Triple-Infection Thanksgiving; Squirt’s Tooter A Mess

 

So. I’m back from my short stint up to Dilly-Assed Dallas and I’ll be here to home for but two days. Then, I’m off to Lakeland, Florida to visit a son and family. I’d tell you about this next trip, but I have promised my kids and their mother (the infamous Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson) that I will forever keep the intimacies of my offsprings’ lives off these pages.

So just know that I will be gone again from Tuesday until Monday a week from now. Enjoy your vacation.

The final hours before leaving for Dallas were problematic. I took Squirt and Yoda with me mostly because the three of us had managed to offend Mother so badly that her martyred deep sighing was physically oppressive. Any of you who has a martyr in the house knows exactly what I’m speaking to. For those of you who do not, imagine the same nerve-grinding noise that emits from the raking of well-manicured fingernails on a big chalkboard, with the added attachments of deeply-sad eyes, and a disappointed countenance aimed directly at you, and your actions.

I wish I knew what my mother actually thinks and believes about the serious aspects of life. Really. I have no fucking idea what her true thoughts or feelings are. Since her only comments on any issue are straight from the Southern Baptist party line and official Baptist fucking Hymn Book, the human who is the actual person I call Mother is a mystery to me.

Take the abortion issue, for an example. Baptists are now saying that life begins when an egg first greets a sperm. Sort of like how I was taught by her at age eleven that if I touched a girl’s tooter or allowed her to touch my pecker, she’d get pregnant and my mother’s life would be ruined. It wasn’t long after that I was raped by my Boy Scout Leader, which caused me to wonder what was going to happen to my mother resultantly. Then a year after my first sex with a man, I did me some touching of the infamous female tooter.

OK, now first, please allow me to say a couple things about having been a child who was raped by a man. There might be no experience that will fuck up a person’s life more than to be raped as a child. I didn’t watch as my family was butchered by the Khmer Rouge, so I have no certainty as to which experience would have more far-reaching importance. But I can truly say that rape was a significant negative factor in my own, quite personal life, and in thinking about this further, I guess maybe the rape was less bad than that Cambodian dealie. I guess that if allowed to choose between getting raped or having my family killed in front of me, I’m choosing rape. I’m speaking of having my ENTIRE family butchered and not several as individuals.

Now, I actually feel grateful for my molestation. Thanksgiving is a very confusing holiday for me.

I touched a girl at age fourteen, and with her permission—actually her encouragement—and then I spent months worrying that my mother would die of a heart attack or some fucking thing. When Mother seemed no worse for the wear, I did me some more tooter touching, again with no visible negative effects to my maternal parental unit.

I am glad that I had no actual sex with Gloria Muckleroy as she would have become my first now ex-wife. Gloria married Walley Smally, and that pair play important roles in my book. Except for the professional ladies I met down to Mexico as a kid, I married the first ten women I intercoursed with. I didn’t actually intercourse with Gloria, so we have no ex attached to our relationship.

Holy shit. My AD and HD have grabbed me by the balls and shaken us silly. I wanted to tell you about the Squirt’s trip to the vet. When I was packing the car to leave Friday morning, she was listless and pissy. “Yo no fucking feel too bueno, Bwana Mooner.”

“Want to go see the doc, sweetie?” I asked her. She could only nod her head.

Anyway, when we got there to the vet’s, he looked her over and then ate my ass out. “Oh for Christ sakes, Mooner. She’s got an infected vulva again, her anal gland on the right side is impacted and she’s got two abscessed teeth.”

He left the examining room and quickly returned with a bottle of pills. “Give her one of these twice-a-day, wash her vulva with the medicated pads the receptionist will give you, and schedule her for a teeth cleaning in a few weeks. You disgust me, Mooner. Listen to your pets when they tell you they are in pain.”

Why was he eating my ass out? “Why are you eating my ass out? I asked her if anything was bothering her and her only answer was to say, ‘Just you.’ How am I supposed to translate that into a three-way infection?”

He shook his head and sighed deeply at me as he left the exam room again. Maybe he has a touch of Mother’s martyr shit.

The pill part of Squirt’s medical regimen is easy. “Put it in queso, unt Um take it, Asshole,” were my specific instructions from the furry flower known as Squirt.

Washing a sore tooter—not so easy.

“I’ll tell Yoda to piss in all your shoes if you even come near me with those fucking medicated pads again,” were my sweet puppy’s actual words.

I put all my footwear on the top shelf of the closet and got out a fresh cleansing pad. I then spent an hour chasing her ass around the house as we each hurled curses and other invectives at-will. “Come here so I can do this, you little shit bird,” was likely the nicest thing I said for sixty minutes.

“Comer mierda y morir, asswipe,” were likely the kindest insults hurled at me by my dog. Telling me to eat shit and die might be her favored method to tell me “No”[.]

The final compromise was for me to give her a quarter-cup of Carta Blanca beer before each tooter cleaning, so I loaded an extra sixer into the cooler and we finally headed out to Dallas. Finally.

The goofy thing we call Yoda thought and thinks the Squirt’s medical issues as an adventure. His Whippet blood allowed him to bounce around like a gazelle as Squirt and I ran around knocking shit over. The Chihuahua blood he carries caused him to curse at me in concert with the other half-Chihuahua that infects my life.

Anyway, the three infections are in-treatment, and I’m now growing concerned that I’ll need assistance breaking Squirt’s half-cup-a-day drinking habit. My actual concern is that I’ll be required to deal with Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson for the alcohol rehab treatment, and NOT turning her former puppy into an addict was one of the conditions of the trade that makes her my puppy.

Ugh.

Anyway, Brandon over to Lost In Idaho, a funny and interesting man in his own right, has done a review after actually reading my entire book. He’s the Lost In Idaho over there to my Bloggie Roller, over there ===}}} to your right. Since the book review won’t be the first thing to pop up, take some time to read and comment on his site. It’s worth it.

It’s now time for the second cheese-covered pill and medicated pad tooter washing. Have I ever told you how adorable Squirt’s tooter is? For awhile I was worried I might have something wrong with me for finding it endearing. But quite frankly, I really don’t give a shit. Manana, y’all.

Print Friendly

7 Responses to “Triple-Infection Thanksgiving; Squirt’s Tooter A Mess”

  1. Squatlo says:

    Tooter wiping and flossing your dog’s teeth qualifies you for another vacation, Don. Take your time, and try to come back rested.

    My mom was Catholic and had mastered the guilt trip we had to pack for as children in our house. I was never told that touching a girl’s tooter might make her life miserable, but I was damn sure reminded that I was making her miserable nontheless.
    Are you over your blogcon trip yet? Swear to Zeus, we’re still reeling up here. I haven’t spoken to BJ, but damned if I feel like cracking a beer right now. Three straight weeks of blowing it out has about depleted my “give a shit” factor, big time.

    Hope your dog feels better.

  2. melanie says:

    That sounds like a whole month’s worth of activity in not a very long time!

    I downloaded the book and started reading it – the people in the lounge at work were giving me looks as I laughed aloud. (Yes, I LOLed).

    Have a safe Florida trip – and know that you are more than welcome to bitch and moan while leaving me comments – especially when I am complaining about negative influences in my life (which is a lot).

    AND I promise to find you that recipe you are looking for, after the cookie extravaganza is over. Deal? Cool.

  3. admin says:

    Squat. OK, first, Catholics might have invented the whole martyr dealie, so we are simpatico therein. Second, I always feel like cracking a beer. As for the fucking dog, she will heal better than she heels.

    Mel. If I weren’t already semi-engaged, and you not married, I think I would be in your pursuit. You remind me of an old Marx Brothers skit called “I knew you were coming so I baked you a cake”[.] I’m glad you like the book and if you will email me your address, I have a little sumthin-sumthin for you. I owe the same to Chris In Phoenix, so tell the hubby to settle down.

  4. Mooner, only YOU would find Squirt’s tooter “endearing.” You’re a hot mess! And I totally endorse your (would-be) pursuit of Mel – it shows you have good taste: another Michigan gal! Have a groovy time in FL with the family!

  5. admin says:

    Reck. To fully appreciate the Squirt’s tooter, you’d need to actually see the adorable rosebud of puppy sex as it sits nestled…. OK, stop the presses. I think I’m in need of a special psycho therapy session. As for Mel, she’s a keeper.

  6. Squatlo says:

    Mooner, if you don’t stop going on and on about Squirt’s tooter, you’re going to mess up a cameltoe dream and offend Chelsea Handler…

  7. bj says:

    Sounds like Yoda is finally beginning to fit right in over there to Tha’ Ranch. Don’t it GOOD when a rescued critter starts makin’ theyselfs, and actually FEELIN’ like they IS … To Home? Careful onyer way to and frum Floridia … and Ya’ know … If you do it right …. Tennessee is twixt Tha’ Ranch … and Floridia. C’mon by …. bring oranges

Leave a Reply