance video, I was devastated to find my alarm clock pull the plug from the outlet, stick its tongue at me while asleep, and then thumb its nose as it flashes continuously some random hour.  A rare mishap?  I don’t think so.  That’s its way of saying not to put it under the bus each morning your late and tell coworkers that you never heard your alarm when clearly you did. 

All in all, it’s a pretty dependable device.  It is never late; therefore not a male, and never moody which gives it a good chance of not being a female.  Never complains about getting up before dawn, or questions the motive.  Unless, you have a Timex; then, you have a reason to pull a Donald Trump’s “You’re Fired!”

Did They Really Lead Storybook Lives??

Before storybook characters sit down to negotiations between their agents and proud parents of America, what actions are taken to legitimize their pureness?  Do they go through a series of grilling questions spewed forth from some Senate committee? Do they participate in a polygraph test to cement the fact that they are wholesome individuals worthy of the task of putting your kids to sleep? Does Golden Books pitch in a few bucks from their profits to initialize a background check?  Hmm.  To answer these concerns, let’s take some of these classics out of the time chest, wipe the dust off their personas, and gag from the mothball scent as proof of preservation.  Dim the lights and begin the interrogation.

The Three Little Pigs:  Although no real convictions popped up, one was accused with conflict of interest as he endorsed Jenny Craig due to his problem with obesity.  Another confessed that the funds used to build his brick house were from penny pinching and switching to Geico; therefore, enabling him to save 15% or more on car insurance.  Wikipedia crashed as I researched the last pig so due to such complications no dirt was found.  Possible jailed for selling property with a scratched off serial number—a Remington raza.

The Three Bears:  Two words describe their past:  Laundry List.  Poppa Bear had a couple of red flags.  One was a traffic violation back in ’85 where he refused to yield the right of way, the other was D.U.I after an all-night party celebrating the newly acquired role as a Sesame Street recurring character.  Breaking in and entering ’88. Momma Bear claimed she “honestly neglected” to pay the I.R.S. funds she received after performing exotic moves at a local night club in ’74, and posed nude for Playboy at an undetermined time. The child bear was accused of shop lifting at a Seven Eleven.  He claims that his soda at home was toooo waaarm and wanted something more refreshing.

Hensel and Gretel:  Faces appeared on a plastic bag under the words “Missing and Endangered.” Engaged in business through email and cell phone texts. 

Little Red Riding Hood:  This one is a dozy. During the making of this legendary story, Chris Hansen in “To Catch a Predator” stopped by for a little surprise visit.  Questioning the Big Bad Wolf, Hansen holds documented chat messages between he (Wolf) and the decoy (Little Red Riding Hood).  He subtly goes to the picnic basket and names off the items Riding Hood was requested to bring.  “Condoms, wine, raw meat??  What were you planning on doing here tonight?”  Needless to say, The Big Bad Wolf is spending a number of years behind bars for luring a minor.

Pepe` Le Pew:  Had a mug shot taken after breaking parole and stalking Penelope Pussycat and failing to register as a sex offender. 

Apparently, character doesn’t matter to these characters; nor does it rank in high importance to the publishers who provide these storybook staff members with jobs. 

Happy Birthday Super Mario!

Mr. Mario-- where are my manners-- SUPER Mario, a little birdie told me that you recently celebrated a 25^th birthday.  Happy Belated Birthday!  For being 25, you don’t look a day past 12.  I am sure that you have a had a little assistance keeping up your appearance with the plastic surgeries and all, but it should put you in a close second to being the poster child of the motto: Plastics Make It Happen.  Our current Speaker of the House, Nancy Pelosi, thought she could have a landslide lead with that position, but you are slowly picking up speed.  My apologies. 
It hasn’t been an easy 25 years for you.  Having to check into rehab twice for battling an addiction to over-the-counter pain killers, and battling the tabloids at the same time is enough for any individual to throw in the towel (or cape as per Mario 3).  On a footnote to that thought, Perez Hilton was TOTALLY out of line for stating in his blog that your mustache classified you as being a pedophile. I don’t care if he ended it with a joking, “Just Sayin’.” Un-Called-for. 
 The Big Two Five…  Wow!  Where has the time gone?  Too bad your  401(k) tanked like everybody else’s and now you have no choice but to work until you’re 90.  You were pretty much handed the term “Frivolous Lawsuit” on a silver platter during the Dr. Mario era.  Nintendo presents, in stereo where available: Mario—Malpractice M.D.
What’s your brother Luigi doing these days? Sitting in front of the tube watching Reality T.V. and chowin’ on Ramen Noodles?  The NAACP looked at his skanky moves and said to themselves, “We need to make a video throwing that cracker under the bus.  Let’s call it, ‘White Men Can’t Jump.’”
In Mario Paint, you blazed a trail for that well-known PBS painter named Bob Ross. If I were you, I’d go to his grave and serve him up a tall, cold glass of court papers for his violation of copyright infringement. That’s advice you’re not going to find at legalzoom.com!  You are welcome.  The bill is in the mail. 
 A quarter of the century old!  It’s high time that you begin receiving AARP insurance quotes sent to you.  Am I off base by making this assumption?  What would full coverage cost on something like Yoshi under their plan? I’m sure that a clause is defined somewhere in the T.A.R.P. plan to supplement such costs.
Hoooly Frick! Fox News just scrolled on the bottom of the screen an announcement of the Palin/Mario 2012 Ticket for prez.  I end with a very DRAMATIC “Mamma Mia!”       

AAAAnd In This Corner.....

I recently purchased an item that had the phrase “Assembly Not Included” proudly proclaimed on the front of the package.  Those three little words screamed at me, and knowing how mechanically inclined I am, made that statement at me with a grin and a slap on the face like a call to a duel.  After that little taunt, I responded with a “Game On!” attitude knowing full good and well that after I walked through that check-out line with the receipt of payment in my hand that I would be setting myself up for failure.  So far, I was right.  After attempting the loading of such, I had already felt defeated due to the weight and length of the item itself.  Product –1: Me—Zilch.  How can I be down for the count on the appetizer when I haven’t even reached the meat and potatoes of the project yet? Some time elapsed as I pushed the reset button to my body and allowed it to reboot.  In laymen’s terms, I became lazy and snoozed through the majority of the afternoon.  Waking up with the haunting reminder that I haven’t started the project as it lied there unopened, was more harassing than the annoying alarm that triggered off every morning.  Clearing the cobwebs out of my brain, I vowed silently to myself that I was going to hogtie this task at hand and have a finished product better than that pictured on the box.  I then criticized my brain for such a sarcastic thought directed toward me.  With the box cut and torn open violently, it was a little reminder of the teasing it dished to me while it was shelved at the store waiting for redemption.  I was feeling the adrenaline pumping.  Wanting to look at the playbook and intercept its devilish attempts of proving me manually incapable, I flipped through the instruction manual.  My first thought was, What! No thank you for purchasing this product!? I can’t buy a box of flipping chicken nuggets without them thanking me on the side of the box for purchasing their food. Then again, how am I supposed to decipher whether they did or not since it’s more bilingual than a group of speakers at the G20 Summit meeting.  I could have called the 1-800 help line and asked one of them, however, I had a feeling that I would have gotten some foreign person on the other end re-wrapping their turban and hardly able to speak English themselves.  How about the “For Espanol, prensa  cinco”? What they really mean is, “If you have come to this country illegally, and don’t quite know the language yet, if at all, but taking tax dollars to feed your anchor baby, then please press 5.”  But I digress.  Who would have thought that official language of AMERICA would not be the first one to choose from in an instruction manual of a product MADE IN THE USA? Do you know how I found this out?  Look at the words that I have just written—upside down.  That’s the way I was to follow the instructions, with the booklet turned upside down.  I’m officially a member of the minority in my own country.  With a few chinks in the armor (slight cuts and bruises) and just about called “out” on a check swing, I finally assembled it and rubbed the success in the box’s face by NOT recycling it. 

Piss on It?

If you go anywhere outside of your home for any given period of time, it is inevitable that Nature is going to call or text message you.  Past experience in screening these calls will tell you that the task at hand is either opening the valve of the sump pump hose or dropping the kids of at the pool. That’s a detailed description of both job number one and job number two in an uncensored fashion.  I have centered both bodily functions around men, not to discriminate against women or send out vibes that I am a lover of rainbow pride, but to simply allow my fingahz to bebop on the keyboard to lyrics to a rant and rave song.  Now to the sheet music.  When the bladder has a full tank of urine, and a pit stop is an order, where are the detour signs NOW when the wall-less urinals appear around that dreadful corner? Heaven knows they’re everywhere else en route.  Is this handicapped porcelain  set-up society’s way of accepting a generic brand pun better known as an engineering design interrupted by a brain FART? You want to talk about a bridge to nowhere—stand in front of these definitions of “fail.” You can’t tell me that times are that tough, a building can’t afford a couple of tin walls to privatize little Willy Wonka!  Sorry, but that crutch of an excuse isn’t covered under the Obama Health Care plan.  In protest of this manhandling invitation creation, I will stand in the background and torture my pee pouch until a stall becomes available before I waltz over there like a dollar menu wind-up toy and take a load off my pelvis.  Who cares if I look like a creeper when I hang out behind the scenes.  If the fire hose doesn’t feel comfortable to come out, then relief can never be found. 

A Volt of Fresh Air

Remember when you were a child how you would take a crayon from the box put it in your mouth as if it were a cigarette? Sometimes you would just let it hang there and bob on your lips as you added color to Dora the Explorer’s little cheeks.  Occasionally, you would remove it and blow a little imaginary smoke into the air as if to say, “Take that all you hatahz!  I just colored outsiiiide thah liiiines.” Of course, parents would humor you, take snapshots of you, and enflame your little ego by confirming what a bad mo-fo you were.  To add a little spice to the charade, you would at times flick a worn-out crayon to the floor like the real-world chain smokers do; turning your back on that Crayola crayon with an action that exemplified, “You bring me no more pleasure.  Get outta my face!”  Some of these kids, as listed above, highlighted themselves as being efficient in smoking on resumes and some chose otherwise.  I say “efficient in smoking” because nicotine addicts spend most of their working careers test driving the highs and lows of cig sticks instead of performing their day-to-day duties since smoke breaks come every 5-10 minutes of the day.  Bonus pay in the form of Marlboro points.  Couponed income that was a no show on the ol’ W-2s you could say.  For those who decided not to endanger their lives or the lives of others and not turn their lungs into an enlarged version of charcoal briquettes, there is another alternative-- electronic cigarettes.  This invention is COMPARABLE to the make-believe smoking of the crayon.  Verbatim.   Thank you, God for this conception where I can be like the big boys, puff my form of smoke, make cat calls to the lataaays, and, in return, not have to send my death invite to Cancer’s P.O. Box! Much obliged, by the way, for the gracious request of my presence in joining you while you partake in half a pack, however, checking the status of my electric ciggy, it appears that it is not fully charged.  Therefore, I will have to catch you on the flip side.  I’ll have to rely on the second-hand smoke that resonates on you in order to gratify my fix just this one time.  Perhaps I should invest in some AA batteries and rely on such for backup, but during uncertain times relating to this economy money does not grow on trees.  Watch out, though, because once this imposter of the “coffin nail” is ready to go, be advised that I will be releasing its trademark mist into the air heavily, thus creating the next Hurricane Katrina.