Why Won’t Rick Perry And Rush Limbaugh Admit/Embrace Gay Lifestyle? Pig and Ostrich Remain In Closet

 

So. I got all of my basil harvested and the sugar-water soaked stems have recovered nicely. Saturday morning, I’ll hang half of them for dried leaves and the other sixty plants will have other uses. Sister and Anna the Amazon are making a big batch of pesto and the remaining are going into Gram’s canned tomatoes. Canning starts Monday, and she puts big stems of fat basil leaves into each jar of tomatoes before she vacuums the lids shut.

As for Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry, they’re banished to the guest room closet over to Gnat’s place. I managed to clean the mess they made in Gram’s potion pantry yesterday, but she’ll catch it when she does inventory at the end of the month. She going to be a few bottles short of her Christmas aphrodisiac potion she calls Put down that bag Santa an show Momma yer chimney. That potion has a strong pour of honeysuckle nectar to balance the smoky bite of psychedelic mushroom juice.

Rush Limbaugh the pig has a thing for honeysuckle nectar, and the ostrich Rick Perry has a thing for Rush Limbaugh. Gnat called over here after dinner last night so Rush could talk to the Squirt. Seems the boys don’t have much hankering for the country music Gnat plays, and they asked Squirt to have me bring their boom box and some of their favorite CDs.

I agreed, and after the first couple requests I realized I didn’t need pen and paper for their choices. I said to Squirt, “Oh for shitsakes. Tell them I’ll bring all of their Streisand, Bette Midler and Cher, any of the Celine Deon not in Aunt Hilda’s room and any of the Broadway show stuff I can round up without Gram catching me.”

If Gram sees me looking for the two Man From La Mancha CDs, she’ll know what I’m up to. We have the old tried-and-true Robert Goulet version, which is Rush’s favorite and then the little known Raul Julia version. I think that Robert Goulet was a touch too prissy and prefer the Julia cuts. The ostrich and I agree that Raul’s Hispanic blood gives him an edge in historical perspective.

And let me say one more time that I am not being judgmental, nor am I saying that if it were to be true would it make any difference to me. But boys. You hide in the closet together, sleep like lovers in positions that embarrass even me, act like an old married couple, and have musical tastes that even my friend Lloyd thinks are a little sissy. And Lloyd loves him some Barbara Streisand.

But let’s face it. You boys are gay. We’re already a gay family– what with Sister and Anna you’ll have a built-in family clique. Embrace it and move on. Besides, the two of you are the only ones who think you aren’t gay. Come out of the closet and liberate your spirits. Celebrate life!

Anyway, the two of them have skulls as thick as their namesakes, reminding everyone of just how well-named they are. The other day Gram says, “Ya know what, Mooner? I think tha Governor must be gittin his advice from that fuckin bird a yers. That man ain’t got tha sense God give a toadie stool.”

Then she gave me a solid dose of the stinky eye and said to me, she says, “Iffn I catch you usin tha Squirt to do any tranportatin fer that fuckin Governor Rick Perry, I’ll take my twelve banger to tha bunch a ya.”

For you new readers, Gram said that if Squirt translates any ostrich talk from my bird for Texas Governor Perry, she’ll shoot us with her shotgun. Not a problem though. The Rickster and I have been at odds for several years and if he ever contacts me it will be because he reversed his lobotomy and had a heart implant.

My ADHD is knocking on my frontal lobe and saying, “Beer time, Mooner. Let’s crack a cold Carta Blanca and think about where to take the girls for dinner.”

Manana, y’all.

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