Dr. Marcus Bachmann? Mooner’s Gay Pig And Ostrich Drink Carta Blanca Beer

 

So. As if there didn’t already exist enough evidence that I am crazy, additional forensic science has emerged to further underscore the depths of my lunacies. It seems that I am destined to be crazy for the entire length and breadth of my time on this Earth.

I have spent most of my lifetime in constant psycho therapy and many months of that time was spent by me, months at a time, inside the padded-wall confinements of Shoal Creek Mental Hospital here in Austin, Texas. I have been incarcerated over to the loony bin for “observation” and “protection” and “aberrant behavior” and then this one time for “murder of a particularly maniacal nature”.

The murder indecent will must go undiscussed, as it is a central thematic story in my soon-to-be-published book, titled Full Rising Mooner. Which brings up something. I’m working with my Publisher to get the cover designed for the book and we need to have a phone conversation in order to talk through some things. The Publisher is a busy person, so we have been working with a moving target time to converse with each other.

We had a date and time set, said date and time when I would be at home in my office out to the ranch, so I asked to be called at the home phone number. Of course, the Publisher needed to reschedule and since my schedule is flexible, I agreed to a new time when I would be fishing out to the dock with my menagerie of animals, late yesterday afternoon.

And I, again of course, forgot to provide my cell phone number to provide access for the communication.

So, at the appointed time of the call setting, I somehow managed to get my animals quiet so I could enjoy an uninterrupted business call. How I managed this was to give each of them an entire Carta Blanca beer of their own. “If each of you will promise to shut up and not cut up while I’m on the telephone, I’ll let you have a personal bottle of beer,” was how I enlisted their quiet.

Squirt looked be dead in the eye and said to me, she said, “Was ist der Trick, Bwana Mooner? Qui etes-vous tenter de tromper?”

“There’s no trick, little lady. I’m not attempting to fool anybody. I just need you guys to be veeeeery quiet so I can do some business on the phone.” I’m finding that as I mature, I’m becoming a better, more patient parent. When my own actual kids were the age of this batch, I would have said something like, “OK, you little shits. If you don’t remain quiet while I’m on the phone– I’ll drown you and tell your mother you ran away.”

Have you ever seen a cat drink beer from a tall brown bottle? Honor the cat treats it like a big brown bird that requires 100% of her cat hunting skills to stalk, capture and torture before consuming. Hell, watching my motley crew drink Carta Blanca is a circus of giggles. Rush Limbaugh, hog that he is, grabs the bottle in his snotty snout and sucks it dry in one noisy gulp. Rick Perry struts around his bottle in circles and poses like a fucking peacock before upending it.

For the Squirt, she has been trained to drink only by the caps-full so she requires my assistance, often, to finish an entire beer. And fuck me running. Should that be cap-fulls, or maybe caps-fulls? When I first decided to become a man of papers, a literary writer and author, I made myself the promise that I would make the maximum efforts to insure that I accurately communicated with you guys.

Early in life, I was educated to the fact that communication is the responsibility of the communicator, not the communicatee. Communicatered? See what I mean? Right there is a fine example of what I’m talking about.

If you were to follow the classic example of modern communication theory, I would be the “communicator” and you guys would be the “receivers”. But to call you “receivers” would not properly express my true idea because I want you to actually experience in your thoughts what it is that I’m saying. I don’t seek for you to “receive” my words, I want you to fucking understand me.

In the effort to adequately communicate two paragraphs ago, I attempted to fill a gap in the English dictionary and make a new word to fit my needs. I first tried “communicatee” as that would seem to illustrate a yin/yang relationship to my role as “communicator”. However, my ADHD-addled brain quickly rejected communicatee as possibly inadequate in that particular instance because I wasn’t speaking to our relationship, but rather to the action of communication. So I tried “communicatered”, and I have to say that communicatered might be one of my worst word inventions to-date.

That sounds like some fucking political word-spinning asshole attempting to make a cut in social security benefits sound like a message from God.

Fucking right-wing Christian Republican shitballs.

Holy shit is my brain fritzed! I couldn’t rub two sticks together and make a fire if I led the horse to water. I need a beer.

I’ll stop while you can still follow my train of thought. I feel my communication skills are now getting derailed by the multiple racing thoughts in my skull. So, please allow me to say the one last thing that I know with absolute certainty that I can communicate with perfect clarity.

FUCK RICK PERRY!

Manana, y’all.

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