Erectile Enigmas; Mooner’s Book On Sale

 

So. After spending most of this week checking BJ’s site at the Dumb Perignon and cussing him for going silent, I remembered that he was heading off to Carolina to see his folks for T’giving. Add to that confusion the fact that I need to make an effort to maintain my editorial accuracies, so allow me to say that BJ’s site is now called Un-Original Thoughts—a second misnomeration in, and of, itself—but one of BJ’s making and not my own.

OK, stop the presses. Am I the only one who has no fucking idea what I just said? Since promising to not lodge another complaint until after the holiday passes, my ADHD-possessed brain can think of nothing but my complaints. Like when we’re driving down the highway approaching a bad accident and I tell the Squirt to turn her eyes away. Blood and gore make her weak at the knees and usually causes her to puke her little guts out.

Since these events are happening in my car or truck, or on rare occasions inside the little hot-red Ferrari Streaker Jones gifted to my Gram, convincing the mini puppy to turn her head has values—both social and practical.

Yet alike me promising to not bitch or whine is first cousins with telling Squirt to not look, each is difficult to practice. The only real difference is that I don’t usually puke when I bitch and complain.

So, I’ll not whine about stepping my bare foot into a steaming and sticky pile of dog turd at five this morning when I got up to feed both the innocent and guilty dogs. Squirt has the bathroom habits of a lady of the court. Always timely, always in the proper place, and done as daintily as if she were on camera.

Yoda, on the other and off-hand, has the bathroom manners of a fucking dog. He’s nearly house trained but still has “mistakes” wherein he leaves loaves of used dog food in all the wrong places. The Squirt tells me that he chooses his spots carefully so that I can find them before Gram does. Me, I think he chooses his spots with the same care and thoughtfulness as the Viet Cong placed trip wires in the Delta forests back to the 1960’s and 70’s.

Why would anybody cross breed a Whippet with a Chihuahua? Wait, let’s back up. Why would anybody breed a Whippet with anything but extinction in mind? Have you ever been around a Whippet? Imagine an over-wound fifteen-pound rubber band toy with a fresh lobotomy.

On the sexing front, I’m finding myself lucky that I like myself. SAC Ellen is traveling so much that I never see her, and the only time she was here overnight she fell asleep on me. We had a nice dinner—I fixed her favorite pasta dish, a smoked paprika hand-made noodle with under-cooked tomato sauce—and after relaxing with a glass of Sambuca, we retired to the boudoir.

She sexily undressed and lay on the bed, and I went to the bathroom to brush my teeth. I returned to the not-so-gently snoring Special Agent for Homeland Security. As horny as I was, I revisited the bathroom and my bar of Ivory soap rather than risk startling her awake.

Why didn’t I awaken her? Mooner’s first rule for dating an armed and dangerous woman: “If your lady sleeps with a loaded gun under her pillow…”

Like I say, I’m glad I like my own company. Then there would be all of the silliness surrounding my book. I had lunch yesterday with the man from the literary charity that I want to sponsor with both a book launch party, and also from whatever profits the stupid book might generate. That went quite well if I say so myself. But after lunch I started thing about timing and accuracies of statement.

The book has been on the shelves and for sale for ten days, but the book launch isn’t until January 12th, two month’s later. How can you launch an already-sailed vessel? This seems an inconsistency that promises to sink my Good Ship Honesty. Rip the sails from my mighty mast. It’s like Christening the Titanic two months after it set sail for America.

OK, wait a minute. A post-sailing Christening would have saved the Titanic, so maybe this is a good sign for my silly book.

Why do I suddenly have an erection?

Ugh. I need a Carta Blanca beer and some time alone. Manana, y’all.

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4 Responses to “Erectile Enigmas; Mooner’s Book On Sale”

  1. chrisinphx says:

    HA! That is the best damn discription of a Whippet I’ve ever read.

  2. Squatlo says:

    I started to correct your BJ linkage, but you got the name right eventually. Takes you a while, but you always seems to get where you’re headed. Like some of my stories (especially when I’m stoned) they tend to weave a tangled path to the promised land.
    You need to pay a visit to my place when you have time for a sad story of Christians behaving poorly. You seem to love those kinds of tales, and we’ve got a good’n going on here in the neighborhood.

    Gotta go. My kids are coming in from Kentucky and Virginia to spend the hollerdaze with us, and we have a ham and turkey to cook. I made pies yesterday and botched them to the point where my lovely (and increasingly impatient) wife just left to run errands, but only after she said, “Promise me you won’t try to cook anything ’til I get home!”
    I called her on her cell a few minutes ago and got permission to make toast for a sandwich. She used to think I was funny…

  3. bj says:

    “Loaves Of Used Dog Food” …. Now THAT’S some funny Shit!! Don’t suffer from Pre-Traumatic Stress Syndrome BEFORE yer book’s Grand Launching Wah-Lah …. kick back with an icy cold Carta Blanca … and smile yer blues away….. BTW …. WE like yer “own company” too …..

  4. admin says:

    Chris. One of those “need to be there” kind of dealies. Dynamo comes up short when describing the energy levels. Dumb as a brick understates matters as well. At least he’s cute.

    Squat. I’m guessing you used to be funny and I used to have a six-pack of abs. I’ll check in after dinner and chores to see what’s up in Hooterville.

    BJ. I guess I did post my pre-stressed syndromes at that. I’m not only kicking back with an icy cold Carta Blanca, I’m likewise laying some flame to a touch of one-toke wonderment. Then, I’m starting work on the dressing. Mooner Johnson’s the name and dressing’s my game. And here’s my extra super secret to great cornbread dressing. Add just a hint of curry powder to whateverinthefuck herbs and spices you normally use. Punjab style curry is my fav.

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