Rick Perry and Rush Limbaugh in Lover’s Spat; Mooner’s Pig and Ostrich Stay in Closet

 

So. It’s Tuesday,  I can’t see Squirt in person until Saturday, and I’ve got a problem. Squirt is grounded through Friday night for her part in getting us arrested over to the anti-anti-abortion protest. I had the cashier’s check delivered to Catholic Abortion Protest Lady’s lawyer earlier this morning, and I’ve got a hearing this afternoon to get my name cleared on this round of charges.

My problem is this. Since Squirt is grounded, she can’t come out to the ranch to translate for me, and Dixie isn’t talking to me. Well, she isn’t talking except to chew my ass out.

“Oh for shit sakes, Mooner,” she started the phone conversation last night. “I can’t leave you alone with that poor little puppy for one minute without you getting her in trouble.”

I was trying to think of something witty to say to the verbal assault I knew was coming, when Dixie added, “I don’t want to hear a single smart-ass comment from you, buster, so listen up. First, I trusted you to watch out for Squirt. She’s young and impressionable and for some insane reason she looks up to you.”

Deep dog sigh, then, “Second, I can’t keep taking care of your messes and do anything for myself. In my therapy, Dr. Sam I. Am is attempting to show me how to enjoy my senior years without the stress of being your dog. I can’t relax if I worry about Squirt.”

Deep sigh from me before I say, “It wasn’t my fault, Dixie. The Squirt thought I meant, ‘Kill the Catholic Abortion Protest Lady,’ when what I meant was, “Give the nice lady a little nip.’”

Now I get the deep rumble of a growl from my matronly Golden Retriever. “Mooner, you crazy, inappropriate asshole. Do you ever think before opening your mouth?”

Me, I’m thinking this question is rhetorical in nature, so I’m waiting for the punchline.

“Answer me. Do you?”

OK, not rhetorical. “Well, let me think for a minute.”

“Damn you, Mooner.” Then all I had was dead phone air.

Anyway, here’s my problem. I understand just enough of the domesticated American porcine language to order ribs and a BLT sandwich, and I comprehend even less of the ostrich. Why this is a problem is because I’m having problems with Rush Limbaugh the pig, and the ostrich Rick Perry.

For months on end now, the two of them have been hiding from Gram in the closet in my master bedroom. Gram has promised to make dinner, fine leather accessories and an assortment of luggage from their mangy carcasses if she can catch them.

I agreed to let them stay in my closet as long as it takes for Gram to simmer down. And for as long as they behave themselves.

They aren’t behaving. They keep denying it, but I think they are homosexual and in love with each other. While I’ve never caught them having actual sex, they snuggle like lovers when they sleep and the noises coming from behind the closet door can be quite disturbing.

I’ve been OK with all of this, but now they are fighting like a pair of grumpy old queens. Rush, the apparent “bear” of the pair, and Ricky, a very feminine bird, have turned my closet into the set of The Birdcage. Rush’s Robin Williams is mostly sensitive to Rick’s Nathan Lane, but I haven’t seen so many tears, or so much disgusted pig grunting in my life.

I’ve tried several times to get the boys on the Skype machine for a conference with Squirt. But the two of them are just too unhappy to discuss their problems on camera.

My attempts at helping them get through this lover’s spat are worthless. After ten failed marriages, I still can’t mitigate the disputes that occur between a man and a woman. I can’t even understand the differences between my closeted, apparently gay pets.

“Your sister is gay,” Rush Limbaugh oinked at me when he sought my help over the weekend. “Haven’t you learned anything?”

“But you say you aren’t gay, Rushie. What difference does Sister’s lesbianism have to do with your spat with Rick Perry?” All I got in return was a disgruntled grunt from his wrinkled snout.

Life would so much simpler if Rick Perry and Rush Limbaugh would just come out of the closet. I need a Carta Blanca beer.

Manana, y’all.

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