Rick Perry Almost Drowns; Mooner Takes One For The Team

 

So. I couldn’t sleep last night and got out of bed to go to the computer to play poker. By the time I had cleared the crust from my eyes and got them focused on the monitor, I remembered that the fucking feds have shut down the poker sites to US players.

Preventing adult Americans from playing poker on the Internet is the single dumbest political act I’ve yet seen this year. OK, wait a minute because I just told a huge lie. Texas governor Rick Perry is the single dumbest political act I’ve seen in my entire life.

Overstatements aside, banning me from playing poker is really dumb. I’m over twenty-one, I pay taxes on my winnings and this is America for flaming fuck sakes! This, and because people keep “accidentally” shooting me, is why I don’t carry a gun. I’m afraid you’d find me more than willing to put myself out of miseries by popping a cap into right-wing religious fuckballs who push their brand of morality in my face. I have an intrinsic dislike for guns and I hate the loosey-goosey attitude of the gun rights bunch.

True, my main squeeze carries both a handgun and a US Government-issued electronic stunner device in the leather harness she wears to work. SAC Ellen strikes a fit figure when she’s all dressed for her work for Homeland Security. If I didn’t still smell like a skunk when I sweat, I’d be putting that stunner to good use. I needs me some sexing, or as Gram puts it, “Mooner, you need ta git ya some pong-tanger. Yer drivin’ me nutsie.”

Don’t you just love the word “poontang”? I wonder who invented that word?

I couldn’t sleep last night because we almost lost the gay ostrich when we went fishing yesterday. I had to give him mouth-to-mouth to save his life, and he beat me black and blue for my troubles.

We were fishing as usual, at least the Squirt, Honor the cat and me (myself?) were were fishing as usual, but we had the Father’s Day additions of Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry join us for the trip. The gay pig was bitching and moaning about how hot and tired he was before we even finished the walk to the fishing pier from the garden, where we had harvested some worms for bait.

He was pissed because I wouldn’t let him root around and ruin big patches of garden, and he was whining like the porked-up crybaby he is. Just like his namesake, the piggish radio pontificator, my giant hog brags about false accomplishments and whines about the successes of others. He also whines about every inconvenience he encounters. I’m so fed up with the fat, gay pig I’m ready to give him to Gram for sausage meat. If it weren’t for his lover, Rick Perry, I might just do it.

The first incident of fishing dysfunction came when I was baiting the hooks on the half-dozen cane poles we use. The 350-pound flightless bird got in close to see if the worms were screaming when I passed the hooks through them, and knocked the bait bucket on its side, spilling the worms on the wooden pier. As the little buggers wiggled and wriggled around, many of them slipped between the planks and dropped into the water.

In maybe a half-minute, the water was boiling beneath the dock as the fish fed on the earthworms. I wasn’t upset about this since I chum a little bait anyway. But when Rick Perry saw what was going on in the water, he knocked me off the little chair I use for fishing and dumped me on my ass. He wedged himself against and between the dock’s rails, bulbous body pressing into the opening and looking like a too-fat person with a too-tight belt.

His empty cantaloupe-sized head is swinging at the end of his long neck and he’s popping it underwater. I guess he thought that “fishing” was the endeavor of accidentally dropping worms into the water and then bobbing to grab the fish in your beak. He was fucking hilarious.

When the fish had eaten all the fallen worms, Rick Perry tugged and extracted himself from between the rails and sat on the pier with a thud. He must have taken a lot of water chasing fish because he sounded like someone dropped a giant water bladder. His eyes were spinning and he kept burping and swallowing. Rush Limbaugh snuggled to his side and nuzzled the big bird with his snout.

For the life of me I don’t know how I can say that Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry make a cute couple, but they do. A rude and porked-up shit machine and an empty-skulled bird brain, and cute as all get out as gay lovers.

Anyway, I got the baited hooks into the water and we started catching fish. The cat manages to get more than half our catch into the cooler without shredding them to sushi, and it’s Father’s Day and I’ve had a few beers already. The Squirt and I are laughing at Honor as she fights her instincts to drop the caught fish rather than claw it, when the pig pushes me in the back and grunts. I turned to see Rick Perry is all the way down and not breathing.

I’m quick and solid in the face of emergencies so I checked his pulse– weak, but there, and said, “Someone call 911.”

I straightened his long neck and checked Rick Perry’s airwaves. “Airway clear, I’m starting CPR.”

I like to say aloud what I’m doing in emergencies as it helps me to focus. With my ADHD my attempts at healing can take remarkable wrong turns if I don’t follow set procedures with verbal touchstones.

I placed my mouth over the end of his mouth and blew with all my might. It felt like I was attempting to inflate a rubber raft with a coffee straw. “This won’t work, guys. Help me roll him to the edge of the dock.”

We rolled the water-laden lump close to the edge and I draped his head and half of his neck over the side. “All right. I’m gonna sit on his belly and try to squeeze the water out of him.”

I did and it reminded me of when I used to play with Mother’s big rubber douche bag when I was a kid. Mother left it hanging in the shower and it absolutely fascinated me. One of these days I’ll tell you a story about when I used it this one Thanksgiving.

The water rushed out of the bird in torrents as I squeezed his belly. I was doing a little bounce and gently banging my butt on him to squeeze. We’d been at it for eleven bouncy squeezes when I heard a cough and felt Rick Perry start breathing under me. The he started moving, and as I started to get up and do something else, the giant fucking asshole came off the deck swinging his head like a mace.

Now, let me say this before I get back to finishing this story. When I stood to get off the big assed bird I didn’t know what else I was going to do to help him. But I sure as hell wasn’t prepared to need to defend myself from someone whose life I had just saved.

Rick Perry came off the the deck like a punch-drunk fighter. He managed to whack me on the arms four times, in the knees twice and he konked my head as the coup de gras. I awoke flat on my back in a heap with the Squirt licking my face.

As a father, it was heartwarming to see the looks of concern on all my pets’ faces. When my head cleared enough to walk home, we gathered mall our shit and headed out. I managed to make it through dinner before the aches of the ostrich head butts got to me. I went to bed early to sleep off the beating, but couldn’t get comfortable in any position to sleep. That’s why I got up to play poker.

Has anyone else taken a beating when attempting to assist another? It seems to happen to me often. Am I the only one?

Manana, y’all.

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7 Responses to “Rick Perry Almost Drowns; Mooner Takes One For The Team”

  1. Squatlo says:

    Hell, your fishing trip was even more eventful than mine, and I got singed by lightning!

    Mouth to mouth with a gay bird, huh? Not that there’s anything wrong with that…

  2. ROTFLMAO omg it’s not the mouth to mouth that got to me … it’s the image of you bouncing up and down rolling your butt around this huge birds belly … Then him getting up and … Alright … it’s PAYBACK time!

    Okay, okay, yes. I am evil. But I can’t stop laughing.

    Um no. You are not the only one if that makes you feel any better. But I don’t have a story that can top this.

  3. Are you freakin’ kidding me?!

    That was HYSTERICAL!

    You can blame Squatlo for me showing up uninvited.

  4. admin says:

    Busted. Thanks for stopping by and thank the Squat for the referral. Things are getting crazy around here, so stay tuned.

  5. admin says:

    Sally. Hey girl! I think I must carry a deep and somewhat significant guilt re:, well regarding some fucking thing. My life would be far simpler to have let Rick Perry drown and give his gay lover to Gram for smoked pork chops.

    Ugh.

    I’m lucky I have Carta Blanca beer.

  6. admin says:

    Squat. OK, my event will leave scars, but yours involved Mother Nature shocking your balls. I’d rather take my punishment and sleep at night.

    OK, I can sleep at night after my injuries heal.

  7. Squatlo says:

    Well, you know from my latest post that I didn’t sleep last night… woke up wondering about God’s navel lint, divine foreskin, and the Spanish Inquisition. Glad you told me it was all a result of having had the crap knocked out of my by lightning while fishing.

    On the other hand, maybe that explains why I was driven to seek refuge in a deity during my last REM cycle! Maybe the Hooey Gods are trying to tell me to get my shit together, dress up (with shoes AND socks, the whole deal), and make it to church this coming Sunday.

    Nah, they couldn’t mean for me to do all that! Probably the oriental pasta I had for dinner, and not enough of beer.

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