So. I just checked Twitter and I’m back down to 26 Followers. I don’t know why, but this Twitter phenomenon bewilders me. Fascinates me as well. Over the last three days, my Follower list is a plus nine and minus ten, which brings me from 27 back to 26.
Maybe I need to talk to Streaker Jones about it. He’s smart enough to figure anything out. I just need to find the logic to convince him it’s worth thinking about. Might need to find that logic for myself.
Anyway, my ADHD has been on the fritz and I’ve been fucking things up right and left. I served under-cooked grilled chicken at supper, left the door to Gram’s mushroom pantry unlocked, and I accidentally mentioned another woman’s name during sex with SAC Ellen.
Since I got food poisoning from chicken down to Florida last week, my own nose saved the family from making them all sick. My mental lapse with my grandmother’s hallucinogenic mushroom farming activities went unpunished as I caught Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry as they were about to sneak inside. My pig and ostrich are gluttons for Gram’s potions. My Gram is ready to roast my favorite barnyard animals on a spit.
Calling SAC Ellen “Reckmonster” was, however, an error with consequences. “That’s it, Mooner,” SAC Ellen told me. “Get off me so I can get dressed.”
“It was an honest mistake,” I tried. “I’ve so much on my mind, what with my book and catching up on my bloggie reading and all of that other shit.”
“Mooner, I put up with a great deal to have a relationship with you. But I won’t tolerate your lack of concentration during sex. I said get off me.”
I tried one last tactic to save the night. “Want me to suck on your toes?” She loves me to suck on her toes. Not my favorite thing to do, but I was willing to give one for the team. Her answer was to roll me off of her on the bed and flip me onto the floor.
“Ooomph,” was all I got out as my back hit the floor. “Why’d you do that?”
“Because you don’t listen. Now take me home.”
I listened to that, and when I got back to the ranch was when I caught Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry sneaking into Gram’s mushroom parlor. Which reminds me. Whenever I say, “FUCK RICK PERRY,” I am referring to the fuckball that is our governor and not my pet ostrich. That’s not to say that I don’t say it and mean the 350-pound gay bird, but rather I’ll specify when I’m speaking of the bird.
And that reminds me to tell you about Eighty-three the cat and the alligator. We were in Florida and watching the news, and the story about this one alligator biting the leg of an alligator rustler was on the TV. The little cat mewed something and when I asked Squirt what she said, Squirt told me, “She said she’s not afraid of a fucking alligator.”
“OK,” I started, “first off, tell that little shit to stop cussing so goddamn much. It makes me look like a bad parent. And second, tell her we can go down to the pond and let her see an alligator up close. Maybe give her a fucking reality check.”
I’m big on reality checks. When your brain is constantly processing a score of differing thoughts all at the same time, checking in with reality is a necessary endeavor. Like right now, for instance. I’m maybe three hours from finishing my book yet I’m sitting here blogging my ass off and thinking about fishing.
I promised the miniature dog and adolescent cat I’d take them fishing yesterday, and didn’t. Then, I told them we’d go today to make up for that.
Ugh. Reality can suck. Need Carta Blanca beer.