So. I arrived back to the ranch last night after driving straight through from Murfreesboro, Tennessee. I want to tell you all about the entire trip but I’ve got too much jet lag, and too many chores. Everyone was waiting up for me and met me at the back door as I arrived. Everybody except Mother and the Squirt raced to hug me as I got out of the car, and pinned me to the door frame.
By the time I got myself unhinged and standing in my full upright and locked position, I had dog slobber and ostrich tears staining me from head to toe, Rush Limbaugh the pig had his snout rammed up my ass like he was looking for truffles, and my Gram had locked her bony hand around my wrist and was tugging me down to whisper in my ear. Honor the the cat took one whiff of me and started hissing and spitting.
Gram chased the others away and told me, “You done screwed tha poochie, Mooner. Mother’s got her deli-cat feelers all hurt ta beat tha fuckin’ band, that Don Legacy feller’s done escaped out the basement, and yer little dog’s all pissed about something I got no thoughts about. Tread sharply.”
Huh? “Oh, you mean tread lightly, Gram.”
“Who gives a shit, Mooner. You jist watch yersef cause Mother’s got a shoe in ‘er hand.”
My mother often whacked my ass with an old rubber-soled sandal when I was a kid. You have all seen the cheap shoes from old Mexico. A good whacking will leave little crenelated tread marks on your ass. If memory serves me, sandals made from the old Firestone Passenger tires left the most painful marks.
I crossed the gravel to where Mother stood with Squirt. I kissed Mother on the cheek and reached down to pat my little dog’s head. Mother’s back had stiffened as I approached and the fucking dog snarled and snapped at my hand.
“What in the hell is wrong with the two of you?” I asked.
Mother’s answer was to spin on her heal and head inside. Squirt said, “Ek ruik ‘n hond reuk, shithead. Huelo a perfume de la fucking dog.”
“Oh, you smell another dog. I didn’t adopt anyone else, sweetie pie, that’s just BJ’s dog Ruger.”
My sweet puppy looked me up and down several times and then huffed. “You’re still an asshole.”
It’s good to be missed.
OK, look. In the coming days I will tell you all about my remarkable trip. BJ and Squatty and Reckmonster and Q were the best ever hosts and the wives were most tolerant. We had some huge times and made great memories that I want to share with you.
But that rotten fucker Don Legacy has escaped. For the life of me I don’t understand how imaginary people can “escape”[,] but he’s been missing for a week and I think we best corral him before something terrible happens.
I’d drink a Carta Blanca beer but I need to detoxify first. And I’ll need an auger to take a bowel movement. All I ate while gone was pork and pork side orders. Maybe that explains why Rush Limbaugh won’t leave me alone. Pork is his favorite.