The Birds And The Bees; Rick Perry And Rush Limbaugh Shed Light

 

So. I hope everyone had a nice weekend and properly honored the memories of Memorial Day. We visited Grand Dad and Daddy’s graves in the family cemetery here and then went to see Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson’s mother’s remains over to Rememberence Gardens. My family patriarchs were both vets, and Sam’s mom, Marie, was a WASP during WWII. The Woman’s Airforce Service Pilots served the vital role to shuttle aircraft during the war and saved the male pilots for battle duties. The WASP’s were granted Medals of Honor year before last, an honor long over due.

Marie was one of my favorite people and I miss her mightily. I miss my father and grandfather too, but Marie was like a mother to me and a great friend too. My tear ducts are so drained, I might not cry for a week.

After our trip to honor our family’s vets, we drove down to the big cemetery in town to pay respects at the function there. When I was a kid, there would be thousands of people at that event. Yesterday’s event had hundreds. Another sad sign for modern times.

Then it was back home to cook and eat our traditional roasted goat BBQ. This year, in order to attempt family harmony, I did all of the outdoor cooking with the help of the animals, and Gram supervised the rest of the meal preparations inside in our big kitchen. My crew included Honor the cat, Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry, Dixie and the Squirt.

Each of my helpers had culinary assignments except for Dixie. When I asked her what she planned to do, she said to me, she said, “I plan to sit on my tired ass and watch this circus.”

Dixie is getting old, I know that. But she has been such a force in my life I am having trouble facing it. My faithful Golden Retriever has been my companion, translator, money maker, art director, and my moral compass for fifteen of her sixteen years. She’s winding down and I’m now dripping tears onto my keyboard. Maybe I have quick-recovery tear ducts.

Anyway, we were all cooking and drinking Carta Blanca beer and sharing the tasty guacamole dip that P-Cubed made. P-cubed is known as “The Guacamole Mama” around town. I can’t figure out what her secret ingredient is, but hers is the best smashed avocado dip in town. When SAC Ellen asked what it was this morning, Gram interrupted and said, “Who gives a shit, federal lady? Long as tha P-cuber brings it… it don’t matter.”

Crazy woman’s logic, but logical none the less.

Anyway, things are at the sit-and-drink-beer-and-tell-stories phase of our part of my part of meal prep, so we’re sitting with our beers and Squirt is interpreting Honor’s stories about living with Crazy Cat Woman. It’s some funny shit, but Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry keep interrupting with their icky petting. Have you ever seen a 500-pound pig and a 350-pound ostrich engage in sexual foreplay?

“What are they doing?” Honor asked through Squirt.

“Well, that, I think, is the pre-sex ritual between between a half-ton of homosexual barnyard animals.” Sometimes it’s difficult to know what to say about my gay pig and ostrich.

“Ist dass Vogel und Bienen, Bwana Mooner?” Squirt asked. “Por favor, Senor, diganos sobre las aves y las bees. Por favor, por favor por favor. Pretty please.”

Oh shit, she wants to know about the birds and bees. What do I do now?

“This might be the highlight of my year,” Dixie said. “Mooner, would you please refresh my beer while you think your way into this?”

Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson and I have three kids together. Three great human beings, in spite of my fathering, and three human beings I can’t speak of in my writings. That’s a promise made by me to their mother and them, and a promise I feel honor-bound to keep.

It’s also one of the promises that keeps me out of solitary confinement over to Shoal Creek Loony Hospital.

I had the birds-and-bees talk with each of my kids, the human ones, and managed to inflict minimal damages. However, as a full-disclosure kind of guy, some of the discussions were difficult. Like, for example, how do you discuss blow jobs with your daughter? Or how would you address the anus as a sexual organ with your kid? Just asking.

I mean look here, I’m not usually a squeamish guy, but when your twelve-year-old daughter, the apple of your eye, asks you, “Daddy, what are they talking about when they say, ‘Do you swallow?’”

I found my way through that jungle, and again, inflicted minimal damages to the psyches of my children. But this discussion is a horse of a different color. How do you describe/discuss sex with a cat a dog, a pig and an ostrich. When the hog and giant bird are already lovers?

OK, think this one through. Not just sex, gay sex. Not just gay sex, sex between different species. This love affair between Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry is, at least on the surface, wrong. But they seem made for each other.

Ugh. I don’t want to talk about this any more.

Manana, y’all.

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3 Responses to “The Birds And The Bees; Rick Perry And Rush Limbaugh Shed Light”

  1. Squatlo says:

    Jesus, I’m glad my daughter never asked me THAT one… it was bad enough handling the ones she DID ask.

    I’ve never been a grave-visitor. In fact, I don’t think I even approve of good dirt being used to hold overpriced mahogony and cherry caskets in the first place. Fire up a good pottery kiln, scrape up the ashes into a ceremonial urn, and scatter them over holy ground (like Neyland Stadium or The Little Pigeon River in The Smokies). That way we have all that beautiful pasture for strip malls, Walgreens, Walmarts, and The Antioch Church of Christ Annex Building.

    One of my three sisters asked if I had been back to visit mom and dad’s graves, and of course I hadn’t. She said all of the graves have nice metal markers in front of the headstones, and they’re all nice and shiny, except for our dad’s. He worked about forty years for the Department of Defense in Oak Ridge, later called Union Carbide, and probably dealt with a lot of heavy metals and berrilium, uranium, etc. We think the reason his plate is discolored is because of the radiation oozing from the box below. He would have wanted it that way, I promise…

    Hey, keep ’em coming, Mooner.

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