Rick Perry Shits in Closet; Day of Hope Ruined


So. Today started with hope.

That’s the best I can say about today, and if I was a believer in “If you can’t say something nice, don’t say it”, this would be a very short story. A four-word story: “Today started with hope.”

Since I have no problems with talking bad about anything, let me say that I have managed to fuck up this pretty fall day eight ways from Sunday. I wish I could blame outside influences for the fuck-uppings, but I can’t. Fuck-uppances, maybe?

When I awakened this morning to the synchronized snoring that rumbled from my closet, my first thought was, “Today will be a good day.” The reason I thought this was arbitrary. I have had so much stress lately that I have been feeling what might be considered as mildly depressed.

I already had the malingering recovery from ass surgery, a new medical procedure now scheduled for Wednesday morning, a near arrest for disturbing the peace by inciting crazy people, the enduring of political ads and phone calls and door knockers, waiting for and on repair people to make multiple trips to fix minor problems- all of which have prevented me from working on the rewrite of my book.

The capper happened yesterday, as the reason I wouldn’t be working on my book was because I watched my beloved Texas Longhorn football team play the Iowa State Cyclones. I had imagined that my team had righted its ship and would finish the season on a roll. An imagined up-hill roll.


By the time we sat down to dinner last night, I was so down in spirits that my ADHD was fritzing worse than an overloaded circuit board. Unusually, all of my many disparate thoughts were of the negative variety, thereby the slightly depressed state. Or should that be therefore or maybe thereon?

We were having sweet corn, late season sweet corn which is smaller than summer corn, and for some reason that bothered me. “What the fuck is this, some of that miniature Chinese corn?” is what I think I said when the corn platter was passed to me.

“That’s a plateful a what I’m shovin up yer ass iffn ya don’t settle down,” snapped Gram.

She jabbed her finger in my direction and fixed her beady eyes on me and added, “You been pissin an moanin fer a week, Mooner. Git yer shit ta-gether.”

“But,” I started, and then I laid out all of my many miseries in an effort to garner a touch of sympathy.

When I finished, Gram said, “Is that all?”

When I nodded my head she says to me, she said, “Who gives a shit, Mooner? Shut up an eat yer corn.”

Sometimes my Gram’s methods are maddening, but she’s right. Nobody really gives a shit for my troubles. I’m not dying, I’m not broke and destitute, I have a family that loves me, good friends, great lover, and two dogs who provide great conversation and companionship.

So. When I laid my head on my pillow to go to sleep last night, I decided that today would be a day of hope. I would make my first thought of the day be, “Today will be a great day!”

When my eyes cracked open first thing this morning, I remembered and thought, “Today will be a great day.”

Then the snores rattled from my closet again and I realized that it wasn’t the 6 am alarm I set that woke me. I looked at the clock and it showed 3:37 am, so I rolled over to go back to sleep.

Have you ever heard a pig, a grown hog, snore? What about a 350-pound ostrich? Rick Perry and Rush Limbaugh are still hiding in my closet, and each has rag weed allergies. The stuffy snout and beak regions they suffer cause them to snore. Loudly.

Ostrich snoring is almost as unsettling as ostrich rutting.

I can’t get back to sleep and for the first hour or so, I tell myself that they can’t help it and that they need sleep as much as I do. After that hour, I debate who needs sleep more for another hour, and at 5:30 I decide it’s me.

I get up and open my closet door to find the two of them spooning in a pile of my clean clothes. Rick Perry must have pulled all of my shirts from the closet rod and piled then for a mattress. I lost it.

I poked Rush Limbaugh in his ass with my toe and shouted, “Goddammit you two.”

Must have scared the shit out of my pig because he jumped from the floor with a nimbleness unexpected from 500-plus pounds of porcine slumber, and knocked me onto my backsides. Now the giant bird is scared shitless, and literally.

Did I tell you that the figs and quince were a late harvest this year, and coincidentally, on the top of an ostriches wish list?

I’ve been cleaning three gallons of ostrich shit from my closet in preparation for the haz-mat team’s arrival. I haven’t gagged so much since Gram forced dishwater down my throat when I ate a cat turd as a kid.

I just hope that Carta Blanca beer will cut the cloying taste in my mouth.

Manana, y’all.

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2 Responses to “Rick Perry Shits in Closet; Day of Hope Ruined”

  1. Rick Perry Shits in Closet; Day of Hope Ruined « Mooner Johnson…

    Here at World Spinner we are debating the same thing……

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