VOTE!!! Gram Banned From Hooters


So. I hope everyone votes. If you are a qualified voter and you do not vote- fuck you. You are the worse kind of American, an uncaring American.

I can’t keep up with what’s happening everywhere, but Texas politics can’t be that far off from what’s going on elsewhere. I assume that things in many states are as silly as they are here.

OK, that was a truly stupid remark. In Texas, we appear to be reelecting Governor Rick Perry again, which makes us the stupidest voter pool in America. We are too fucking dumb to come in out of the rain. It’s like we’re insane, right? Isn’t the definition of insanity doing the same action repetitively while expecting a different outcome?

That’s what you get when religion influences politics. You get a pretty face that makes mindless promises, and then screws things up.

Holy shit am I out of sorts. I’m sick of Rick Perry, sick of right wing religious fuckballs influencing politics and I’m sick of negative political advertising. If I were king, I’d banish all three.

Which reminds me, Gram has been banished from Hooters. Again. This makes the third time I’ve had to pick her up from the manager’s office at one of those silly restaurants. At least they didn’t have her arrested this time.

The story is that Bambi, the Hooters hostess most recently returned to work after breast augmentation surgery, was talking to my Gram about her new boobs. Discussions with Gram about anything relating to sex or body parts are dangerous times.

Seems Bambi was both proud and concerned with her new titties. Proud of their full double-D fullness, but worried at having one nipple pointing east, while the other directs more to the north-northwest. Gram has got a whole bucket-load of bosom issues, so you might think she could provide sage counseling for Bambi.

Allegedly, Gram sits patiently as Bambi Valley-Girl-speaks the sad story of her $7,500 procedure, focusing on her worry that her breasts will get saggy as she gets older. When she finished, Gram said, “Oh fer shit sakes girly, lemme have a look,” at which time Gram pulled the top of Bambi’s top down.

After thoroughly inspecting the new bosoms, Gram said, “What tha fuck is buggerating you? Them’s great tits.”

Then, and again this is all alleged, Gram stands to her full 4-feet-11-inches and whips her top off and says, “See that? Them’s saggy titties. Now quit yer whinin.”

And having said that, Gram pulls her right tit from the waistband of her shorts and holds it in her armpit by the nipple. Then, she removes the left one and drapes it over her shoulder.

When I went to get her, the manager told me, “Emptied the place faster than a fire drill, Mr. Johnson. Except for cleaning up the vomit and spilled food, there won’t be any charges for damages. Lost business and tips will be your biggest expense. I’ll send you the bills.”

I gave him our insurance agent’s business card, and told him I’d have Jeff call him in the morning. Jeff is a crackerjack lawyer and the only lawyer I’ve ever met who’s worth a shit. He thanked me for getting there so quickly and told me to keep Gram away from all Hooters locations.

“There will be a mug shot at the hostess stand,” he informed me. “And it’ll be marked to, ‘Isolate and call police.’”

When I walked her to her car, I tried to tell her she needs to not create so many public disturbances. “You’re banned from Hooters, nearly every strip joint in town, the AT&T phone store and several other places. We can’t get pizza delivered to the ranch, and I have to give the AC repair guys hazardous duty pay.”

“Oh who gives a shit, Mooner. Really, who gives a shit?”

She’s right, you know. I wouldn’t change a thing about her- she’s a package deal. I’d like to drop her in the lake with an arm load of bricks, but not change her.

“Meet me at tha barn, Mooner,” she said before rolling the window up on her little Ferrari. “We’ll have us a Carti Blanca and clean the storage room.”

As she drove away, she burned rubber and pulled into traffic causing horns to honk and brakes to squeal. I could hear her revving the big engine to the red line and grinding gears for several minutes.

“Than God traffic’s light,” I said to the universe.

Manana, y’all.

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