Mooner Loses Quote; Cordless Tools Best


So. As an offset to the many positive benefits of our recent rainfall, grass grows. Specifically, the grass over to Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson’s house grows. As an offset to the many benefits I receive from my steadfast ecological sensibilities, the grass over to Dr. Sam’s house grows.

The only benefit I have gained from us having the drought has been that I don’t have to mow the grass over there. I mow the grass over there because I was unable to find an ecologically sound landscape service to do it for her.

OK, that was a lie. What I should have said is, I couldn’t find an ecologically sound landscape service to care for Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson’s yard who would work under my direct supervision. I did find several who gave it a shot, but none of those guys had any sticking power. It isn’t like I’m all that difficult to work with– I don’t have that many conditions that a landscape contractor should feel compelled to quit in mid-mow.


I’m simply quite conscientious. And compulsive. And impulsive, maybe somewhat. And I would guess that I’m sometimes intrusive.

But that’s all Gnat’s fault. My trusty assistant deals with most all of my assisting duties but there are several areas she refuses me her assistances. One is food shopping, where I’m glad to make my way in the world without her inconsiderations. When I send you to the store with instructions to get me sea salt and I specify “Sel Gris by Le Tresor,” can you blame me for losing it when you show up with Ittica d’Or?

Can you fucking blame me? I request, with careful specificities, a particular kind of salt, sea; I spell the name, correctly, in legible print on the grocery list; I even explain the whys and wherefores which underscore my needs for this exact fucking sea salt. I even told her where, on the sea salt section of the condiments aisle over to the Whole Foods, my prized, hand-harvested (using ancient Celtic methods) gray salt was last seen.

I even showed her the now-emptied tin she was shopping to replace.

You can’t convince me that Gnat bought the wrong imported European gray hand-harvested sea salt by accident. “This one was $8.00 per ounce less, Mooner, and it comes in the same tin, for shit sakes,” was Gnat’s feeble defense.

Anyway, since it rained, I loaded the cat and dog into my old GTO and we left the ranch at 6:30 and headed over to Sammie’s place to mow the lawn. I don’t harbor gasoline-powered lawn equipment, so one side of her garage holds an array of electric tools as they recharge between my uses. I’m very glad that all of the old-fashioned power cord energized tools have worn out. Some of my angriest fistfights with inanimate objects were with tools bearing power cords.

Actually, the marquis (in the plural, howeverthefuck you spell that one) would have read something like, “Mooner Johnson VS The 100-Foot Stanly Orange Cord… Man Versus Tripwire III.” It was always the fucking power cords that started the fisticuffs. Not that I kept records, but I’m eight and five against all cords of 75-feet or longer. I go nine and one on the shorter guys.

So, since Gnat won’t assist me out of my grass-mowing miseries, I go mow Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson’s grass as needed.

And whatthefuck is this? I’ll put parenthesis around it… (“) There it is, can you see that little fucker? I have somehow managed to become infected with an errant quote mark thingie. I keep deleting it and it keeps popping up again. Watch this. I’ll delete it and you’ll see… Gone, for now.

When we got over to Sammie’s to mow the lawn, we discovered that she had just watered her entire fucking landscape. Since you NEVER mow wet grass, we couldn’t perform out appointed task. As we were already there, we decided to clean the swimming pool and check to see if all the skunk damage had cleared up. This is the same pool in which the three of us, Squirt Honor the cat and me (myself) were sprayed with skunk venom awhile back.

OK, wait. We weren’t “in” the pool, we were beside it. The family of nearly-drowned and terribly ungrateful fucking skunks was “in” the pool.

I’ll bet you spell it “marquises.” Or maybe it would be “marquine.” Oh for shit sakes, it could be “marqui,” like some words pluralate. And now look at this.. that thing is back. “ Do you see it?

Ugh. I wonder what I’m missing, like where is the rest of the stuff left unsaid? There’s an entire thought and the other, closing quote mark out there somewhere in my computer– lost and unsaid. What if it was the smartest thing I have ever said and now it’s lost?

Double ugh. Drink Carta Blanca beer and I’ll see you manana, y’all.

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2 Responses to “Mooner Loses Quote; Cordless Tools Best”

  1. Squatlo says:

    I”m going to use the (“) instead of (‘) whenever I can in this comment, just so”s you”ll feel better about having an intrusive key on your computer. I do it a lot anyway, “cause I”m careless.

    A special brand of sea salt, eh? I”m sorta picky on certain subjects, too, but salt isn”t one of them. We”ve been buying sea salt for our margaritas, and I”ve found that I really prefer it to the standard table salt I grew up with. Heavier grain, a little crunchier, and a ton more flavor. But I”m a salt abuser, so none of my opinions on salt should matter. I put too much salt on everything, according to people who watch as I season my plate. When taste-testing my lovely wife”s cooking I”ll always suggest more salt, and when she rolls her eyes and tells me to get out of the kitchen I always sneak back in and add more salt when she”s gone to pee. I”d put more salt in the ocean if I had my way.

    Your aversion to gas powered mowers must be interesting. I have an environmentalist”s heart, too, but damn I”m not messing around with cords and rechargeables when it”s time to mow. Crank it up, cut it down, rawhide!

    Your governor is a phony douche, all hat and no cattle, as Molly Ivins used to write. Miss Molly. Miss Miss Molly…

    Is it beer thirty yet?

  2. admin says:

    Squat. OK, first, I’ll send you some quality sea salt as soon as your tomatoes come in. You will see what I’m talking about.

    Second, the new cordless mowers are real gems. Manly amps and turbo noise.

    Third, it’s always time for a frosty-clod Carta Blanca beer.

    And last, and always, FUCK RICK PERRY!

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