Thursday, April 28, 2016

Crock Pot Angst

I got a crock pot for my birthday and I've yet to open the box. People expect me to cook something. My doctor gave me a website with hundreds of crock pot recipes. He demands I cook pot roast. My brother gave me another recipe book. Family waits expectantly for results. I'm feeling lots of pressure. Suppose my crock pot doesn't bond with me. They can be tempermental. I might stick pork chops and veggies in there, leave the house for a time, and return to cinders and disgusted firemen.
Having a crock pot means having to buy ingredients, a word that has always frightened me. It took me weeks to trust my micro. I have to eat healthier and drop some weight. I feel I'm burning lots of calories just worrying about this. I must meditate and believe this will end well.
This is why I never use my stove.

Monday, April 25, 2016

Whole Grain Oats

The oat community is in chaos. Partially grained oats are clamoring for equality. We are the 99%. Is it our fault we were grown by lazy farmers who could care less about sunlight and nutrition?
We fed our troops while whole grain stayed in country clubs. We taste just as good, especially with strawberries. Even raw hemp works. We're not fussy. Gobble away.
We create energy and aid memory. Whole grain is so self involved, coasting on its reputation created by paid off researchers. Where is Congress in this crisis?
We are always ready to help our comrades. When Farina was going through depression because it was considered outmoded, we were there to give it a hug. Quinoa was being ignored until we stepped in. We cheered up corn meal. Sadly, we could not help postina. RIP.
Whole grain has kept itself apart from other cereals, preferring to hang with low fat yogurt, pancales, omelets and bagel sticks. Whoever created bagel sticks should be prosecuted.
We partially grained oats will not stand for second rate treatment.
Actually, we can't stand, period. We're oats.

Poets with Problems

Congress has outlawed rhyming because it puts too much pressure on kids. Free verse has replaced it. Poets are shocked. This will put many of them on the unemployment line. Many may try in desperation to write prose. Open mikes will consist of pitchy singers and bad comics. The thrill of rhyming will be forever lost.
A future full of despondent poets sprawled on sidewalks and in alleys, drunk, stoned, useless, is quite possible.
Of course they can resort to flash fiction. God help us.
What we cannot understand is how Congress can ban rhyming and still allow the semi-colon?
If Republicans get elected maybe this law will be repealed.
I would love to end this with a rhyme, but I value my freedom.

Evil Flowers

Flowers are cruel and evil. You can hug trees and talk to them. Flowers flirt, make promises, then die, leaving you with nothing but sad memories. Do not trust flowers. Look what happened to all those bees.
I choose cactus every time. You get what you see. You can stare at a cactus forever and fel no empathy. The cactus could care less about your issues.
Plus it has a very good chance of outliving you. Respect them. Do not toss flowers on my grave. Plant a cactus and walk away.
Now hedges and bushes have a lot less in common than you think. Bushes are essentially hedges who've lost their self respect.

Wednesday, April 20, 2016

Streaky Mirror

My full length bedroom mirror is always streaked. I emerge from the shower, dripping wet and stand before it. Light streaming in gives me a God like ambience. I let it play upon my sculpted arms, shoulders and chest, my six pack abs, chiseled quads and calves. My neck in profile is statuesque. Definition and bulk balance perfectly.
If my pillows could speak what haosannas they would emit.
But these damn mirror streaks ruin everything. Spraying only makes it worse. My perfection is damaged. Perhaps the Gods are jealous.
Now the puddles created on the floor from my shower are a separate issue.

Monday, April 18, 2016

Things That Murmur

People in courtrooms
People in long unmoving lines
Water fowl during a drought
Kids when a sub walks in
Old people in parks
The ghoul in your basement
Teens around adults
Printers starting up
Actors waiting to audition
Golf commentators
Priests in the confessional

Sold As Is

Joe was on a tight budget. If the floor model was slightly damaged, he grabbed it. On his birthday he strolled along Main Street until he came to a small store--A  Piece of Heaven. A wholesale codpiece outlet.
The proprietor, short and pale, showed him their stock, none of which fit Joe's budget. Sighing, he was about to leave when the man called him back. He reached under the counter and brought out a cellophane wrapped codpiece. This one's used, the man said.
He told Joe it was sold as is, no returns. The price was right, but Joe wanted to know how many had owned it before him.
Only three, was the answer.he guy who brought it in seemed clean and healthy.
Joe bought and raced home to try it on. It fit. Satin, of course.
He named it Morey.
After three days his groin began itching. It stretched and developed a hole. Then the strap snapped in the middle of a power point presentation.
Joe got home and stripped off Morey. Into the garbage it went.
Back to tighty whities.
A week later the itching finally stopped.