I Miss Squirt; Not A Prick Perry Story

 

So. It’s been quite a traumatic day, starting from the time I got out of bed early this morning. I was awakened at 5:30 am to the sounds of gay sex emanating from my closet. Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry were making a terrible racket, banging off the walls—grunting and shit. The big ostrich makes this keening noise when he’s sexing, like I imagine Greek women made in ancient days when their men died in battle. It’s eerie as all get out.

From there, I headed into the big kitchen to start breakfast. I had a hankering for some apple smoked bacon, no doubt a Freudian impulse from waking to pig sex noises. I opened the walk-in friggie but found no bacon. Bummer. I put water on to heat for coffee and headed out to the road to get the morning newspaper. Squirt and Honor, my usual companions on the daily trek to get the paper, are off to New Mexico with Dixie and Streaker Jones. They left town early this morning after spending the night at Streaker Jones’ place.

When I got to the road I found an empty paper tube and a pile of trash. The pile of trash is one of the many that assholes drop off on country roads with regularity. Ignorant shitwads push their refuse off the tailgate of their pick up trucks when nobody is watching them. When the weather gets cooler I’m going to sit out here with Gram’s twelve gage and wait

When I got back to the house, Gram was up and I told her about the trash. “I’mma blast tha fuckers, Mooner. That’s three times since July fourth.”

I know,” I told her. “We can sit out together when the weather cools.”

After a breakfast of toast and coffee I headed to get ready for the day. I got myself lathered for a shave and leaned in to the mirror to make the first cut with my razor. I always start at my right side burn, just at the middle of my ear. I wear glasses so I have to snuggle up to the mirror to see. When I turned my face to the side to make the first razor swipe, glints of silver sparkled from my nose.

I put the razor down on the side of the sink, and poked my finger to the tip of my nose and pushed it back to expose the inside of my nostrils. “Mother fucker,” it was almost an angry statement. “Would you look at that fucking thing?”

As I’ve matured, except for the hair on my head—all of my gray hairs are bristles, and the gray hairs in my nose, on my eyebrows and ears are like boar bristles. Stiff, straight and strong. A few months ago I pulled one from my nose with pliers and ended up in the emergency room with a bleeder. When I wrote about it here, Squatlo suggested that I get a men’s groomer machine. You know, one of those little battery operated devices to trim unwanted hairs.

I got one. A complete waste. The little motor doesn’t have the power to do anything but hang up when attempting to cut a gray timber from my nose. I bitched some more about the hair as I shaved and I had a brilliant idea. “What if I attach the round nose hair cutter dealie to my electric hair cutter machine?” This was said by me, to me after shaving,as I examined the hair through a magnifying glass held to the mirror.

I managed to duck tape and Super Glue the round, business end of the men’s groomer to the many-amped hair shears. I did a couple test runs on my chest and butt to see how she worked. Like a charm. I cut several 1/16th-of-an-inch pathways through patches of my thick hair.

I cleaned the loose hairs from the little blades of the attachment, leaned in close to the mirror, and attacked the gray hair in my nose. Several times I stuck the blades to the thick, stiff gray hair and several times the blades refused to make contact. I kept at it until I was frustrated—I couldn’t seem to get a good angle using my own big fingers. So I called Mother to come help me.

We discussed plans and decided it best for me to lay on the end of the bed with my face in the morning sunlight that filters into my room. Mother knelt on the floor and my I pried my nostril open so she could put the pedal to the metal. She looked into my nose—her cat-eye glasses perched on the tip of hers.

“I see it, Mooner honey. But are you sure of this? I don’t like the idea of sticking a power tool inside your nose.”

“Oh for shitsakes, Mother. Would you just do it already.”

Mother gave me her look of long-suffering martyrdom, turned on the motor to the shears and moved in to cut the hair. She made a good dozen attempts before she turned the motor off and said, “The shear is vibrating so fast I can’t get a hold on the hair.”

We debated a minute and I had an idea, “OK, leave it off and reach in and get the hair inside the blades. Then turn it on.”

She did. “Alright, son, I’m ready to turn it on so be still.”

“Be still” are words my mother has said to me many times in my life. On many of those occasions, I have ended up damaged in some ways. The worst of that damage was inflicted as I stood on the old peach crate Mother used to fit Sister and me to our reworked, hand-me-down clothes.

The last thing I remember before waking up in the emergency room was the “click” sound the toggle switch on the electric shears makes, and the feeling that someone jammed a pool cue up my nose. I had prior experience with a pool cue shoved up my nose and, I guess, the memory caused me to pass out cold.

The first sound I heard upon regaining consciousness was the irritating voice of old Doctor Ashburn. “Well, well well—if it isn’t Mooner Johnson with another medical emergency come to my loving hands for a cure.” He surveyed my face and added, “This is two nostril problems in a row, Mooner. When did you decide to stop wrecking your pecker and start in on your nose?”

“I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about, old man. Just give what I need to sign to get out of here and I’m gone.”

He laughed a hearty laugh and said, “I’ll turn you loose as soon as I’m sure I got the bleeding stopped. You had a sharp-bladed plastic knob twisted in one of those wires you call nose hairs. Somehow you managed to spin the whole mess up into your sinus cavity under your eye. When I pulled the plastic free—a difficult chore for an old man—the hair came out by the root and started bleeding like a stuck hog.” The he gave me another dose of his hearty laugh.

“I cauterized the bleeder, Mooner, and packed your nose with medicated gauze. Your face is gonna look like you caught a right hook to the nose. Treat this one just like the last one—don’t blow your nose for a week. And for God sakes don’t get it bumped. You’ve got so much scar tissue up there you’ll bleed-out with a pinprick.” More maniacal laughter.

“How in God’s name did you manage to stick that thing way up there?” he asked me.

“American ingenuity,” I answered. I don’t think I whimpered.

“Oh don’t be a crybaby, Mooner. You’ve been way more damaged than this, and often at that.”

I wonder if Thomas Edison or the guy who invented the wheel hurt themselves while inventerating. Inventionizing? I know I suffer the inattention of ADHD, but you would think that a mind sharp enough to invent a balsa wood airplane bomb would be smart enough to remember to place the wings in the “long flight” setting rather than that for “loop-d-loops”.

We set the neighbor’s shake shingle roof on fire, the Holt boys and me. We unwound 2,000 little Black Cat firecrackers and repackaged the gunpowder into a newspaper stick of explosive. We tied a dozen of the fuses together to buy some time, and wrapped the stick tight with electrician’s tape.

The bomb was then strapped to one of those big balsa wood gliders—the bomber model. It had a fat, real-rubber rubber band as an engine. I remember that it took so many turns of the propeller to wind it up that I got cramps in my hand.

Once fully wound, we stood behind the Holt’s house and I held the plane high above my head, knees bent to lower the fuse into Stevie Holt’s reach. He lit that fuse and I gently threw the loaded bomber towards the open field that stretched for miles next to the Holt property.

After a slow start the plane gained speed and altitude and made this giant, lazy loop. It almost cleared the neighbor’s roof to make a second big loop. Almost.

I’m back home from the hospital and sitting with my second Carta Blanca of the day. I’m lonely without the Squirt, for sure, and I’m concerned that I miss the fucking cat as well. Streaker Jones won’t have them back until Sunday and I’m bored without companionship.

And any of you that suffer from the dreaded ADHD can testify to this fact: a bored ADHD sufferer is a dangerous bundle of fuckball. I’ve had to shake-off my thoughts of how to get tomato stains out of underwear the entire time I’ve been writing to you guys. If my miniature pets had been here, I wouldn’t even have tomato-stained underwear.

Ugh. Manana, y’all.

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3 Responses to “I Miss Squirt; Not A Prick Perry Story”

  1. Squatlo says:

    Well, shit, Mooner, I didn’t know you were trying to bush-whack or I never would have suggested a AA battery powered tool for your snoot-roots… Have you considered givin’ it a squirt of Neet or Nair or whatever women smear on their legs to avoid the razor burn? Wait… the word “burn” just reminded me, you have already torn up your nasal cavity at least twice, and your ER doc sounds like a sadistic sumbitch. Nevermind.
    Why don’t you just let ’em grow in your nose and ears, and braid the four of them together when they’re long enough? (I think my math is right… two nostrils, two ears, four strands of cable wire?)

    Anyway, Fuck Rick Perry. And damn y’all for foisting another dolt onto the national stage for us to deal with.

  2. admin says:

    Squat. I’m allergic to debilitories– I break out into the hives. I’m waiting for one of those nanobot dealies to finally solve this problem.

    As for the little prick Rick Perry, the way he tells it God and the rest of America are begging him to fix the country.

    FUCK RICK PERRY!

  3. Buy Supplies says:

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