Johnsons Form A Pack; Pact Comes Next

 

So. There’s a sense of quiet here to the Johnson family ranch, a quiet that I’m starting to find unsettling. Until this week, my life was filled with the calming charms of bitchy women—the whining and complainings typical of a house full of women who know each other only too well.

When I made it to the kitchen to start breakfast at 6 am this morning, I walked into a scene from Betty Crocker’s test kitchens. It was like a TV crew’s arrival was expected to film the perfect breakfast as cooked by a half-dozen mature women. Save for Gram, each was in nice slacks and blouses and was well accessorized, each was in full makeup and each was working merrily. Harmoniously even, and maybe the right word back there would be “accessorated”[.] Maybe they had rings, bracelets, earrings, belts, scarves and other adornments and they were well accessorated.

Mother was at the sink washing pots and pans from whatever it was the others were cooking. She was humming the Baptist hymnal ditty “Love Lifted Me” and was singing the words each time she got to the “love lifted me” parts. I smelled cinnamon and Penelope Paxton-Parades was peeking in the oven, so I figured P-cubed was baking her special rolls, and hers are the best I ever had. Aunt Hilda was at the cook top putting a sweat on some veggies for an omelet, Gnat was beside her frying bacon and sausage. Gram and SAC Ellen were sitting at the big table—the SACster reading the slug of emails she’d already gotten on her laptop—and Gram was watching over the entire operation with a stern appraisal.

Gram and Ellen both had mugs of coffee and I took a sip of Ellen’s. “Ick, that’s pussy coffee. That tastes like old dishwater.”

My comment got me nothing but the sideways glance law enforcement officials learn to give offending perpetrators. “No problem,” I responded to the glance, “I know how to fix my own.”

I put the three heaping tablespoons of ground coffee bean powder into the single-cup filter system I use to make my own coffee, and pored hot water over that. As the liquid dripped through the filter into my cup I became mesmerized with the sound. It was the sound of a thing stream of liquid spilling into a small pond of liquid. You guys all know that sound, right.

It was also the sound made when Yoda pees after waiting six hours and isn’t peeing outside on the grass. “Hey everyone. Good morning to each of you, and thanks for fixing me this terrific breakfast. I feel like the king of my realm.”

“Ain’t fer you, ya little shitball,” Gram informed me. “This herd a ninnies thinks they can cook their way inta Davy’s pants. Harumph.”

Why was I so slow to catch on, and why was SAC Ellen in here with the others?

“We’re just glad to have a man around the house again, Gram, a man with manners and grace.” These words from my mother were said without a pause to the hymn humming. The only change in the humming was that it got louder after she spoke.

A man not me would take offense at Mother’s obvious slam on me with the “man-in-the-house-with-manners-and-grace” comment, but not me. I’m used to my mother’s distaste for all things me, and her tacky attempts to put me down.

“Maybe, said man can write me a check for the extra groceries and feminine hygiene products I’ve had to purchase this week. You crazy old broads are going to bankrupt me trying to get laid by a man I’m supporting. Why don’t we do a fucking lottery for Mr. Dave’s servicings and get my household back to normal.”

“I’ll take seconds on that one, Mooner. They’s all acting like school monkeys.”

I love how my grandmother fractures every tenet of grammar and prose. I could tell that Gram was getting cranky from all the harmony in the house. “Look,” I said, “you ladies need to not make this a competition or else this place is going to become a cat fight pit. I will not allow you to ruin Christmas with your fighting over a pecker.”

“Butcher Einstein Johnson!” Mother was raising her voice at me. “You go stick the Ivory soap in your mouth, and right… damned… now!”

“Oh pull tha stick out yer ass, Mother. Mooner’s right out about this. You girls are gonna fuck this dealie up fer all a us iffn ya don’t quit this shit.” Gram usually sees things my way.

Whoa, Nellie, and hold the horses. Let me pull the plug on this right here. I have been trying for three days to tell you about the new training methods we are employing to house train Yoda. He and the Squirt watched a program on the Animal Channel Monday and were impressed with much they saw. It was all about canines and their territorial pack mentality—how they organize their entire lives based on marked territories.

We three discussed it Monday at bedtime and it was decided that Yoda and I, as Alpha Males One and Two of our pack, would mark the ranch as our pack’s territory. This is a multi-step process that involves: 1. Pissing all over the place to mark our territory; 2. Forcing any interlopers away with extreme aggressiveness; and, 3. Sexing all the bitches we can find—me first and Yoda sloppy seconds.

I get to go first with the bitches as I would be Alpha Male Numero Uno. I would also happen to be the only un-neutered Alpha male in our pack. Not-neutered? But, we decided we wouldn’t worry about the bitches in Part 3. since Mr. Dave seems to have our bitches under control.

The Squirt’s takes on all of this are interesting. As a spayed and neutered female, and the Alpha Bitch of our pack, she has explained to Yoda and I both that our sexual advances are unwelcome. Not a problem for me but Yoda’s feelings are quite hurt. Her ideas about Mr. Dave caught me by surprise when she said, “Maybe I’ll see what all the fuss is about.”

Then there’s her observations as to Yoda’s total lack of sexing skills and knowledge. When I told her to not worry, she told me, “OK, big boy, show him how it’s done.”

Part 3. aside, parts 1. and 2. are going well but with mixed anticipations. Yoda and I have pissed on maybe the first hundred yards of the north property line, the shortest side of our 3,000 acres. I estimate that it will take five weeks for us to mark the entire thing, and I’ve scheduled that. As for the interloper dealie, we’ve managed to harass a couple armadillos, a raccoon, some snakes and lizards, and we chased a turtle off the dock. Yoda is cute as a button when he arfs and growls with his damaged voice box voice.

Our only failure was with the skunk that was sniffing around the tool shed out to the big garden. We discussed it and decided no harm/no foul, and let the skunk live. When Yoda and I returned to clean up after encountering the skunk, Squirt said, “ Tenemos que el nombre de nuestro paquete de, Bwana Mooner. I suggest ‘The Texas Stink Pack.’”

“Very funny, little lady, and we do need to name our pack.” She does have quite a sharp wit, our Miss Squirt.

We’re test driving a few names for our pack. “Terrier Terrors of Texas” and “Two Ten Pound Terrors and One Old Fart” are most favored. I made the mistake of telling the dogs that they could choose the name.

Honor, the fucking cat, does nothing to participate in these festivities save eying (eyeing?) us with a cat’s amusements. She feels no compulsions to join our dog pack nor does she want us to form a cat pack. Would it be a cat pack? Herd of cats, or a clutch? I don’t really give a shit if Honor doesn’t want one, whatever it’s name.

Anyway, before my ADHD takes us off-planet, let me say that I’m headed out for errands and the most important is to stock up on Carta Blanca beer for the weekend. Manana, y’all.

Print Friendly

11 Responses to “Johnsons Form A Pack; Pact Comes Next”

  1. admin says:

    My buddy Squatlo had trouble posting the following comment:

    I’ve tried to leave the following comment on your latest post, but for whatever reason, it won’t accept my comment. Keeps sending me to an error page. So here. Damned if I’m going to keep hitting “publish” or “comment” or whatever it is if it’s going to keep pushing me away from the velvet rope like I’m not invited…

    Just peeing on your ten thousand acre ranch must take gallons of Carta Blanca for catalyst. Be careful you don’t end up impaled on a cactus or something out there staggering around with a buzz and your pecker hanging out in the wind… I, for one, don’t want to read the account of THAT disaster.
    Christmas is right around the corner, so we’ll be departing for east Tenn on Saturday, prepared for the grind of joyous family togetherness. We only do this shit once a year, so I can deal with it. My lovely (and dangerous) wife, on the other hand, enjoys my discomfort around such gatherings almost as much as she enjoys freezing the cods off of my friends when they come to visit. She’ll watch me for that first eye-rolling sigh of frustration, then announce to everyone that I’m being a poop. Hilarity will ensue.
    Sounds like you have things under control, Mooner. You know THAT can never last.

    gotta go… things to see, people to do…

    Now I’m pushing the button…

  2. admin says:

    Squat (by way of me). It went straight through for me, so it must be you who is all fucked up. Have fun and pass good tidings of comfort and joy.

    Oh, wait a minute. Comfort is an alien concept at your place. So, joy to you and yours.

  3. chrisinphx says:

    cat groups are prides I think. And if we’ve learned nothing from Snoop Dogg its that a group of ladies is called a gaggle of hos. Fo shizzle and fuck rick perry

  4. admin says:

    Chris. Well said, M’Lady. Well fucking said.

  5. melanie says:

    i dunno…maybe this is the tired in me talking, but there is no way in hell i am getting up that early and grooming myself from some dude. i don’t care how big his dick is.

  6. chrisinphx says:

    Not just grooming Mel, but cooking as well!
    If the dick is there for breakfast, Im sure it will still be around for a late brunch!

  7. admin says:

    Mel and Chris. You each and both seem to share my sentiments. But Johnson women come from randy stock. That, and you’ve never had breakfast out to our place.

  8. squatlo says:

    Testicle, testicle, left right…

  9. squatlo says:

    Well, Mooner, it looks as if the gremlins have left your comments, ’cause I’m allowed to post again.

    What a relief. For a minute I thought I was gonna have to drive to Texas just to be heard.

  10. admin says:

    Squat. Glad it’s fixed. I would love to take credit, but I did nothing save curse at my computer. As the Adminstrator for this fucking thing, it lets me say fuck and shit and bitch an hardon, but won’t let me use the word “nude”[.]

    I can’t fihure this shit out, and now I realize that I will be required to solve a CAPCHA mystery to post this because I said nude.

    Ugh.

  11. admin says:

    Squat. Yeppers, I had to type “cog ffcall” and wait thirty seconds. Somewhere there’s a pencil-necked little computer geek who is laughing his ass off. Part of me wants to choke the life out of him and the other half wants to buy him a beer.

Leave a Reply