So. Where to begin? So many things have happened in the week I’ve been gone that I don’t know where to begin. OK, wait, also things happened before I left that I had no time to share with you, and I also have plans for after I’m now returned, and my head is swimming.
That was a redundant statement. More accurately, please allow me to say that my normally-swimming ADHD-addled brain is in further turmoil due to the additional burdens of deciphering the importance of which things to share first, then second and so on, and which events are chaff to be pitched out with the bathwater.
As a writer, the burden of selecting subjects carries as much weight as the accurate telling, which carries the same weight as doing the telling interestingly.
OK, now how fucking confusing was that?
Look, when I left on my trip to Floriduh, the Squirt was dealing with a three-way infection, and not dealing well. Her adorable little tooter, two abscessed teeth and one of her anal glands each contained conflagrations of infectious temperaments. Upon my return, she has made some improvements with the infections but I fear that her personal habits might be in regression. Digression, maybe.
As you know, Squirt requires a twice-daily dosing of antibiotic pill and a similarly-paced swabbing of her sore tooter with a medicated and stringent pad. The pills are no problem as we agreed, together, to encapsulate them in cheese and she would take them. Since I am a lover of all things cheese, my sweet puppy has become likewise enamored with spoiled milk byproducts.
“Yer lucky ya got home on time, Mooner,” the weathered old gasbag I call Gram told me as I walked into the big kitchen at the ranch upon my return last night. “Iffn I had ta make one more trip ta buy stinky cheese fer yer little rat, I’d a bagged and drownt the bunch of ‘em.”
I guess that meant that she was frustrated with the entire menagerie that comprises my animal husbandries, and for some reason my grandmother’s solution for anyone causing her distress is to stuff them into a gunny sack and sink them in the lake. With the water levels of the lake at historic lows, I’ve been worried that evidence of her follow-through on prior threats might be discovered. I’m especially worried about a particular Fuller Brush man, a man who might have saved my life but interfered with my Gram’s plans.
The Fuller Brush man might have saved my life as a young three-year-old boy when my pecker was zipped tight into the bent and rusty zipper of some old coveralls. That story and much more is contained in my recently-published book available in paper form by clicking over there ===}}}}} on the Bloggie Roller where it says, “Full Rising Mooner- Amazon Sales Linkster.” If you’re a Kindle operator, go likewise to the Bloggie Roller over there ====}}}, but you need to click on the next dealie and click, “Full Rising Mooner- Kindle Sales Linkster.”
I’ve been trying to get some fucking body to fix my Store and other crap here to my webber, but everybody is, “Too busy, Mooner,” to help me. If I didn’t know better I’d think the I-net webber-fixer community was conspiring to fuck with me. It seems improbable that sixteen separate computer gurus would make the precise and same three-word response to my request.
Which reminds me. I can’t say who (whom?), but a person visited by me in Floriduh told me this: “Mooner, your writing is way too dense and it is completely over done. You over-modify, over-hyphenate, over-curse, over-pluralize, and overly-repeat yourself. I sometimes have to read a sentence seven or eight times to try to understand what it is you are trying to say, and often I’m still confused.”
What I said in response was, “Too fucking bad.” What I was thinking was, “Well duh, asshole. Join the fucking club.”
Which reminds me of where this particular train jumped the shark. The problematic aspect of the Squirt’s treatments lies in the medicated pad cleansing required on a twice-daily basis. I’m guessing that it burns the little lady’s girl parts. Her words were, “Let me scrub your pecker with coarse grit sandpaper and then stick it in a bottle of alcohol, asshole. Then you can wipe me with those medicated pads.”
I think the miniature puppy overstates somewhat, but I do get her sentiments. So we agreed to allow her to have a quarter-cup of Carta Blanca beer as a bracer for each wiping. That’s a half-cup per day and a considerable dose for ten pounds of puppy meat. This fact forms the basis for what I need to tell you.
My Gram, in her infinite wisdom, decided that it would be far better to keep my little dog stoned on magic mushroom juice than turn her into a beer drunk in the week I was gone. “Little shit’s got a taste fer tha shroomers. Mooner,” were Gram’s precise words. “She does that ‘sit pretty’ dealie ya taught her and begs like a them gypsy girls over to Rome.”
I’m just glad that psilocybin mushrooms aren’t addictive. Habit-forming, yes, but not addictive. I’m trying to decide if the mushrooms are really a problem for the Squirt. She’s far less abrasive and much sweeter when stoned than when drunk.
Anyway, I’m back and I’ll get caught up on shit soon. Herman Cain finally quit his ill-fated run for the Presidency, which makes it four down and six to go in the Republican burn-out contest. The new front runner is the Newbt, the candidate with the most unflattering history of any of them. He’s likely the one with the highest number of active brain cells, but he’s also the largest asshole among them. I was hoping he’d be last in line to move to the head of the line so that the Democratic Party would spend millions to plaster his history on TV.
Now, the other Repubs will crush his balls for us, a less satisfying solution, but satisfying none the less.
Look, I need to go to the cheese store. Squirt has demanded a Stilton of particular branding that is carried by but one place in Austin. Manana, y’all.