Losing the Fuzz War

 

It’s a grim day for the Anti-Orange-Fuzz Brigade. The tide is turning, we are losing the battle.  Fuzz has infiltrated and is taking over. Just this morning, I awoke with a stuffed nose, thinking my allergies were acting up. I grabbed some toilet paper and went to work at what felt like a meteor-sized booger. Much to my chagrin, what finally emerged was a hardened glob of orange fuzz!  I apply some deodorant and it comes away with orange fuzz. Between my toes, behind my ears. A guy down the hall claims to have passed an orange fuzz-laced kidney stone.

 

So, I am again faced with having to improve my methods. Improvise or perish, right?  My new modified Fuzz Collector Method (FCM): I grab my size 13 orange Croc’s (no, I’m not six feet tall, the guard had a worse eye for sizing than a stoned teenager at Payless who spends most of his day debating his equally brain-dead buddies over the cinematic contributions of Sean Penn as Spicolli vs. Keanu in Bill & Ted, while also constantly looking for George Carlin at the Circle K and asserting “Strange things are afoot….” (While robbing the store blind of knock-off Vans and calling all the customers Mr. Hand.))  Okay, so yes, size 13’s.

 

My new technique:  I pull my socks over the Orange Croc’s, tugging them up like a hideous pair of gaiters.  I then shuffle about the room like an extra from “Land of the Lost” (late 70s-early 80s tv version, not the horrendous Will Farrell remake), hoping that any fuzz displaced into the air may be caught by static electricity in the gaiters. 

 

Unfortunately, my cellie appears to be working for the enemy.  Have begun to suspect that he sprinkles orange fuzz while I sleep. I mean, no matter how often I explain standard Anti-Fuzz Protocol to him, it doesn’t work. Picture Bill Murray proclaiming, “Army training, sir!” and you’ll have a good idea of his discipline.  Guy’s a 300-lb. orange pixy dust sprinkling Tinkerbell. 

 

And if that’s not bad enough, he has this amazing ability to generate trash. I made a trash can out of brown paper bags, but it’s as if the receptacle repels him!  I’m thinking of writing a play “Felix and Oscar in the Pen.”  But fear that Jack Klugman’s estate would sue me.  But seriously, here’s an example: While looking for a ketchup packet “stored” under his mattress, he discovered that it had burst. He dipped his finger in the mess, tasted it, then scraped the rest from the metal bunk and applied it to his hamburger. The Felix in me cringes!