Fuck Armageddon; Rick Perry Too

 

So. I feel like I’ve been whining and bitching too much, so I might stop. Nobody wants to hear any more of my silly complaints anyway. Like Gram said at breakfast this morning when she said, “Oh who gives a shit, Mooner? Yer problems ain’t mine and ya need ta redo my eggies onna count as ya cooked all tha life out the yellers.”

As do I, my prickly old grandmother likes her eggs just barely over-easy. Turn the sunny yolks pasty and they’re garbage to me. Actually they make pig fodder as Rush Limbaugh likes eggs cooked any whichaway. Which reminds me of the breakfast that BJ cooked for me the morning I left Tennessee to head back home from BlogCon2011.

Sausage, bacon and ham—all three of the porcine varieties—biscuits, and three perfectly-cooked eggies. I remember using my fork to scrape the last of the yolks that had almost dried on my plate. The leftovers were made into pork-stuffed sammies enjoyed by me all the way back to Texas. I spent but a short time with Bill but it was time enough to make a very close friend.

I gave Gram’s over-cooked eggs to my pet pig and went to the friggie to get several more. I dropped the container to the floor and broke them all. “Oh fuck a duck,” was the best I could get out, not a complaint mind you, but an simple explanation of the circumstance.

“You ain’t got no time fer romance, Mooner. Git yer ass to tha neighbor’s an fetch me some more eggies. An get tha turkey from him while yer at it.” We get our eggs from the man next door, and Gram gets a touch cranky without her daily dose. We also buy all of our cooking birds from the same family and he raised a special turkey for us. Great big fucker and mean as my Grandmother. And as stupid as Rick Perry. The Texas governor and not my pet ostrich.

Maybe I should hire a cook to take a few of the pressures off of my back. Cooking for this bunch of family Johnsons and attendant visitors can be taxing.

Maybe I should drown my grandmother and eliminate most of the pressures.

I’m having a book launch party on January the 12th and I’m looking to sponsor a charitable organization while at it. You know, charge a little extra for books sold there and give the profits to the charity. I’m having lunch with the charity of my choice today so they can determine if I’m appropriate for their mission.

Riiiiight.

Maybe I’ll meet some nice people and the lunch won’t be a total waste of efforts. Until there’s a charity based upon the need of ADHD sufferers the inappropriate actions of a their quite befuddled and crazed members, whatinthefuck organization is going to find me appropriate?

But today—I simply don’t give a rotten Republican’ rat’s smelly ass. Fuck problems and fuck all the fuckers that cause them. I’m thinking that the right-wing Christian wackos have finally managed to bring about their sacred fucking Armageddon and I simply refuse to spend the last days in a bad mood.

The fucking Christians have fucked the political scene into such a mess that I think the end of days is nigh upon us. I hope that I’m wrong and their “my way or the highway” method of government is a temporary aberration, and sanity and human kindness and sensibility will soon return to America’s governments.

But just in case, I’m enjoying what time is left. I’m smiling and drinking Carta Blanca beer, eating whateverthefuck I want, and getting myself all the sex I can stand.

So… fuck Armageddon, and the horse he rides in on. Manana, y’all. Oh, yea. And please buy my book. It will help me stay in a good mood.

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2 Responses to “Fuck Armageddon; Rick Perry Too”

  1. Squatlo says:

    People who don’t know the value of a properly prepared fried egg shouldn’t be allowed to vote, have children, or make decisions that affect anyone other than themselves and their house plants. A runny yolk is not only preferred, but required here at Chateau Squatlo. My lovely wife doesn’t fry eggs to suit either of us, so no matter how sweet she might try to be by making biscuits and gravy, bacon, sausage, fried potatoes, or whatever else is on the menu, I’m always the one who has to crack open and fry the eggs. A runny yolk is great, but runny whites aren’t… so there’s a delicate balance in getting it just right.
    A wise man once asked me, “Do you know the difference between a great fried egg and a lousy one?”
    I was pretty sure I could tell the difference, but didn’t know a snappy reply.
    He took that as an invitation to say, “About fifteen seconds…”

  2. admin says:

    Squat. I gues you and BJ attended the same egg cooking class as his were picture perfect. As often I am, I was distracted while cooking Gram’s luscious orbs this am, and slightly over cooked them. My bad, and nad it was.

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