Leonard Pitts, Ruben Navarrette Confirm Mooner’s Positions

 

So. I want to first invite you to go to the Opinion Page of the August 5th Austin American Statesman and read the article by Leonard Pitts, Jr., page A11. If I was a professional writer with years of experience, I might have made such eloquent arguments as Leonard.

After reading that one, go immediately below and read Ruben Navarrette, Jr., and he will provide you with a full-scale example of the lunacies that Leonard expressed.

If you like what you read, tell them. Leonard is at: lpitts@miamihearald.com and Ruben can be contacted at : www.rubennavarrette.com .

I was reading these articles while in my first sitz bath of the day, as I soaked my healing bottom in tepid water. I was running the water for this bath, maybe the hundredth such bath I have run for a sitz, when something hit me. What I do is this- I start filling the tub, then grab reading materials, check my e-mail, get something to drink, grab my cell phone, and then I undress.

For the first sitz of the day, I had the paper to read, checked the computer and had three e-mails, topped-off my coffee cup for beverage, and slipped out of my tee shirt, undies and shorts. My preparations took maybe four minutes as the water ran at full-blast for my bath.

When I stepped into the tub and sat down, there was still not enough water to rise to the level needed to soak, so I sat as water continued to fill. When I finally turned off the tap and set my timer for twenty minutes, I surveyed how much water I was using for a single, twenty-minute ass soaking.

“Holy shit!” I barked at myself. “I could irrigate a football field with this tub of water.”

I started calculating how much water I had used for all of my sitz baths, and blushed in my embarrassment.

“Holy shit!” I said again, and this time loud enough to draw a crowd.

“What tha hell issa matter in here?” were Gram’s first words as she raced into the bathroom from wherever it was she had lurked. “You need a rescue-tation Mooner? I jist got my Red Crossie card rejuvenated over to the Church last week.”

She surveyed me as I lay contorted in the tub to keep water on my hurt part without putting pressure on my ass.

Then she yelled, “Git in here Mother an help me git Mooner outta tha tub. I need ta give him tha kiss a death.”

Don’t you just hate it when people jump to conclusions?

Mother has arrived by now and said, “It’s the Kiss of Life, Gram, not the Kiss of Death.”

Gram looked me dead in the eye and said to me, she says, “Who gives a shit Mother. I got it right, cause iffn he scares the shit outta me one more time- it’s curfews fer Mooner!”

I started laughing about then, so she punched me in the shoulder.

“Yer a disrupto-latin little shit Mooner. Always was an I reckin that’s the way of it.”

Then she started sniffing the air and said, “Do I smell ostrich sweat?”

Oopsie!

“No, Gram, that’s just the lingering aroma coming off my butt problem.”

She sniffed some more. “An I’m a catchin a wiffer a pig snot too. It’s makin my eyes twitch.”

Sensing the pending doom from Gram’s thoughts, Mother stepped in. “Mooner’s still not right yet, Gram. Dr. Ashworth said that it could be a few more weeks before everything heals over.”

Thank you Mother.

Gram gave me the dirty eyeball one more time, then said, “Awright. You finish yer shits bath an come find me. I got a potion I brewed up back ta when yer Grandpa got popped by them skunks. Maybe iffn we both dose up I won’t smell ya.”

Dear God. Thank you for the blessing me with the mess I call Gram. Amen.

Anyway, so what I have decided to do is take the remainder of my sitz baths in a mop bucket. I’ll just squat my irritated cut bottom in that. I can’t stand to waste water. Even though we recycle every drop of wastewater from our daily lives here to the ranch, we still pump too much from the ground to be wasting it on my sore ass like that.

After my bath, I beelined it to my closet for a talk with Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry.

I threw the door open and started on them. “All right you two. Did I tell you to clean yourselves before bedding down at night, or didn’t I? How can I protect you from Gram when you smell like a barnyard?”

All I got in response from the ball of pig fat and black feathers cowering in the corner of the closet was whimpers. The two of them looked like Jack and Mrs. Spratt having sweaty, athletic sex.

“Oh for shitsakes you two. Stop crying like babies and get out of my closet. I’m sick of this.”

This threat only made the whimpering more urgent.

“Just stop, you two, stop it now. Go take a shower and get some exercise. As soon as you hear Gram’s Ferrari leaving, you get out of this closet and get some fresh air.”

Anyway, I’m taking SAC Ellen back to Vivo’s over to RR 620 for dinner. She really likes the place. I keep pushing them to get Carta Blanca beer, but I have not managed to sell them on the concept. So, I’ll just have an Eastside Margarita while there, and catch my frosty cold CB’s to the ranch.

Manana, y’all.

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