Sleepy Alligators

Sleepy alligators love to ride in elevators

They get lazy when it comes to climbing stairs

For the most they’ll do is scurry, even when they’re in a hurry

So you’ll rarely see them rushing anywhere

Llamas in pajamas long to lounge in the Bahamas

Though their traveling opportunities are few

The ocean makes them seasick and vacations make them homesick

So they never leave the mountains of Peru

Climate-conscious weasels won’t be caught dead driving diesels

Cause the carbon footprint causes them to wheeze

So they’ll call their good pal Goober, who’s employed these days by Uber

For his Prius always makes them feel at ease

Double-dealing dingo’s always cheat when playing Bingo

So it’s always wise to keep their paws in view

And it’s best to not assume, when you get up and leave the room

That they won’t switch the cards, cause dingo’s hate to lose

So though we’re not as hairy or have humps like dromedary

We’re no different from the birds and bats and bees

So next time you meet a ferret, who’s quite ornery, grin and bear it

And be grateful you don’t have to deal with fleas

© 2016 Kenneth Goorabian

Elvis, Trivialities and the Human Brain

Just how much useless information can one’s brain store before it rebels? When forced to add to the clutter of irritating commercial jingles, bad movie dialog and elementary (I before E except after C) grade school gobbledygook will it one day say I’ve had enough, I quit?

I’ve heard from reliable sources that the mind is the second thing to go, but I wanted to keep this PG rated so I will forgo the joke about the honeymooning seniors, two Popsicle sticks and a roll of duct tape.

Time inevitably marches on and pop culture twerks right along behind it. Seems like only yesterday that Elvis Presley was known as the “King of Rock –N- Roll.” Now he is commonly referred to as the dead fat guy in the rhinestone jumpsuit. Before you know it Kanye West will be nothing more than 20 down; a nine letter word for the second idiot who married the Armenian chick with the big butt.  So, as I get older I begin to care less about what movie star gets a DUI (They’re rich. Couldn't they afford Uber?) and more about keeping incontinent dogs and partying teenagers off my lawn.

Side Note:

I pondered this subject while scouring the internet in a vain attempt to discover the ingredients for Honey Boo Boo’s world famous butter and ketchup spaghetti sauce.  Apparently this is a carefully guarded formula right up there with Coca-Cola, KFC’s top secret herbs and spices and Flame Broiler’s “Magic Sauce.” If anyone has discovered HBB’s recipe, please forward it to me.

Anyway, I find it fascinating that I can belt out the theme song to The Brady Bunch verbatim, but couldn't tell you what I had for breakfast this morning.  As a lifelong musician this is somewhat comforting. That means I could probably get up on stage with a band I was in thirty years ago and play Hit Me with Your Best Shot flawlessly. The flip side is it would take me an hour to remember where I parked my car afterward.

I was considering going on one of those websites where you exercise your brain, but for the life of me I can’t remember the web address. Probably just as well. This morning I could barely recite the first two verses of the Gilligan’s Island theme song. The possibility exists that if any more info was crammed into my aging noggin I might forget the tune altogether. Wouldn't want that. After all, a man must have priorities.

Someday I’m sure they will discover a way to erase brain clutter like we do on a computer. That would come in handy. I would start with anything I ever heard, read, saw regarding Justin Bieber, the Kardashians and the helpful Honda guy commercials. Oh, and Kanye West too.

K.G.