Happy B-Day To Mooner; Going Fishing

 

So. It’s my birthday and I’ll bitch if I want to. I started writing a story for you, the story of my having received the “Proof Copy” of my book yesterday. A story with a fairy tale start and truck-wreck ending.

I still haven’t gotten my head around the many problems presented in that story, so I’m not printing it here quite yet. Maybe this afternoon.

As for my birthday, I was awakened at 5:30 am by the stares of my pets. I was dreaming that I was trapped in a dark cave full of bats. When I struck a match so I could see where I was going, the entire bat colony dropped from the ceiling and flew into my face. I awakened with a start to the smiling faces of the Squirt and Honor the cat along with my two gay pets.

“Gooten Morrrrr-gannn. Feliz cumpleanos, Bwana Mooner.” Squirt sang to me, sitting on my chest with her chin balanced on mine, her brown eyes full of sparkles as she wishes me a happy birthday.

The fucking cat was on my right side—ass on my pillow and purring in my ear as she kneads pinpricks into my shoulder. My ostrich, Rick Perry, was standing beside the bed and had his long neck arched so his head rested on my other shoulder. His giant billiard ball-sized eyes stared, unblinking, I think at my nose. I worried I might have another big gray hair growing in my nostril and the crazy bird saw it as a meal.

Rush Limbaugh sat at the foot of the bed with his red eyes blinking as he sniffled with his summer cold. My gay pig is taking Mucinix by the handful to little avail. He’s blowing a giant snot ball as I slanted my eyes to him.

“You look miserable, Rushie. What can I do for you?” I asked him. All I got was another snot bubble that burst and splattered on my bed covers. Ick.

“Hurry, Mooner, get up.” Squirt was vibrating with excitement. “C’est votre birthday, e estamos tomando las pesce!”

“What a thoughtful birthday gift. Thanks guys.”

The four domesticated animals that I call my own have somehow come to think that they take me fishing, rather than the truth. But who gives a shit, right? Drowning worms while sitting on the dock with them are some of my best times. I love these guys. Maybe even the fucking cat.

We fixed a big birthday breakfast—apple smoked bacon, pancakes, fried eggs and potato patties made from leftover mashers and fried in butter. I especially like the toasted-brown crusty edges of the potato cakes. They crunch with buttery goodness with every bite. Mixed with egg yolk… mmmm.

We all drank Carta Blanca beer toasts to me. Some might be bothered with beer at eight in the morning, but not me. Any beer worth drinking is worth drinking anytime. Mother is helping the guys do the dishes while I write this and I just know that my grandmother is sitting there to the table casting a pall on the operations.

The dried goat bladder that I call Gram gave me a rough kiss on the cheek and a vintage Fire Sign Theater record for my birthday. She bussed my cheek with her rough lips, placed the album on the table in front of me and said, “Happy birthday, ya little shit.”

I wiped the tear from my eye and said, “Thanks, Gram, I love you too.”

Now. Manana, y’all—we’re going fishing!

PS: As my birthday wish I would like everybody to write me a FUCK RICK PERRY haiku poem. I’ll enter them in the contest.

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9 Responses to “Happy B-Day To Mooner; Going Fishing”

  1. admin says:

    Mooner,

    It’s yer birthday so,
    I’mma say Fuck Rick Perry,
    Now fetch me a beer.

    Yer Gram

  2. admin says:

    Gram. Thanks. You notice I took out the part where you asked me to say I have a cute tushie.

  3. Squatlo says:

    Congrats on another successful lap around the sun, Mooner! Since you’ve been driving the planet we haven’t hit a single object big enough to make anything extinct, so… well done!

    I had one of those birthday dealies last month, and managed to get through most of the day without drawing a lot of unnecessary attention to that fact. Last thing I want is the wait-staff at some chain restaurant clapping hands and chanting some bizarre variation on the birthday song as they come to my table. I’ve vowed to kill anyone who sets up such an event on my behalf, and so far no one has risked it.

    Hope you have a good’n, drink a Carta Blanca, and then get this poetry shit the hell over with… some of us don’t poem.
    As a tribute to your haiku contest, I’ve started re-reading James Clavell’s “Shogun” again, though.

  4. admin says:

    Squat. I appreciate your kind birthday wish, but find myself ill at ease with your obvious prejudice for poetry.

    However, the best way to get me to stop is to assist me in the promotion of my contest so that I can have enough entries to overcome the statistical dangers of minimal populations and their adverse effects on standard deviations.

    Maybe it might also have a good affect on my contest. I’ll cogitate on that and get back to you.

  5. Sue says:

    Nice to meet ya Mooner and Happy Birthday to ya! Oh and FUCK RICK PERRY!!

  6. admin says:

    Sue. Thanks for stopping by. Please enter my haiku contest when you get a chance.

  7. Rizzy says:

    Happy Birthday!

    FUCK RICK PERRY!

  8. Happy Birthday, Love.
    Why the FUCK does RICK PERRY
    think he has a chance?!

  9. admin says:

    Rizz. Thanks. I hope folks will click over to your place and get a gander at your take on things. Brassy Texas momma is always in style.

    Reck. Thanks for the wish and another great haiku. FUCK RICK PERRY indeed!

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