So. This snowstorm has been quite the shit storm. I’ve been living with members of a ten casts from Three’s Company reruns for four days, and I’m ready to hang myself. Thankfully the weather is going to thaw today and I can jettison the lot of them.
Of course, half will have forgotten to leave water running to protect their pipes from freezing, and they’ll end up right back in my lap of luxury until the plumbers can fix that dealie. But my problems are small when I compare them to what Squatlo has endured.
My buddy Squatlo returned to Facebook yesterday, out of winter storm boredom, and awakened eight hours after logging on to realize that he had wasted the entire eight hours.
“You just can’t talk sense to some of these religious zealots,” he told me.
“Well fucking duh,” I told him back.
“I know, I know,” Squat lamented. “It’s why I stopped going to Facebook in the first place.”
Which reminds me. I spend so much time ranting at the Catholics for pretending that priests don’t rape children, I want to praise one of their dioceses (diocesi? diocessises?) for doing the right thing. In Wilmington, Delaware, the Catholic high muck-a-mucks have done the right thing. Fully and completely, they have stood tall among a bunch of shitballs who tend to slouch and cower.
Why the fuck don’t we say “standed tall”?
I tip my hat and toast you, Wilmington of Delaware Catholics, with a frosty-cold bottle of Carta Blanca beer! Call that bitch over there to the Vatican. Tell the Pope, Queen of all Catholics, to get off his ass and fix it right everywhere. Wait, I’m sorry. I don’t want to dilute the value of my praise for one with my displeasure for all.
So, I say again, Catholics of Delaware, thank you for doing the right thing. (Why don’t we say something like “Catholicers”?)
Anyway, I received notice that I have been awarded an award for my bloggie postings here to my webber. I think the category is “Blogger Whose CAPTCHA Dealie is Most Likely to Instigate Mass Suicide”. The Reckmonster announced the names of the five winners of the awards. The others are: Squatlo Rant, The Pits of Being Peachy, Colorful Rants of a Fed Up Sista, and Musings of a Confused Woman. I’ll do the http jobbies at the end of this business, should I remember.
I want to be excited about getting this award because the only awards I typically get come with jail time or large settlement checks attached. I’m also a little bummed out.
I’ve spent so much time with the Squirt that it feels like she’s my very own puppy. We work together and play together and support each other in more ways that I can say. My own dog, Dixie, is ready to retire on my ass and spend her remaining days with Streaker Jones. I’m OK with that. I truly am. Dixie is getting cranky in her golden years, and I don’t need any more cranky women in my life.
Squirt and I discussed how maybe we should talk to Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson (she’s my first-of-ten ex-wives, my psycho therapist, and Squirt’s actual momster), and see if she’s OK with me readopting the little bundle of mixed-breed wonderment.
That conversation actually went well.
When I brought the subject up in my “special” psycho therapy session early this morning, Dr. Sam I. Am says to me, she says, “Look, Mooner, Squirt is my dog. I let her play with you because I think her intellect and good nature are a calming influence on you. If you can’t be happy with that, Squirt can just stay with me all the time.”
Bitch, I thought to myself.
“Well I might be a bitch, Mooner, but you are a crazy lunatic fuckball and Squirt is my dog.”
“Jesus, Sammy, will you cure me of this thinking out loud business.” I have got to stop doing that.
“Make an appointment for another special session. We’ll work on it M/W/F between your regular therapy sessions and your current special sessions,” my bitch therapist said.
I did a quick calculation. “That’s a thousand dollars a day for MWF on top of $600 a day for TT. That’s $4,200 a week for shitsakes.”
“It is,” she smiled. “I want to remodel my kitchen.
“Bitch,” this time aloud and with purpose. “OK, look, how about I buy the dog from you. You seem to value my money more than you do my mental health.”
“My, oh my, but I think you’ve had a breakthrough.”
Why do I ever try to argue with a woman?
“OK, look, what do I need to do to work this out?” I asked.
“Stop you whimpering, Mooner, it’s embarrassing. What will I do for companionship if I let you take my adorable little puppy?”
OK, now we’re making progress. I’ve been reading on Reckmonster and T-cat and all of the other ladies’ bloggies about how great they think their fucking cats are. I’m thinking a pussy cat is the fix to my problem.
Me, I think a cat is Mother Nature’s was to say, “Fuck you, “ to humankind. Nasty little razor-clawed heathens. But look, I think that every heterosexual male child should be required to carry one as his constant companion the entire summer between sixth and seventh grades.
I don’t think you can better prepare a man to live with women than to practice living with a fucking cat. Reduce the divorce rate and bring an abundance of new appreciation for the gay lifestyle. Not that I don’t like cats. I do, and cats like me.
But think about it. What does a dog do when he finds something danglie and hangy-down and funky smelling? He licks it, right.
How about a cat– what does he do when he encounters a set of balls, the owner of which has had to get on his hands-and-knees to reach under the bed to retrieve his underwear (post coitally after banging the cat’s mother (who, strangely, makes noises like a cat that’s got his nose stuck in a vice-grips, when she orgasms)) from where the fucking cat put them?
The cat plays “Let’s rake my spikey-sharp razor-edged claws across the nice man’s scrotum”. That’s what the fucking cat does.
Have you ever seen a scrotum bleed?
Ever needed thirteen stitches to repair your scrotum? OK, actually it was nine stitches on the scrotum, and four in the crease between scrotum and taint.
Ever tried to itch scrotum and taint stitches, a week after the stitching, while you’re addressing the Austin City Council and with the Channel Six All City Of Austin News All The Time cameras looking right at you?
Anyway, I said to Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, “How about I get you a cat? I’ll take the Squirt with me to do the cat vetting. I’ll have Dixie teach Squirt how to speak feline and we’ll tag team it. Come on, whadda you say?”
“I’d say, and this is my clinical diagnosis, that you are a crazy redneck lunatic.” But she said it while laughing.
“OK, that settles it. Squirt and I are going to work. You won’t regret this Sammy.” I gave her a big kiss on the mouth and hurried out the door.
As I passed Sam’s receptionist/gatekeeper, Peggy hands me a manila folder with my name on it and says to me, “Mooner, I just wanted to warn you that your January bill is going to be a little high. You’ve had all those special sessions and you seem to be making the rest of your dependents a little… well I hate to use the word “crazy”, but you know what I mean? Everybody was in extra times last month.”
Peggy is a real sweetie. “Don’t worry Peggy, I don’t care what it costs. I’m in a great mood.”
I drove home to the ranch, grabbed the Squirt, which action required real effort, and headed back to my room. Gram, Aunt Hilda and the P-cubed were playing dress-up with antique doll clothes and using my soon-to-be-my puppy as the doll. I must say she looked adorable in her little gingham dress, faded lace sun bonnet and four mismatched lace-up boots. But she had the same look of long-suffering that I have whenever receiving the ministrations of those three old miscreants.
“Come on Squirt baby. We’ve got some scheming to do.”
The soon-to-be-my- puppy sounded like six toddlers wearing boots with hardened leather heals as she followed me to my room. When we got there, she sat like a bunny at my feet and said, “Please get this shit off me.”
I did. “OK, snoogies, we need a plan. Our job is to find an appropriate pet cat for your mom so that I can be your dad.”
“Yippeee,” she replied. Then she spotted the thick manila envelope that I had folded to put in my heavy coat’s pocket. “Was ist in cette enveloppe?”
“Oh, this? This is my January psycho therapy bill, sweetie pie.” I unrolled the package and set it on the little work table between us as we sat down to work.
“?Que mucho?” The soon-to-be-my puppy is inquisitive.
“Well let’s open ‘er up and see.”
I sliced the envelope with my Navy Seal killing knife, and removed a sheaf of printed pages. “I hope your mother isn’t charging by the pound of paper it takes to print my bill.” I said.
Squirt giggled at that, and I giggled back and next thing I know Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry are giggling with us from theirhiding place in my closet. We were a giggle fest.
I had tears in my eyes and I couldn’t read the final tally, so I held it out to the Squirt. “Here, tell me what it says.”
Squirt studied it for a second– numbers are the toughest thing she does, something about how a dog’s brain functions, and says, “Trente et un mille, five hundred e dos dolares e cinco cintavos.”
“Huh? Let me see that. “$31,502.15!”
“Ugh, Squirt. I need to invent something and make more money,” I lamented.
“Would you please fetch us a Carta Blanca beer?”