Outlet Mall Outlets

Big Weekend

Big weekend, digging the hole for our house expansion.

It's official! It's a money pit!

Big Weekend

Big weekend, outraged! 

The commercialization of theology.

Big Weekend

Big weekend with my conventional bananas.

Darn those unconventional bananas and their T-tops and racing stripes.

Big Weekend

Big weekend, as some 30-year spouse, who will go nameless, made me push around her groceries. 

*sigh* 

It was a girl's buggy!

Here's Joe Cool Hanging Around the Dollar Store Eyeing Chicks

Continued From: "Meanwhile..." 

After purchasing cat bowls to appease the furry gaping maws at home, I looked for place mats to go under their food.

Nothing dresses up appetizing floorboards beneath the coat hooks like a piece of cheap plastic with kitty paw print designs splotched on it.

I found zilch suitable for the pets.

But for me, SCORE!!

Meanwhile...

We required four new food bowls to serve our cats adequately, so Father Goose, as the wife calls me, along with the alternate sweetheart appellation Guts o' Thunder & Cheese, plus the unnecessary For Whom the Bed Toils, headed off to do the shopping.

I found the ideal dishes, but there were only three labeled worthy of kitties, so I was forced to purchase one intended for another culture.

"Hey, these bowls look identical to me," I said, in case continuity might be needed later. "No one will ever be the wiser. I shall check-out now and leave my camera operative and handy, in case a cute photo opportunity makes itself available when I unpack the merchandise back at the abode."

Someone's feline intuition and evil eye went directly to the offending vessel. I got into the car and returned the dog bowl to the market, where I upgraded Morty to a cat gravy boat and the obligatory accessory, an official tabby captain's hat.

Big Weekend

"Stationary." 

That's why I used a still camera. 

Ha. I like that joke. 

I almost forgot the gag, though. If only there were some nearby note cards or assortments of lovely writing papers onto which I could jot.

Gifts Senior Moment Santa Forgot to Bring Me: Emergency Underpants Dispenser

Let's roll! Party in my pants! 

Not going to happen, thanks to the gross neglect of Mr. Claus. Here's your tighty whitey, Tubby.

These underpants are "Safe, Secure."

Yay to that. I wouldn't want anyone cracking my assword. My exit strategy is between me and the veggies.

I also prefer my shorts to be "Sanitary." You know, in case I'm in a wreck or have to moon the Sanitation Dept. I wish I had a nickel....

Actually, I mostly wish the underpants had the current and future centuries embroidered on them.

People ask me, "Mike, instead of the Emergency Underpants Dispenser, wouldn't you like the Underpants in a Can?"

"No. That would be redundant."

And then people go on to ask, "Mike, how about you fashion accessorizing with an Emergency Underpants Guy hat?"

"Not if it means I must complement the look with a red bow tie weave in my luxurious chest pelt."

And then people continue their interviews, "Mike, you take issue with the Emergency Underpants Dispenser slogan, 'Just Grab & Go!'"

"Yes. Obviously, the actions are reversed -- unless these underpants are marketed for dyslexics. Write this down:

1. Go.
2. Grab.

Dyslexic or otherwise, one size supposedly fits all, which might include me (I shall check the carry-on regulations), but beware of the misleading instruction. Be springtime fresh, people, and, of course, summertime, falltime, and wintertime will follow in the U.S. and its territories. Not applicable in Butte, MT.

Bottom Line

What I'd really cherish about the Emergency Underpants are the form-fitting cartoon shimmers embracing and enhancing my butt, outcroppings, and tributary.

Gifts Senior Moment Santa Forgot to Bring Me: Big Time Pimp Clock

And another thing Santa Clueless bungled and did not deliver, the Big Time Pimp Clock.

Oh, I got one of them, but not the other. Where's my Big Time Pimp Daylight Saving Clock?

This Instant Big Daddy and formerly Punctual Pimp is upset -- and will be down wit' my bad self in an hour.

Gifts Senior Moment Santa Forgot to Bring Me: Wack-O-Wax Wax Fangs & Wack-O-Wax Wax Lips

And another thing the North Pole nincompoop neglected to gift me, the Wack-O-Wax Wax Fangs, not to mention the Wack-O-Wax Wax Lips. Okay, I'll mention 'em: The Wack-O-Wax Wax Lips.

To add insult to injury, Santa did bestow upon me the unrequested off-brand Wax Uvula and the unrequested off-brand Wax Goiter.

Useless.

Clean the wax out of your ears, old man!

Well, mostly useless.

Gifts Senior Moment Santa Forgot to Bring Me: Shiny Nativity Set

And another thing the festive failing fatso neglected to deliver, authentic porcelain Nativity figurines, including Wise Man Larry.

Gifts Senior Moment Santa Forgot to Bring Me: Hippie Generation Kit

And another thing Short Attention Spanta did not present me: the Hippie Generation Kit.

I begged him. Hippie me! I am desperate to make amends for lost time. I was lousy at turning on and tuning out in the '60s. I failed at flower child. I could never quite grasp the movement. I'm still trying to charbroil pot and I've practically given up memorizing the lyrics to "Bridget Over Troubled Walter."

Gifts Senior Moment Santa Forgot to Bring Me: Hug-a-Pug Bingo

And another thing waddly old St. Nick failed to put under my Christmas tree, the coveted Hug-a-Pug Bingo set.

I love being the Master of Ceremonies for an exciting game of Bingo. Oh, how I ache to call out: "Under the Shih Tzu, 2."

Gifts Senior Moment Santa Forgot to Bring Me: Anti Monkey Butt and Lady Anti Monkey Butt

What respectable household would not welcome the enticement of guests with an assortment of Anti Monkey Butt powders adorning the, here you go, powder room counter top, or colorful mealtime centerpiece?

Well, it ain't happening at our home, thanks to Mr. S. Claus, and, boy, is my butt chapped about it, too.

Ideal for butt busting activities such as truck driving, motorcycling, bicycling, horse back riding, and extreme sports. May also be applied inside footwear, under sports pads, and other areas prone to chafing. Indoors or outdoors, work or play, or on occasions when you sit on your butt all day, don’t let your buns get red, use Anti Monkey Butt Powder instead!

That passage of "The Gospel According to Anti Monkey Butt" may have been translated from "The Bible." I'm not sure. My childhood Sunday School was lacking. We did talk about leper butt and locust butt, I recall, and, "Don't forget the Wednesday night Spaghetti Suppers, featuring Sopping Red Sauce Stains on Palestine Toast."

I had intended to present my wife with the Lady Anti Monkey Butt, of course, as Christmas is also for us romantics.

Say Good-bye to Chafed Thighs! Lady Anti Monkey Butt Powder is specially formulated with patented satiny smooth powder to minimize the frictional discomfort that women often experience...

Great, Santa, great, you chimp.

We're in the pink, not!

Gah, rump, um, plum plum,

We and our bums.

Gifts Senior Moment Santa Forgot to Bring Me: Mr. Moo Nacho Cheese Sauce

I guess I shouldn't complain that Santa stiffed me on the sauce. I don't eat dairy products, so I am Mr. Moot.

Was that a crummy pun?

It's the cheesiest!

Gifts Senior Moment Santa Forgot to Bring Me: Attitude Bracelets

Here it is, February, and I'm still waiting for addled Claus to remember to FedEx the presents he failed to bestow my way on a certain recent holiday morn.

I tell you. I'm getting too old to traipse all over this country, visiting strange cities, just to lounge repeatedly in the jolly ol' soul's presence in order to relay my well-researched, impeccably typed, creatively alphabetized, and fruitcake-scented wish lists -- and then he doesn't deliver.

A dozen shopping mall Toylands and Cinnabons on Black Friday alone.

All I got was lap lag.

And a Peoria elfin hat to accessorize my magical quality or charm.

I had requested and coveted some attitude bracelets, the sports type that read, "YAY, TEAM!" or "GO FOR IT!" or "EAT THEIR YOUNG!"

I'm thinking, this year, I'll go buy bracelets more practical, like "SANTA, YOU SCROOGE, DON'T FORGET THE KID IN GEORGIA!" or "'T.P.' THE REINDEER ANTLERS!" or "NICK, NICE OUTFIT (SINCE THE 19TH CENTURY)!" or "I'M DOWN HERE! MIKE MARKS THE SPOT, YOU MISERABLE MIRTHFUL TWIT!"

And may I be the first to extend to you, dear reader, and yours, and up to five of theirs, heartfelt tidings for the happiest of holiday seasons.

Big Weekend

Friday
Me and the missus and the cummerbund attended the theater, "A Tuna Christmas."

Favorite quote: "I've seen better hair on anchovies."

Afterward, looked in window at Fantastic Swams.

Saturday
Survived wife-inflicted Outlet Mall. My only outlet necessitated an hour-long slog through Kirkland's. I manned sniveling babied up, faced debilitating boredom, puzzlingly pleased female mindset, and inhaled oppressive candle-scented oxygen to the point of phantasms.

Let out, mauled.

Sunday
Watched the first episode of National Geographic's "Great Migrations." So violent and disturbing, I great migrated myself off the couch and returned the DVDs to the store unwatched.

Big Weekend

Big weekend, our Wal-Mart got a brand new sign!

I ogled it lovingly, mostly because I can recycle this joke.

Business must be bad. They laid off the hyphen.

Big Weekend

Big weekend, at the dollar store.

Okay, so now you know. I don't smell like a million dollars.

I smell like a clam.