Sad Day in Mudville

I have measured out my life with coffee spoons
-T.S. Elliot
I could live without coffee… But I’d probably be a serial killer
-Kenneth Goorabian

The inevitable finally happened: the perfect storm of weekend overindulgence and
laissez faire attitude has culminated in a gut-wrenching awareness that I’ve run out
of coffee.

To some (who are you people?) this may seem rather silly, but I assure you, this is no
good ship lollipop to this Surly Temple. Without my morning cup ‘o joe, I tend to get a
wee bit anxious. But I’m no moodier than say… Jack the Ripper. Okay, slightly less. I
would only hurt someone if they were standing between me and the coffee pot.

I was a late bloomer to this miracle bean. In my younger years, I forsook coffee shops
for apartments wallpapered with tapestries and black-light posters; rooms pungent and hazy from cheap head-shop incense. With age comes wisdom though. I finally saw the light.
It was a glowing orange orb coming from my new best friend, Mr. Coffee.

And yes, Mr. C and I are still together. Oh, I was seduced over the years by newer, sleeker,
high-maintenance models, with their hourglass decanters and K-Cups, but always
returned to my first love. I’ve come to realize that relationships require hard work. Others promise increased satisfaction with less energy. I for one find no grounds for divorce.

Remember….  Death before Decaf

Kenneth Kona Goorabian

Two All Beef Patties and a Side of Cheesy Thighs

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"My therapist told me the way to achieve true inner peace is to finish what I start. So far today, I have finished two bags of M&M’s and a chocolate cake. I feel better already." 

-Dave Barry

"Carbs, oh carbs, how I love thee. Let me count the waist."

-Kenneth Goorabian

Dear Seventeen Magazine,

I have bad skin, I’m frustrated with chubbiness and can never decide what to wear. Oh, and I have too many shoes. What can I do? 

p.s. I’m a 63-year-old man who has a teenage girl living inside me.

Fat & Frumpy

Dear F&F,

I have three tips that are sure to help.

1. Clearasil

2. Get off the couch

3. That’s why God made leggings and over-sized t-shirts

4. Send me all unwanted footwear

Why do I go kicking and screaming into old age? When does the madness end?

Today, while my wife and I were walking complaining about age and desire to lose weight, a woman chugging up the hill the other way said to my wife, and I paraphrase, “Your legs look great. You’re my ideal.”

Considering all she sees in the mirror are cheesy thighs and crepey skin, you can imagine her reaction. Beaming is the word. She could live on that compliment for weeks.

So, when you’re feeling less than perfect, just remember: Your nightmare is someone else’s dream. 

K.G.

Got my GMO-JO Working

Have no fear! Spidey is here.

-Peter Parker

I am not an animal.

-Elephant Man

I’m ready to put my name on the list when they begin genetically modifying people. My wife says I’m fine just the way I am. Well, except for my constant fidgeting when she’s trying to sleep, my insistence on using dryer sheets (I abhor static cling), and my refusal to eat any cereal but Honey Nut Cheerios. Aside from that, I’m loyal as a dog, walk myself, and do her laundry. I think she’d rather leave well enough alone.

I have a few ideas for GMO-ification that I really think could benefit society.

They could give car wash guys extra-long arms and legs. I have an SUV, and they always miss spots on the roof. Now, I’m not Andre the Giant, and my eyesight is so bad I had to have contacts put in to pick out new frames for my glasses, and even I can see the dirty spots they missed. This means that every single carwash guy is either legally blind or they all have abnormally short arms and legs. They could fix this with a little monkey/giraffe DNA and I would be perfectly okay with it. Oh, and I promise not to giggle, or stare at them too much when I get my car washed.

A deviled-eggplant would be delicious. There are never enough deviled eggs at holiday parties. This combo would ensure generous quantities of slippery, mayonaisey goodness, lower the cholesterol count a smidge, and the purple color would add a festive flair.

I think we should engineer babies to immediately become 35 years old upon their third birthday. This would eliminate stress and monetary burden for parents and effectively wipeout all future boy bands.

K.G.

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.

Sweets, Sex and Sixties

“You may have noticed we have no sex lives. As a result, there's lots of chocolate in this house.”

― Keryl Raist

When I woke up this morning, my wife asked, “Would you like a cookie?”

My reply was, “That sounds so gross right now.”

What she actually said was “quickie,” and if she starts talking to me again,

I’m sure we’ll laugh and laugh.

-Kenneth Goorabian

If you were standing outside our bedroom door in the morning, you might think we’d been“in flagrante delicto.” Oh, how I wish it were true. I actually make those moans and groans every day when I get out of bed.

Growing old can certainly be trying. Not only does one’s hearing begin to falter, but the memory as well. This last one isn’t so bad now, as I’ve finally memorized the way to the bathroom in the dark due to the frequent trips. I confess, my aim’s not what it once was. Then again, it’s not like I’m shooting at intruders.

One fun thing I’ve noticed as I’ve matured (like a fine wine), is an increased appetite for sweets. I believe I could live on frozen yogurt and neon sour gummy worms if I had to.  If pressed to choose between sex or frozen treats, I’d be inclined to order a side-by-side freezer for the bedroom. It’s come to the point that when I see a beautiful woman walk by, my only sinful thought is wondering if she has a Snickers in her purse. Is that odd?

Confession: I just ate a chocolate and vanilla ice cream bar during the writing of this piece.

Sweets cover a multitude of sins.

K.G.

Larry, Moe and Curling

It’s Olympics time again, my sporting aficionados; and I’m hunkered down in front of the TV with one hand on the remote and the other clutching a candy bar. Okay, it’s not exactly candy. It’s a faux chocolate, protein bar that tastes something like a dead wax-dipped gopher stuffed with peanut-flavored Play-Doh. Just my wife’s way of keeping me healthy and alive. Bless her “all natural” little heart.

Like most of you, I love the swimming, gymnastics, track and field and stuff. Oh, and the women’s beach volleyball. I admit to having some trouble staying focused on the game due to the wardrobe selection, but generally manage keep my eye on the ball.

Here’s where my problem lies. I am a curling fan. There, I said it. I hear some of you (my spouse included) snickering. We have spirited discussions on whether or not curling is an actual sport. Granted, speed, acrobatic prowess and jumping abilities aren’t essential in this highly skilled, chess-like sport (yes, it’s a sport), and the outfits are less than titillating, but it might be my only chance of attaining Olympic greatness.

This dawned on me as I sat in the Laz-Z-Boy watching my wife sweep outside. I could do that. I can wield a broom like nobody’s business. I realized that at my age I had all the fundamental skills necessary to take the curling world by storm.

I spent years cursing the trees for their incessant shedding of needles and leaves on my patio and walkway when like a towering, shaggy-headed Mr. Miyagi’s (watch Karate Kid) they had been preparing me for my run at the gold.

Ah, who am I kidding? My desire to sweep my way to curling fame is vastly outweighed by my desire to snack and nap.

Better wrap this up. My wife is scowling at me through the window. Doesn’t she realize that cleaning up the backyard is not a job, but a path to Olympic glory?

By the look on her face I would say not.

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.