Rotary Phone Crybaby; Rick Perry Still A Prick


So. The Texas state legislature has finally determined that they can do no more harm than already done, and they have adjourned. I’m unsure those silly fuckers left anything unharmed in their most recent attacks on the citizens of Texas.

They gutted our schools, hospitals and social support services. They forced their errant, ignorant Christian values down womens’ throats and stole more of the human rights we all deserve. They “balanced the state budget” in an act the great Houdini would applaud by minimizing the actual shortfall, cutting education and social spending, and pushing the problem into the future.

Cynic that I am, I’m convinced that this is a calculated move by the political machine that is Prick Perry. I think he believes he will reside in the White House in two years and our state’s future will be his distant memory. My feelings are that he did everything this legislative session he could to make himself look good to his fan base of right-wing religious fuckballs, and did so at the expense of the infrastructure of my great state.

Fuck Rick Perry.

Last week I tried to tell you about when we went over to mow the grass over to Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson’s place. Since we’ll be headed to mow again manana, I remembered that I forgot to finish my story. Manana is Spanish for “tomorrow”, so that means that we are mowing the grass again Friday morning.

Oh for shit sakes. Manana means tomorrow but it also means “in the morning,” or “morning.” So, what I should have said is that we are going over to Sammie’s place to mow, “Manana en la manana.”

That would accurately state that we are going to mow “tomorrow morning,” or, “tomorrow in the morning.” I always attempt precision and accuracy when I write to you, a positive trait that has had significant negative impact on me. One of those dealies wherein a person gets punished for doing good deeds.

Like when that ungrateful fucking skunk squirted me after I saved his entire family’s lives from drowning the week-before-last. Rotten little shitball. Judging from the progress made to-date, I’m still a week away from any sexing. Every time my body temperature rises I exude eau d’ skunk from my ass regions. SAC Ellen hates skunk smell and refuses me her charms until I can sweat nothing but eau d’ Mooner.

Anyway, the Squirt and Honor the cat went with me to mow the grass last week, and when we got there none of the rechargeable lawn equipment had full charges in their batteries. It had been so long since I had to mow, a blown circuit breaker in the garage had gone unnoticed.

I keep an old fashioned reel push mower over there for just such a circumstance. It is a well-oiled machine with razor-sharp blades. I have this buddy who owns a knife shop and he sharpens all of my blades. So, we reset the circuit breaker to charge the equipment for future usages, and took the push mower out of its protective cover.

This mower is the first lawn mower I ever had. Grandpa bought it for me at a yard sale when we were visiting my cousins up to Amarillo, and we had to dismantle it to fit it in the trunk of the car to get it back to Austin. I had been bitching about not having any spending money so my grandfather was going to get me started in the lawn mowing business.

That’s how I got my first taste of entrepreneurship. “Mooner Mows Grass” was the name, and grass cutting was my game. Daddy would drop me off of a morning in old west Austin with the mower, a canteen of water and a lunch bag. I’d knock on doors, sell my services and mow grass until Daddy found me later in the day.

Since my father had my same ADHD, I wasn’t always gathered-up promptly. It often took a late night call to the ranch, made from some concerned citizen’s rotary phone, to arrange the pick up.

Remember when everyone had rotary phones and every phone sat on a table or a counter?

Ugh, I’ve got tears in my eyes. I’m fucking nostalgic for rotary phones. I’m starting to get weepy-eyed over a fucking antique communication device.

I did love them though. The way they felt as you dragged your finger around the dial to wind-up the numbers of the person you called, and then the noise it made as it self-unwinded. Self unwounded? And we all had phone numbers that were interchanges plus numbers and no Area Codes. Our old number was Drake-44527. The first two numbers were the “D” and the “r”.

For the love of God, now I’m weeping. I need professional help. And a cold Carta Blanca beer.

Manana, Y’all. (Maybe manana en la manana)

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3 Responses to “Rotary Phone Crybaby; Rick Perry Still A Prick”

  1. I’m telling you Mooner … we are NOT taking that jackwagon off your hands. I’m just saying NO. That is all.

    …. well no, it’s not all either LOL. I do remember the interchanges when I was a kid. Ours was Parkway8 … the last four may have been 2526, but I’m not sure about that. We moved from there when I was 10 and I really didn’t use the phone much. Now the next one, when I was a teen I remember, but it didn’t have a cool exchange. It’s really funny that I remember either. I have to carry my currant number on me in case I need to call home, because numbers refuse to stay seated in my head anymore. Could be I killed a few too many brain cells back in the old days. Or it might be the CRS >shrugs<

  2. Sally. OK, first please allow me to say FUCK RICK PERRY!

    Second, the Johnson family has had the same main land line phone number since the 1950’s, so even i can remember it. Were they interchanges or exchanges?

  3. Squatlo says:

    Back “in the day” my old hometown was so small we only had to dial the last five numbers of the seven to get through to our intended target. We were all pissed when they notified us circa 1970 that we’d have to start dialing all seven. About five years ago the 615 area code got so crowded they had to give east Tennessee a new one, now 865, and the folks back in the old hometown who had had the same number since Eisenhower was in office raised hell! “How can they up and change a goddam number I’ve had for fifty years?” was how one of my older friends put it…

    Mooner, I’m pretty sure a person can still buy a rotary phone these days. You wouldn’t be able to type in your phone number or other info, or use those way-fun interactive voice mail mazes when you call your cable company or (ironically) phone company, but you could still get that happy buzz from letting it rewind itself after every digit… Probably even come with a coiled cable between the handset and the base unit. Just think, you could accidentally sweep every jar of salsa off the counter while pacing around on the phone, and really piss Gram off!

    Gotta go, it’s beer thirty!

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