Limburger Limbo; Cut The Cheese And Save The Matches

 

So. I’m all bollixed-up this morning. My ADHD is in full lock-down and has my mind so fritzed I’ve got brainwaves shooting out my ears. Until an hour ago I had been constipated for almost a week from eating too much Limburger—that’s the very ripe and stinky German cheese that makes blue cheese hold its nose. Constipation makes me fart, and I farted Limburger gas in Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson’s office yesterday during my therapy session, an event that resulted in more than $20,000 in damages.

As well, I’m going especially nuts with Texas governor Rick (middle name “Devious”) Perry. I keep asking myself how in the world can an ignorant liar go so far in politics. The answer, so cogent and pure in it’s simplicity, is that conservative Christians are really stupid.

There, I said it. I have tried to not say it, but it is now fully said. And I meant what I said. Rick Perry’s voter base is stupid, and getting stupider (stupid-more?) by every day. Little Ricky has this plan to dumb-down public education systems which will further dumb-down the populace. See, it is only with a dumber population that he can attract all of those companies and their minimum-wage jobs.

Wake up America. Wake the fuck up.

I was taking a shower last night before bedtime and since it was Tuesday, I had Honor the cat and Squirt with me in the big tile shower in my bathroom. Tuesday is pet bath day at my house and my little cat and dog like to bathe with me. I had already hosed-down my gay pig and ostrich before dinner. The dog and cat helped wash Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry the ostrich out on the small patch of grass lawn I grow.

It’s so fucking hot that we have started taking our showers before bedtime, so as I was saying, my little dog and cat were in the big shower stall with me…

OK, wait. Truth and full disclosure require me to say, “My almost-my dog and soon-to-not-be my cat and I were in the shower.” The Squirt is technically Dr. Sam’s puppy and the cat is the trade bait for the dog. I’m required to fully train the cat before the trade can be completed. Like one of those “and a player to be named later” deals that are dependent upon a medical examination.

Anyway, the three of us are in the shower with my “Best of The Doors” album blasting on the Bose outdoor speakers in the bathroom. I love to play music and sing when I shower, and it turns out that Honor is a Doors fan. I was lathering the girls with a new bar of Ivory soap I had just unwrapped from its tight, waxy packaging. I love Ivory soap.

Fuck and wait, again—background alert! I had accidentally farted at the dinner table last night—a little thing but deadly just the same. Gram said to me, she said, “Iffn you fart at tha table agin, Mooner, I’mma blast yer ass.”

I explained my constipation dealie with the Limburger cheese farts, and wrecking Dr. Sam’s office, and how I evacuated the produce department in the Whole Foods store over to the Arboretum. She gave me a little tincture bottle of hallucinogenic potion whose label read “Moo Goo, Shoo Yer Poo- a laxative.”

“Huh?” I must have said aloud.

“That one’s got ginger an five spice in it,” Gram offered as an explanation. “It’ll clean ya out by mornin’.”

Meanwhile in the shower last night, I was lathering the girls with Ivory soap because, quite simply, their lack of opposing thumbs makes self-lathering a difficult task. I like doing it anyway and we make it a game. I make Ivory soap lather beards and dresses and big pointy ears on them and we role play stupid shit while we wash. Last night the Doors were singing, “LA Woman,” so the two of them were doing the “Ho strut” as they rinsed themselves under the shower spray.

They were an absolute hoot and I was laughing my ass off. I started soaping my butt to finish my shower and I farted on the Ivory soap. The brand new and nearly-pure bar almost melted in my hand. It looked like one of Salvador Dali’s melting clocks. The cat gagged and puked-up a hair ball and the Squirt was rolling on the shower floor like a dog, trying to get the stink off.

As soon as Squirt could catch her breath she said, “Santa puta mierda, Mooner. Was kroch in den Arsch und died?” The diminutive dog shook her head to clear ir and squeeked, “Holy fucking shit!”

“Yea,” I answered, “Holy fucking shit is right, and it’s Limburger cheese that crawled up my ass and died. That’s what the potion Gram gave me is going to cure.”

We all started laughing again and got out of the shower to towel dry. It’s fun for me to dry the little guys as it reminds me of when I used to shower with my two human boy children, a memory that’s bitter-sweet. And then the Doors started singing “Riders In The Storm” and I lost it—I began boo-hooing like a baby.

I’m finding myself tearing and snot-snuffling with the strangest stimuli lately. My psycho therapist says I’m under a lot of pressure these days. She suggests that I’m way much too much invested in my attempt to FUCK RICK PERRY!

Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson tells me that I’m just one man, and a totally inappropriate crazy redneck fuckball man at that. “It’s not about you, Mooner,” she likes to say, “Texas governor Rick Perry isn’t going to be influenced by your lunatic rantings.”

“I’m not trying to change that little Nazi fuck’s behaviors, Sammy. I’m trying to expose him for what he is.”

“America, Mooner, is messed up these days,” she told me. “Our moral compass is broken and people have confused religious ideology for morality.”

“That might be the smartest thing I’ve heard you say in thirty years of therapy, Sammie.”

She thanked me for the praise and told me my time was up.

Anyway, I get weepy because I’m stressed over politics and I shit my brains out awhile ago. I’m hoping they’ll let me back in over to Whole foods so I can buy some of the organic grapefruit they have on sale.

Ugh. Now I’m getting weepy over organic grapefruit and thinking that I need a Carta Blanca beer. I am a seriously disturbed man. So FUCK RICK PERRY anyway, and I’ll see you manana, y’all.

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5 Responses to “Limburger Limbo; Cut The Cheese And Save The Matches”

  1. Squatlo says:

    Mooner, I don’t have anything clever to say about your cheese farts (other than this: no one in Texas will notice an air pollution problem, so crank ’em out whenever you’re outside the walls of your compound) BUT, your Salvidore Dali line reminded me that my lovely daughter had sent me $300 to re-purchase a Dali print (signed and numbered) from her ex-boyfriend’s best friend, and I forgot to call the guy yesterday to set up the swap.

    Funny thing about kids, even when they’re adults you still get panicked calls with lots of unnecessary emotion imploring you to do things you really don’t want to fuck with, and you do them anyway because, well, they’re your kids. So I have to meet up with some douchebag who somehow managed to buy this Dali print from my destitute daughter for $300 and convince him to sell it back to her ass for the same price… even though a signed and number Dali print is probably worth ten times that much if it’s worth a nickel.

    And what does this have to do with Rick Perry? Nothing. Which brings me to another point. And as soon as I remember that point I’ll write another comment.

    I really shouldn’t drink Carta Blanca beer. I function so much better when I can tie my own shoes.

    Fuck Rick Perry, too.

  2. admin says:

    Squat. Good thing you didn’t have anything to say–my comments dealie cuts you off at 10,000 words.

    Dali is my favorite. In the old Picasso or Dali debate I always take Dali. His paintings often reflect a snapshot of my brainwaves.

    As for farting outside, it’s so fucking hot I’m afraid to fart outdoors. Spontaneous combustion is one of Nature’s most dangerous phenomonom. I can never spell that one right.

  3. Sherry says:

    Mooner,

    This is now Aug. 6. Did your Granny’s potion do you in?

    Ummm, not to sound blasphemous or anything. Are you sure those farts were cheesy and not Carta Blanca laden?

    Jussayin’

    Phuck Rick Perry!

  4. The visual picture of the three of you in the shower and the girls keeling over after your ass blast made me giggle out loud with your vivid description! That right there was some funny shit, Mooner…even if it did kind of give me a gross taste in my mouth!

  5. admin says:

    Sherry. OK, first, Gram’s potions are clockwork. She said twelve hours and it was, precisely, elven-hours-fourty-nine-minutes.

    Second, Carta Blanca is not a fart-inducing beer.

    Reck. Hi, again, baby. Giggles is my middle name. Icy-cold Carta Blanca beer will make your mouth fresg and clean.

    FUCK RICK PERRY!

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