Surly Woman Mystery; Mardis Gras Turnaround

So.  Surly women will be the death of me. In the history of my life, when my ADHD loonyness encounters one or more surly women, the following warning sign needs to be waved:
 I am a lover of women, both from the philosophical and sexual perspectives. I am firmly convinced that women are stronger, smarter and more honest than men. I think women are better people than men. Just as a general rule.
 As a rule, if I confronted 1,000 people, half men and half women, and I was required to  choose one person from the lot to spend eternity with, it would be one of the women. Even if you tell me that sex was not a part of eternity, I’d still choose a woman.
 Streaker Jones is my life-long best friend and we have spent countless hours together doing an endless variety of things. He and I enjoy each other’s company and we get together often. But even with us having multiple business endeavors together, I don’t see him but a few hours a week.
 Men just don’t hold my attentions the way a woman can. I think Streaker Jones said it best when he said, “Mooner, you wear me out.”
 See what I mean? Men just lack the patience for dealing with another man. Hell, for that matter I can hardly stand myself sometimes. And I work hard to be a good man.
 Women are just better people than men.
 Until they become surly.
 I have some bloggie buddies who I have grown fond of and they talk about being surly, as women. That would be Reckmonster and Thundercat832. OK, wait a minute. The voice of Mrs. Leticia Browningwell is inside my mind and she’s scolding me like when I was back to seventh grade. “Mooner,” she’s saying, “you have managed to mangle God’s chosen language eight ways from Sunday School in a thirteen-word sentence.”
 If I gave a shit, I’d go back and use “whom” and restructure my bloggie buddies sentence to eliminate the dangling participle. But like my Gram always says, she’ll say, “Who gives a shit, Mooner. Who, whose, whom and who’s. I don’t give a hoot owl’s smelly fart, just tell me who done it.”
 It never pays to attempt a correction to Gram’s fractured English. Makes her surly.
 But like I was telling you, a surly woman can be a bitch. Two surly women are a double hand-full. Oh for shitsakes, wouldn’t two surly women be a hands-full? Mrs. Browningwell was our teacher for several classes and for several years. She is married to Pastor Browingwell, the main preacher dude at Gram and Mother’s Baptist church. The self same Baptist church wherein I was raised. I can’t tell you too much here since it is book fodder, but Leticia Browningwell was one surly Baptist bitch.
 Anyway, so I managed to piss off the Squirt because I sent her to the garden to dig worms for the fishing trip I promised her, and then I forgot about her. I was consumed with problems here to my bloggie and she dug up a bushel basket of worms before I remembered her. By then it was too late to go fishing, so I dumped the basket of worms and covered them with Squirt’s freshly dug soil. A causal event creating one surly woman.
 Squirt was pissed at me.
 That was Monday, and last night Squirt and I took SAC Ellen down to Sixth Street for the big Mardis Gras festivities. Austin gives good Mardis Gras and SAC Ellen has been unable to attend as a participant until this year. She’s been to the celebrations before, but as a paid observer for the US Department of Homeland Security.
 I guess terrorists like to dress up and pretend to have a good time.
 Have you noticed how focused this thought train has been? No digressions and but a few knots in the storyline. My ADHD seems well-checked. I think that might be due to my having saved the day last night down to Sixth Street. The problem started when we picked SAC Ellen up at her place and she got in the car. Squirt sat surly in the back seat and SAC Ellen’s womens’ intuition zeroed in like the radar on a heat-seeking missile.
 I think I might have mangled that metaphor, but you catch my drift. And why don’t we say, “mis-syle?” Anyway, Squirt barely mumbles a hello when my date got seated in the car, and when I was asked why Squirt was surly, I explained. I gave a full and complete story of my misdeeds.
 So, now I’m driving down to find a place to park so we can celebrate Mardis Gras in the company of two surly women. Obviously, surly womanhood is a contagious disease. The two of them start comparing stories as to precisely why I, Mooner Johnson, am such an asshole. Since I had trouble finding suitable parking, we had time for numerous stories.
 I guess I really am a total inappropriate and crazy asshole. That was the final vote, and unanimous at that. I might have voted “nay”, but decided the risk outweighed my hoped-for reward, poontanger. My longterm goal for the night was to get some sexing with the SACster.
 Which brings us to the climax of my story. The goal of any Mardis Gras party is to collect beads. Beads are thrown to people who make silly displays of themselves, like when a woman flashes her titties. Since SAC Ellen was required to wear her her bullet-protective vest, those luscious orbs remained reserved for my eyes alone.
 The Squirt has got eight wonderful little titties and she’ll flash them just for shits-and-grins, and in any company. Except for when she’s surly.
 So, we walked one length of the party route and did it bead-less. But I was prepared. When we got to the balcony of the Driscoll Hotel, I demonstrated why I’m called Mooner to the crowd. I had Ingrid pluck and dye my butt hair into a picture of the Pope on one cheek and Queen Elizabeth on the other. As a joke, I switched their headgear and had the Pope in a crown and the other Queen wore the silly Pope cap.
 I climbed the light pole on the corner, dropped my pants to my ankles and flashed a big moon show I called, “Two Queens for the price of one.”
 Beads flew from every direction, raining down from the balcony and flying from people on the street. I was careful to spin myself on the light pole to provide a 360-degree viewing of the show. Maybe someone will post a video, I don’t know.
 When I climbed down I was greeted by two no longer surly women covered in beads. SAC Ellen ringed Squirt’s wiener dog body with what must have been a hundred strings. My date had so many on her own neck that she looked like a Ubangi princess.
 Ugh. I just realized that this was going to be a lesson about how surly women have almost ruined my life and now it has become a feel good dealie. Since I got some poontang in the end, this posting has become a best plan laid. You know, the moral of the story boosted my morale.
 Drink Carta Blanca beer and come back manana, y’all.

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2 Responses to “Surly Woman Mystery; Mardis Gras Turnaround”

  1. Dustin says:

    Testing for Mooner

  2. You think that T-Cat and I are “surly?” I don’t understand why?!!! lmao

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