Camel Toes Give Mooner Woes; Buy Mooner’s Book

 

So. My webber and bloggie sites are running amok, again. I guess I just need to get used to these periodic interruptions. I should swallow the lump of bile stuck in my throat, take a mood stabilizer and get over it. I should be an adult and admit that this shit just happens, get it fixed and move on with my life. Every obstacle in life doesn’t require full Mooner meltdown. I need to accept these website problems as a part of successful bloggerating on the I-net.

Instead, I want to smash my computer, kick the fucking cat, and set my hair on fire.

I might actually kick the fucking cat. As you all well know, I have been working with the dogs to get them on a later morning breakfast schedule. I have been negotiating with Yoda and the Squirt for a week, and last night we reached an agreement. I sent Jeff the basic terms for him to draft into a contract. Jeff is my attorney for all of my “legal” activities.

Basically, in return for them eating breakfast at a time of my choosing—but under no circumstances at any time later than 9 am Central time—I agree to do whatever the dogs want to do one day each week. I was wary about this agreement at first but now I see it as win-win-chicken-chins.

We agreed to these terms, shook hands and slapped backs all around, and I even popped a bottle of bubbly. We each drank a toast and then gave the bottle of silly wine to Gram and Aunt Hilda. Gram brought home two young cowboys from the Broken Spoke night-before-last, and the girls were still riding the trail last evening. I’m not crazy about champagne, but I am crazy enough to aid my randy old grandmother with her conquests.

Anyway, as I lay my head on my pillow last night, the dogs settled into their regular spots and I said to them, I said, “OK, guys. I’ll agree to get up at 6:30 today and you agree to let me sleep.”

“No problemo, Bwana Mooner. No problemo at all,” Squirt replied.

I reached up to scratch the cat before drifting off, but she wasn’t there. I realized I hadn’t seen her since after we reached our landmark agreement earlier. But Honor is after all, a cat, so I didn’t worry. I went to sleep.

Am I the only person in the world who has camel toe dreams? Really? I was having another of my celebrity camel toe dreams where I’m the judge of a contest. In this one, the ladies were competing for “Best in Show” ribbons and the theme was “Walt Disney Cartoon Characters”[.] Queen Elizabeth had her pocket meat dressed like Cinderella, a classic preparation if ever I saw one. In homage to her loyal subjects, the Queenster had Cindy dressed as she was in the Disney movie when she was on hands and knees before the fireplace and scrubbing the floor.

Chelsea Handler was a big disappointment this dream. She chose Dumpy the dwarf and it was poorly done at that. Wait, maybe it was Dopey the dwarf. Marcus Bachmann was stellar, as always, with his Daisey Duck. It was really cute the way he could make Donald Duck’s girlfriend wiggle her tail, just like in the cartoon.

And Michele Bachmann was a mess, and a consternation as well. When she unveiled to the audience, her Mickey Mouse camel toe looked like a big, bloody rat. I got closer, as judges do, to get a better look.

“Ick,” my first impulse. “That is disgusting. And what is that smell?”

I stuck my nose to the rat-camel to take a bigger whiff… And I awakened to find myself eye-to-eye with an actual bloody rat. The rat sat on my chin and the fucking cat sat on my chest. The rat was fresh kill, a detail I gathered from its still-glistening eyes, but it stunk anyway. All rats stink.

“Get this thing off of me, Honor, and right now!”

She did, reluctantly, but only to lay it beside my pillow. “Oh for shitsakes, take it outside.”

She didn’t. Wouldn’t. I looked at the clock—it read 5:02 am. Squirt and Yoda started giggling, and the cat got this shit-eating grin to her face.

“Son… of… a… BITCH!” I looked at each of them individually.

“Oh, now I get it. You think I need to negotiate with you now, right?”

“Cheh, cheh, cheh,” was the fucking cat’s answer. I’d never heard a cat laugh before, and that’s my best spelling of the noise.

The rat is still on the bed, and I’m not moving it. And I am definitely NOT negotiating with a fucking cat that I didn’t even want.

Any of you guys need a cat?

Manana.

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