I R Dum; Need Carta Blanca

 

So. I have finished my part in the business that has kept me incommunicado, and I’m home. And staying home. My part has been completed, but not the entire business. Therefore, ipso facto and heretofore, having been briefed and filed in prior postings, I still can’t talk about it.

But I will. Trust me, I will. Howsoever, maybe I’ll stop with all of the big legal words posthaste, and with unmitigated alacrity.

I got in late yesterday afternoon and went to Dr. Sam I. Am’s house first thing to get the Squirt. The entire time I was gone, all I could think about was one: who elected this guy; two: I wonder what underwear SAC Ellen is wearing; and three: I miss the Squirt.

Each of my phone calls to SAC Ellen started with, “Tell me which underwear you are wearing.” SAC Ellen has one of those bodies that was made for sexy undies.

Sammy’s house is on my way home to the ranch, so I had justification for picking Squirt up before heading home to refresh before my date with SAC Ellen. I clearly understand a few of the intricacies of the female brain, so I carefully thought through a road map of my travels once I hit the Austin City Limits.

I did miss one of those intricacies as SAC Ellen opened the door to her place and saw the Squirt, sitting pretty like a bunny rabbit and wagging her tail furiously. She was wearing one of those flimsy summer dresses that fit loose, and show every curve as the fabric embraces, then billows away with movement.

SAC Ellen looked down at Squirt and then up at me and said, “Oh, hello Mooner. I really appreciate you dropping off this cute little bundle of puppy love for a visit. I’ve really been missing her.” And then, “See ya.”

With that, she bent so the dog could jump into her arms, turned and slammed the door in my face.

Welcome home Mooner, you dumbass. You giant, liberal, shit-for-brains fuckball!

When I got back into my old GTO, my cell phone started ringing as I pushed the start button on the center console. I had a pushbutton starter installed after falling in love with the one in Gram’s Ferrari. Been thinking of getting one of those big twelve-cylinder engines too.

I fumbled the phone open and brought it to my ear. Before I could even say, “Hello,” SAC Ellen’s sexiest voice said, “Look at my front window Mooner.”

I turned to the big picture window on the front of the apartment where she stood in her flimsy dress. She smiled at me, showed me her stun gun, then cradled her phone between shoulder and ear, and lifted the dress to her neck with both hands.

“Like the undies?” And with that she dropped the flimsy dress, snapped her phone off and shut her drapes.

“What undies?” I answered into three triangulated cell phone towers of dead air.

I guess she was pissed because I forgot to bring flowers. I was too consumed with getting Squirt to rememberate the flowers.

I’ll be leaving this morning to get the Squirt before heading out to Mooners Compost Plant, and back to work. I’m getting the first tee shirt ready for sale here to the webber. It’ll be my initial product of any kind and it’s exciting. I’ve discovered that Squirt has a good sense of humor, so I’m using her to help me with my tee shirts.

Women intrigue me. All women. But they still make me stupid. When I think about all of the women in my life and the strength and duration of those relationships, I feel that I should have a clear understanding by now. With as many years of experience and in all of those situations, I should be better with this.

Think about it.

Gram, Mother, Sister and Anna the Amazon, the other nine ex-wives, SAC Ellen, Gnat and all the others. I’ve been married to a lesbian and have a lesbian sister; I have been married to a psycho therapist and she is my therapist still; Gram and Mother are polar opposites; I still have strong friendships with all of my exes; and I’m a thoughtful, reasonable guy with at least a modicum of good sense.

But I screw up all the time when dealing with women. What’s wrong with me?

But being a silver-lining kind of guy, I’m looking at the bright side. Make-up sex is always the best.

Manana, y’all.

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