I want to move. Oregon or New Mexico or maybe Finland, you know someplace with summer temperatures the other side of hellish. I’ve already got sweat on my face, sweat running down my back and sweaty balls and I’m taking a shower for shit sakes. June 15th and its already 95 degrees and 95% humidity.
Just so you know, I have a Summons to Jury Duty next week and for a period from June 21through July 2. Are you fucking kidding me? What attorney or prosecutor will want to be looking at my ass sitting in a jury box? But, you never know.
And get this- the letter with the Summons says, “Since there is no parking for the Courthouse, we suggest you make arrangements with Capitol Metro to get to the Courthouse by the 8 am starting time. Again, are you fucking kidding me?
From my place way out here to the far northwest part of the County I would need to leave yesterday at 8 am to get downtown by 8 am today if I use Capitol Metro. Then, once I got there I would need to turn right around and head back so I could get showered and shaved to be back to the courthouse by 8 am tomorrow morning. Assuming they want me to stay for a visit once I’m there, I’ll be needing to make other arrangements for transportation.
The point I digressed about this jury duty business is that I might not be posting anything much next week. But I’ll make it up to you in some fashion or another.
As for Rush Limbaugh the pig, the carpenters just finished installing a private entrance from the side of the house into my closet. It’s like a weather-safe doggie door except bigger. Rush is just too frightened to come out of the closet all the way. He’ll come out and play and stuff but he’s back in the closet every night. And any time he hears the nerve-grating screech that is my Gram’s voice he burns the ground racing to his new door.
He’s like Liberace or Rock Hudson or maybe that lady from the view who got her stomach stapled and lied about it. Everybody knew about their secrets, nobody really cared about them, and each one brought a world of shit down on their own heads while they hid from their truths.
Rush Limbaugh is the most ridiculous of them all if you ask me. Except for Gram, he has a loving and supportive family who both know of, and enjoy, his differences. He is funny and smart and provides me with endless hours of entertainment when he rams his snout up Gram’s ass and furts her.
Gram is the best furt victim I have ever seen in my decades of furting. Jumps out of her socks every time. And since she’s always in everybody else’s business, there’s ample opportunity to catch her bent at the waist with her butt exposed.
But now I have a new problem with Rush Limbaugh’s refusal to come clean and leave the closet. Rick Perry the ostrich has done that thing that baby birds do when they bond with the first living thing they see. Except Ricky has bonded with my Gram, in whom the term living thing has perverse meaning, and that big ass bird is no baby.
Lucky that Dixie speaks Strothio Camelus, that’s the African black ostrich language. There’s a small problem in that Rick Perry was separated from all other birds as a newborn and was raised in a pen with a bunch of pigs. That information should lead you to the conclusion as to the particulars of my current, new problem.
Living with pigs will cause a person to develop pig-like habits. I know that sounds trite as all get out, but it is truer than fictionalized. Pigs jam their snouts up everyone’s ass and squeal and oink and shit all over the place, and so does Rick Perry. Two hundred pound flightless bird thinks he’s a piggie.
Brings new perspective to that whole, “If pigs could fly,” dealie.
Dixie is having a terrible time translating for me because Rick Perry speaks ostrich through his nose, again like a pig. Apparently that messes with the syntax of the vowel sounds in ostrich talk making it difficult to decipher.
When I told Dixie to tell the bird to stop furting Gram or I’d be grilling his skinned carcass on the spit to my big smoker out back, Dixie translated his response. “Well Mooner, he either said that he will be most gracious to accommodate your every wish, or he asked me to tell you to go fuck yourself.”
Sounds like he’s gonna fit in with this family either way.
Star Jones. The lady from The View, her name is Star Jones. Had her stomach stapled and wouldn’t come clean and married this guy that many called gay. I don’t see why any of that should make a difference. Lots of gay people are happily married to the opposite sex. They just can’t marry within their desired sexual parameters, happily or not.
Fucking right-wing Christian Republican shitballs pushing their belief systems up our ass again.
I did a little investigation to learn more about ostriches and discovered several interesting things. First, he’s got 46 feet of intestines and that explains the fact that his farts can melt the glass out of a window frame.
Second is that they run in circles when they try to run away from danger and third, and most interesting is this. An adult ostrich will have two eyeballs, each the size of a billiard ball, crammed into a dense, thick skull. Each eyeball is far larger than his brain.
This set of facts are why my Gram gets so much credit for her senses. Mother thought it was a political statement when Gram sensed the bird’s name was Rick Perry. But once again, science bears Gram’s vision as dead on target.
The running in circles with a very small brain seems visionary fodder for my Gram.
Anyway, Rick Perry has bonded with Gram and keeps furting her by poking his snotty beak up her ass and making this noise that less resembles the sound of a, “Furt!” and is closer to the sound a flat tire makes just as it blows and shreds against the fender at 70 miles per hour.
So now Gram has Rick Perry on the same list as Rush Limbaugh, that’s the “Execute on Sight” list, and that means I’ve got the both of them hiding in my closet. Twenty-four hours a day except for excursions to potty and make mayhem. It’s a good thing the bird is flexible and can get out of Rushie’s door.
And speaking of mayhem, I’m sitting to the dinner table with the family last night and Gram says to me, she says, “Mooner, call yer young a-dult buddies Johnny and Sammy an ask em iffn they lik fancy red Fer-Raries.”
I almost choked on my Carta Blanca and sprayed a mouthful over my plate of enchiladas. “No way Gram. These guys are my buddies and I will not have you ruining their lives.” This I said with resolute firmness.
“Oh stop yer whining Mooner. I’m gittin a touch randy an need some fresh boys ta meet.”
Sweet mother of God, I pray for the young men’s souls.
“No way. And don’t ask me again.”
Then she takes a slug of her own beer and says, “Aw who gives a shit Mooner. I was jist fuckin with ya.” And she added, “Tha P-cubed an me is headin down ta tha Drag ta see what we can shake outa tha cracks.”
That means that Gram and her best buddy, Penelope Paxton-Parades, are taking Gram’s 550-horsepower Ferrari down to UT to troll for young adult males. More frightening imagery.
Sam Barnes and John Egloff, the aforementioned adult young men, have agreed to be my age appropriate consultants for their age group and advise me for all this webber and bloggie nonsense.
If things don’t get any better you can blame them.
But my ADHD is fritzing like crazy and I need to head over to Sprouts.