Don Pierre The Pirateer Pays A Visit; Tomato Dreams


So. I was deep in slumber last night and dreaming one of my recurring-theme dreams. This is one of my super-Technicolor jobbies with a cast and crew of thousands. These dreams are pirate fantasies and I am always playing the lead role as Don Pierre the Pirateer.

Swear to God.

I’m always dressed in fashion that would make Johnny Depp’s pirate character look butch. The ruffled, blouse-shirt I wear is white cotton and loaded with lace and lacy frills. I wear the tail out and over the top of my black leather pantaloons, and on my feet I’ve got heeled leather boots that further elevate my 6’4” frame.

All of my thick hair is black in this dream and it’s foppishly long on my head, and tied back in a lush ponytail with a gold beaded thong. I’m adorned with gold head-to-toe: rings, bracelets, earrings in rows hanging from multiple piercings, my giant felt pirate captain hat has a thick braided gold band, and chains of gold fashion my belt and adorn my boots.

My dense, curly black chest hair, showing from neck to mid stomach in the open front of my blouse, helps complete a mighty studly picture in black contrasted on white.

Each time I have this dream, the beginning is random– acts of pirating always, but sometimes attacking an English galleon to steal it’s booty, or ransacking some castle of its treasures. Or ransacking fair maidens of their treasures.

But every one of these dreams ends the same. Don Pierre stands on the balcony of his mansion that sits at the top of the main street in a harbor town. He has an unobstructed view down the crowded street and between the two-story buildings that line the cobblestones on both sides. Maidens in period dress are stuffed on the second floor balconies of the buildings, leaning over the rail and spilling ample bosoms in bright sunlight.

There is a Don Pierre the Pirateer song and it plays in my dream like a movie sound track. I have been having this dream for at least thirty years and the music is always the same. It is great music filled with brass and violins, and even though I’ve dreamed it hundreds of times, I can’t sing a note of it when awake. I can tell you that it is an ode to the man and uses his name multiple times.

At the end of this dream, Don Pierre, me, swishes out onto his balcony, removes his hat with a flourish, and makes an exaggerated bow to the frenzied crowd. He then spreads his arms wide in a sharing gesture, shuts his eyes tight and lifts his face to the sun, and is promptly awakened with a start by some silly fucking thing, every fucking time.

Last night the dream ruining awakening occurred at 3 am when Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry had a lover’s spat. My gay pig and ostrich were fighting because Rushie had hogged all of the homegrown tomatoes I served them for dinner and little Ricky’s feelings were hurt. The ostrich was boo-hooing like a little girl who had her pigtails yanked, and the silly hog started laughing at him.

Ever heard a 500-pound pig laugh?

I jumped from bed and threw the door open. “Shut the fuck up, you two. You just ruined another Don Pierre the Pirateer dream for me. And stop whining, Rick, I’ve got plenty of tomatoes and will have them for months to come.”

That seemed to salve the giant bird’s bruised feelings so I shut the door on my closeted gay pets, and lay back down. I started thinking, an always dangerous endeavor, and behind my shut eyes I saw vine-ripened homegrown tomatoes in a big Indian basket, and Rush Limbaugh the pig, both sitting around my kitchen counter. I got up out of bed, dressed in shorts and tee shirt, and padded out to the kitchen.

It’s 6 am now, and I just finished my third BLT sandwich and fourth Carta Blanca beer of this new Sunday. Streaker Jones makes this smoked bacon and ham, and sausage, and I fried a few pounds when I got up. I ate a pound on my sammies, and the rest awaits the women of the house. For tomatoes, I had purple heirloom, early girl and yellow grapes– one sammie each.

I’ll got coffee brewing so I could switch from beer before it’s too late, walked out and got the paper from its box at the road, and prepared for my first bitching-out of the day. Life is pretty fucking grand.

Manana, y’all.

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6 Responses to “Don Pierre The Pirateer Pays A Visit; Tomato Dreams”

  1. Mooner, I have this visual of “the puffy shirt” from the Seinfeld episode. It’s not pretty. Please, for the love of Bob, tell me that you don’t actually own anything like that…if you do, we may have to negotiate a prenup that says you will dispose of it before your 12th marriage. Just sayin…

  2. Squatlo says:

    Reckem: you know this man pees in sinks (!) and you’re worried he might break out a puffy shirt and stand on the prow of his pirate ranch house doing the Fabio hair-in-the-wind thing? Shit, baby…

    Mooner, dammit… Ms. Reck is practically a neighbor of mine, I’ve read her praises being sung on other sites where she’s donated bling-bling home-made jewelry, and here you are leading her on into thinking you’re going to share some of those Early Girls (with a drop or two of extra virgin olive oil from the boot of Italy and a dash of sea salt)!!!

    Hell, man, you’ve damn near talked me into relocating to fucking Tay-hass just for the growing season you enjoy, and you know I have to spit every time I say Texas out loud!

    I’m outta here…

  3. admin says:

    Reck. OK, first, while not a metro-sexual, I am a manly man with eclectic tastes. Having said that, the pirate shirt exists only in my dreams. Same as my sex life with you. Second, I have a standard prenup contract form for all of my wives. Happy to prepare an advanced copy for your review.

    Squat. A man needs to use whatever devices he has at his disposal to further his vices. I wouldn’t want a woman who couldn’t be swayed by homegrown tomatoes, and I’ll go to great extents to woo a good one. The Reckster is a rare beauty and soon to be the central target of my attentions.

    Oh, and by the way. We got a short, lightening-filled overnight rain that gave the entire garden a burst of growth. I’m carefully watching a variety we call “Indian Spring”. It’s an heirloom that looks like a verigated human brain– red and yellow and this bluish color in the ripened fruit. Has a unique flavor, like a cross between cherry tomato and lemon. Add basil, sea salt and pink peppercorn….


    Fuck Rick Perry.

  4. Squatlo says:

    Seriously, this is messed up… we’re still at least a week away from safe planting. The low Saturday night is supposed to be around 35 degrees, and that’s close enough to scare me away from wasting tomato plants…

    I’m so jealous. And if you end up with Reckmonster I’ll understand how it was done… tomatoes are unfair bait.

  5. Dammit Squat! I just planted all of my garden on Sunday! What the hell is this about some “safe” planting time?! If my garden kicks, I’ll know it was Mooner who sent the frost our way…in his crazy attempts to get me out there to eat HIS tomatoes quicker!

    Dammit Mooner…get busy with number 11, wouldja?! All this tomato talk is making me drool.

  6. Hee Beeckman says:

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