Guy-Polar

“I told my wife the truth. I told her I was seeing a psychiatrist. Then she told me the truth: that she was seeing a psychiatrist, two plumbers, and a bartender.”

― Rodney Dangerfield

“When we remember we are all mad, the mysteries disappear and life stands explained”.

-Mark Twain

Feeling a bit down in the dumps lately. Not what I’d call serious depression. I mean, not do a Greg Louganis off the Golden Gate bridge or join a tribute band kind of depression, but I have been eyeballing a week-old hard-boiled egg with morbid interest. To most that may seem rather harmless, but for someone with severe expiration date-o-phobia, this would be akin to playing Salmonella roulette. And if you had ever witnessed my usual reaction to expired food, you'd quickly surmise I was now one nip and tuck short of Caitlyn Jenner and banish me to a rubber (though fabulously upscale and chic) room.

I guess the depression could be nothing more than winter blues. After all, the temperature has been in the low 70’s and it did rain for two (don’t be a hater) days. Added to that, I find it extremely hard to work out when it’s chilly. Lay off the weights too long and my body begins to resemble a marshmallow left out in the sun too long. It may also be the ridiculously bad haircut I received recently. I sincerely believe if 100 monkeys were given scissors, a cheap rental space, and three weeks, they would be outperforming Supercuts by the fourth week. 'Nuf said.

I was thinking a new hobby might get the old juices flowing again. I briefly considered teaching myself how to play the violin, but I love my wife too much. And knitting is out of the question as I am not allowed to play with sharp objects. Origami might be doable because no cutting utensils are required.

One of my millennial co-workers suggested I get a tattoo. You know, colorful body art might make me feel better about myself. Hmmm…

Got one of those. At 18, under the influence of something, I allowed my friend to wrap a needle with a bit of thread (don’t wanna go too deep now) and then proceeded to give me a permanent reminder of my teenage stupidity, that hurt like ##%!! and "branded" me like an ex-con.

Oh, and we used the wrong ink. The day after the vicious micro-assault, I had half of a faded tattoo. It took another two hours of embroidering ink into skin that was now as raw as hamburger for my new tat to be realized. I don’t recall, but I assume much cursing and drugs of some sort were needed for this second session.

After all, I couldn’t go through life with half a hoosegow tattoo, could I?

Seems teenagers occasionally make good decisions, right?

K.G.

No Way You’re Going to Make a Monkey Out of Me

“Wouldn’t it be funny if I shaved one of those monkeys.”

-God to Michael

If evolution is true, why aren’t my arms longer so I don’t need glasses?

-Kenneth Goorabian

I assume Darwin sat around watching chimps one day and thought, hey, they look just like me. We must be related. Hmmm…

If that supposition holds true, then turtles must be aliens because they look an awful lot like E.T. sans the shell. Wait a minute.  A turtle’s shell is saucer-shaped and very similar in appearance to a UFO. Am I the first one to make this connection?  Just blew my own mind.

It’s my belief that life would be easier if we were monkeys. Getting our recommended intake of fruit and veggies without complaint would be eliminated, we’d be totally oblivious to the awesomeness of pizza, deep fried chicken wings and Twinkies, swinging in the trees is great exercise and we could run around naked. Plus, having a hairy back wouldn’t be a turn-off to the opposite sex.

Just think, if I were a monkey I could have skipped all the trepidation in high school when ordered to climb the rope. I’d have scampered up that thing like poop (ask your grandpa) through a goose, all the while grinnin’ like a … well, like a monkey.

I pondered this as I shaved my chest and back. Unfortunately I am more simian than I would like.

Maybe we are actually de-evolving. After all, monkeys have long arms and don’t wear glasses. Think about it.

K.G.

Not My Circus, Not My Monkey

But I wish it was.

I think monkeys are the coolest animals, I would love to have one as a pet. Unfortunately, my wife is vehemently anti-simian and there’s pretty much nothing short of a Forensic Files episode that will get her to change her mind. And don’t think I haven’t tried. I’ve used every argument I could dream up.

A.    A companion for me while she’s globetrotting for work.

B.     He could clean the rain gutters without worrying about falling off the roof.

C.     Someone to eat all the brown bananas she says I waste.

D.    With a squeezebox thingy and a sweet hat for my monkey I could make some extra cash when I’m hanging out at the mall.

E.     They’re irresistibly cute

My wife says she’d rather have a baby (ain’t gonna happen) than a monkey. Okay, let’s go with that for a moment.

Babies wear diapers. So do monkeys. You can dress a baby up as ridiculous as you want and they won’t complain. Monkeys can’t talk so I’d say that’s a wash. Babies

are warm and cuddly, so are monkeys. Babies require many doctor visits; vets are slightly cheaper. Babies don’t shed, so there’s that. Babies throw food. Monkeys throw their po… okay, the baby wins that one. But can a baby swing from the chandelier? I think not.

She finally suggested I get a dog.

The thought of making a friend out of something that frequently uses its tongue as a washcloth doesn’t appeal to me in the slightest. I believe this is why Michael Jackson wisely chose Bubbles over Fido.

Monkeys rule…dogs drool

K.G.