Squatlo And Wonderella– Today’s Installation


So. I told you about that entire Wonderella and Squatlo dealie and I think I mentioned that they are ruining my life. My inabilities to: control my urges, say “No”, or control my thoughts are cannon fodder for smart minds and keen perceptionators, like the Squatster and Wonderella.

I’m still not getting why Wonderella is even a problem, much less one of a life-ruination variety. If I was daydreaming and having sex dreams about a real woman, I could easily understand the problem. But my fascinations with an imaginary semi super-powered comic bombshell– I just don’t fucking get it.

Squatlo, however, is a horse of a different brew. His problematic influences are in-your-face thingies and visible even to me. Why he is such a terrible influence on me is a multi-layered shitcake, and filled with a rainbow of frostings and stuff.

OK. For starters, he is smarter than me; he manages a prolific output of intelligent content without either the craziness or ADHD that fuels my voluminous writings; he looks at society through eyes that effect a clarity of thought and reason that is matched with the clarity and imagery that the high quality German lenses on his professional camera bring to the stunning wildlife photography he takes and posts to his site; and, he has an encyclopedic memory bank.

Lucky fucker.

Then, there is the simple fact that I like him. Lately, we have conversed some about stuff, and I like him. I often have issues with people who I deem smarter than me because they seem to affect a snot-nosed attitude that makes me want to thump them on their nose. Hard. Hard enough to bring tears to their eyes.

I do try to not thump them hard enough to draw blood, as that leads to that whole taser-handcuffs-backseat-ride-to-jail-to-be-booked dealie. Not something I can’t handle, as I’m experienced. I’m just too fucking busy writing here to my bloggie and answering 3,500-word emails from the Squatster.

However. As I mentioned upstairs, this is a deeper relationship than all of that before-mentioned stuff. The deep well of history that underscores our relationship is dug far into the very fabric from which America was cut. His and my relationship has its origins in our country’s founding parents. Actually, it goes farther back than that to our forefather’s old countries. But I don’t have the time to spend trimming the family trees that deep into the woods.

Here’s the deal. When I combine the knowledge my educations in Texas public schools– where truth was meted-out using Texas public school textbooks, combined with my degree-related core education courses from the only UT that matters, and then filter that through my personal experiences and readings– my mind conjures the following:

We all know that when our America, USA, was originally founded, the Brits sagely decided to populate the great state of Georgia with all the criminals, prostitutes and mentally ill Limeys they could round up. The logic was simple. “We’ll clean the streets of London by exporting the problem a few thousand miles across an ocean,” were Queen Elizabeth, Part One’s words. She’s thinking that if you put a few shark-infested miles of ocean between you and them, and drop them off on a strange island with hostile native peoples– problem solved.

Same sort of logic we stole and re-deployed down to Gitmo.

This original Georgian population quickly inbred and morphed into the first Southern redneck cracker fuckballs. The inbreeding beget inbreeding of the already inbred, loin fruit that was unceremoniously shipped westward to settle Alabama, each on the tenth anniversary of their birth and their wedding day.

Roll Tide!

When Georgia’s first shipments of settlers were unshackled and dumped to their asses on hard-packed red clay, there were among their numbers seven stowaways. A baker’s half-dozen honorable men, each of whom took a terrible risk by committing a minor crime to earn passage to the New World.

This magnificent seven became the first white men to settle what we now call Tennessee.

Things were hard for the six plus one, but these were hard men. So what if they married local girls and sired half-breed children; so what if they sexed with animals in the lean years. So what if they ate wild hickory nuts and bat dung to keep from starving. Bat dung tastes like chicken if you boil it long enough.

And don’t go all fucking word police and call me a racist. I’m a half-breed my-ownself and I can’t find a more comfortable word combination to categorize that particular aspect of my DNA.

If it makes you feel any better, call them and me, “Of mixed racial DNA,” you fucking imbecile. Why don’t you worry about something important? Like how we have a man running the US House of Misrepresentation whose ever-present tears streak pathways through his bottle tanned face like the contrails from a squadron of B52s.

I might be digressing. In an effort to self-edit, I’ve read this thing fourteen times. I can follow my logic stream but something feels off.

Anyway, Squatlo hails from the Volunteer State and likely is a direct descendant of one, or more, of the original Mag-7. We don’t agree on everything and sometimes he lacks vision. Like when we were discussing a joint venture to market this product I invented. I can’t tell you everything here, but I will tell you this. Me, I see no real problem cleaning the trap on a sink if thoughtful men have pissed in it, rinsing after each use.

If you go to his site at http://www.squatlo-rant.blogspot.com you get a chance to read about what I have been saying. Also, that’s where you can catch a peek at some of his nature photos. Click on the upper right corner where the photos rotate. Number 40 brought tears to my eyes.

I have managed to fuck back a little. I tricked him into sticking a hypodermic needle loaded with icy cold Carta Blanca beer into his system. Killian’s my rosy red butt.

Then, my UT football team stole the most valuable adult asset from his UT football team when we hired Bennie Wylie to be our new strength and conditioning coach. Hoo-yah!

I hope this made sense. If not– like my Gram always says, she’ll say, “Oh who gives a shit, Mooner. Yer so fuckin’ crazy I’d a shot ya afore yer first birthday iffn ya wasn’t kin. Might do it anyways.”

Manana, y’all.

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