Squatlo Shows Ass; Here’s The Unvarnished Truth


So. I feel compelled to rewrite you today due to a series of situations having arisen from several of the predicaments in which I have found myself during the last, let’s call it ten hours. I’ll call it ten hours and not even attempt a closer proximiTY AS I’M TOO FUCKING FRAZZLED TO CATCH myself hitting the “Caps Lock” button on my keyboard. I hate doing that and needing to go back and re-fucking type whole paragraphs in their entireties.

I’m thinking that last paragraph might be a prime example of what that person from Floriduh meant when telling me my prose lacks professionalism of any sort. But who really gives a shit, right? When last I researched the subject, writing was invented as a method of communication first, and foremost. So, as I previously said, and quite eloquently at that, who gives a shit?

Predicament number one. We can’t find the fucking cat. She headed out early this am to go bird hunting and hasn’t been seen since. Normally, not having a fucking cat around isn’t problematic for me, but it’s to be quite cold tonight and Mother has become worried about the little short-haired miscreant we call Honor.

“Mooner, you go out and find that sweet little kitten and you do it now,” were my mother’s words to me. Then she added, “It would be just like you to leave it outside to freeze. You’re not right, son, and you need to spend some time thinking of someone other than your self.” And no, grammar police, I didn’t mean to say “yourself”[.]

I was about to attempt an explanation as to the fact that the fucking cat ran off without any assistance, or counsel, from me, but Mother felt the need to martyrize the situation to fit her needs. “I don’t know how I can face the shame if people find out that you killed that poor kitten.”

Give me a fucking break.

Anyway, that started the shit storm and then I got so frustrated with my attempts to download pictures from my new camera and get them posted here to Loony Land. I had the sharpened machete at my carotid artery (right side) when I thought to enlist the aid of my bloggie buddies to see if they could help. Bob, over to Squatlo, had me email them to him and he sent them back as JPEGS with a note that said, and I’ll quote Bob here, “Pretty simple shit…”

Asshole. Do you see any photos with this posting? Well do you? Simple my rosy-red plucked and dyed to look like Sarah Palin in a blood-colored thong ass.

Then, adding insults to my injuries, he started pimping me about this dealie that happened at his house when I was there to Tennessee for BlogCon2011. “That was the funniest thing that happened the entire time you were here,” are Squatlo’s words in their precisenesses.

Asshole. That wasn’t the funniest thing by maybe a factor of thirty-six. It was funny, and I’m going to tell the story here to insure truthful reporting of the events.

OK. Look, the background you need to know for this story to have any kind of import, is that, and quite simple put, Bob is a bit of a whiner. Not a crybaby snot-nosed whimper shit, but a more sophisticated piss-and-moaner. He’s the type that says, “Are we going to eat anytime soon?” rather than saying he’s hungry. Or he’ll say, “Charmin is really a good value when you consider how few sheets you need,” when what he really wants to say is, “My finger broke through your cheap-assed toilet paper and I got shit under my fingernail.” That kind of stuff, where he whines by trying to not sound like a pussy.

Bear that in mind when I tell you that we were at BJ’s place and it was cool inside and out. BJ and I were remarking as to how we like a house chilly, and we remarked additionally as to how those around us bitched about it. Just as Bob bitches about his house.

“Well, then you should come over to my house because Cindy keeps it so cold that I can’t feel my feet unless I soak them in gasoline and set them on fire. Chez Squatlo is colder than an ice house.”

Knowing that the boy has a way of exaggerating shit, neither BJ nor myself placed much credence in his words. So, we boo-hooed his whiny ass and told him he was e xaggerating.

Next day, a Saturday, we gathered to Squat’s house to watch football, a gathering with no happy football endings. Texas was stomped first, then the Tennessee Vols were stomped more later. Now, I’m not saying it was cold in the house, but it was maybe 50-degrees outside, and we went outside to warm up. BJ and I found every excuse we could to go to the back porch.

“Oh, look,” BJ shouted as he raced to the back door. “It’s a hyperbolated jack bird with purple tufts. And it has blue eyes.”

BJ and Bob both are bird birders. Birdophiles? Each has a backyard built for bird watching and each attracts birds by the thousands. Me, I can take your bird or leave it and wouldn’t know a jack bird from a donut hole, but I beat BJ to the door with, “Incredible. I-i’-vvvve nnn-evver sss-seeen a tufted one yyyy-yet.”

He and I huddled on the back porch, hugging to share warmth. “Jesus, Bob wasn’t kidding about how cold she keeps the place,” BJ told me.

“I agree,” I responded. “I’d suggest maybe that Cindy has the menopause and she should see about some hormones to adjust her internal thermostat, but I’m afraid she’ll break my neck with one of those karate dealies.”

OK, wait. I would likely be able to distinguish between a donut hole and a bird—any fucking bird.

Back inside, Bob took the opportunity to twist our twats and poked fun of us in front of the ever dangerous one. Cindy got up and we thought she was going to flip from AC to heater. That’s when asshole Bob said, “She’s not turning on the heat, she’s getting you pussies some blankets.”

See, I told you he’s an asshole.

Cindy came back and pitched the blankets at us, a tight smile on her lips. “Here, cover yourself with this, Mooner,” BJ told me as he placed a beautiful woven blanket over my lap. As soon as it touched my skin it set my entire body to a glow.

“I’m not using a blanket until you use one first,” this from me as I threw the cover back at him.

We neither gave in and both froze our balls off. My left nipple is still scabbed-over from where it got so cold-engorged that it split like an overripe watermelon. And yes, BJ did offer to burn couch cushions in the fireplace and I did offer an all expenses trip to Iceland for a little heat.

In retrospect, I think it’s only fair that Squattie lives in a meat locker. Asshole.

Now, I’ve got to go look for that fucking cat. Manana, y’all.

Print Friendly

11 Responses to “Squatlo Shows Ass; Here’s The Unvarnished Truth”

  1. Squatlo says:

    For the record, I don’t whine or bitch, I simply point out things others tap dance around, such as “Mooner, you wouldn’t be so damn cold if you’d stop dropping trou every time you think one of BJ’s neighbors is looking this direction!” See? That’s not whining or bitching, that’s just stating facts as I (and everyone in BJ’s neighborhood) saw them. And also for the record (B) I don’t have any problems wiping my ass without getting shit on my fingers. That was a total exaggeration, and uncalled for. Besides, I used the hand towels in BJ’s bathroom closet. Hard to poke a finger through one of those things… Isn’t that what they’re for?

    Folks, these two manly men dogged me like a red-headed step-child for thirty minutes in front of my lovely (and yes, dangerous) wife because I made the comment that she likes to keep the house just slightly warmer than your average morgue slab. They both made a big deal out of saying they preferred a cold house to a hot one, and suggested I could always go “put on more clothes”.

    But when the temp went down the next day and their blood chemistry was sufficiently thinned by copious amounts of Carta Blanca, they sang a different tune in OUR living room. Cindy did indeed go get them both a blankie, and although neither would actually cover up with one, they both sat there and shivered like aspen leaves in the breeze. Considering the noise they’d made the previous evening, I found it amusing as hell.

    Next time I’m getting a video camera set up to record this shit…

  2. admin says:

    Squat. Your revisionist memories are understood yet slightly off kilter. I will, however, admit to the following: Fact 1. We did dog you like a sissy boy when you cntinued to bitch, and bitch and then bitch some more about your wife’s temp needs; Fact 2. We might have gone a little overboard in said dogging, a fact which was rectified upon our fog-breathed apologies in your living room the next day; Fact 3. It was the coldest on-purpose dwelling I’ve ever been in, and I have been in an igloo in Alaska; Fact 4. As manly men and likewise men of strong character, strong wills and excessivly long and strong donky streaks, BJ and I suffered in a mostly silent way while in the clutches of frostbite, and suffer stiull the ill effects of having ice-sludgy blood wreck our organs.

    By the way. My thermostat is on 62 degrees. As the Reckmonster would say, “Bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha!” Hey to Cindy for me.

  3. Apology accepted. And as BJ and his buddies told the guy after they’d rear ended him at an intersection: “Don’t let it happen again.”

  4. melanie says:

    Wow. I actually feel kind of better knowing that I am not the only one that had a craptastic day. Thank you. As for the cat, I would not worry about that. I am going to go with it is not going to be Michigan cold down there tonight, right? My neighbor has aquired a feral cat colony since his wife passed away – it keeps him occupied in between strippers I think – and they do just fine outside all winter. Even on the sub zero nights where there is no cloud cover for insulation from the arctic (and if you travel a couple hours north of where I live you are right in between the equator and the north pole, so yeah, cold. And we have all that lake effect bullshit too.) So if you didn’t find the cat, don’t worry. They have fur (unless it is one of those mutant furless kittys) and that protects them from the elements. And cats are crafty – they will survive. Also, as I said before, it was quite a shitty day, and can I tell you?? This morning, while I was killing time before my appointment, I was reading (and more than one chapter, as I didn’t have to return to work for several hours) and the first half of Chapter 18 was the highlight of my day. What does that say about me?

  5. melanie says:

    Also, I have been at work for an hour and have done nothing but leave you comments.

  6. admin says:

    Squats. Acceptance accepted.

    Mel. As a nurse in a big hospital, I’m certain that you get a belly full of frustrations from assholes jerking you around. The start of Chapter 18 is, therefore and forever here after, dedicated to you. Your appreciation of said Chapter’s beginnings says that you are a sweet and caring woman of womanly virtues. I’ll say it again–if you weren’t already married….

    As for the fucking cat, lost and found and more in today’s postings.

    Mel, Once More. Mel, darling. Put the book on the floor and step away from the book. You have caught something, a terrible something, and you need some rest and icy-cold Carta Blanca beers. Hugs and kisses.

  7. beej says:

    I spent the night in the back of a 5/4 while pulling guard at a firing point at Ft. Swill, OK, in fucking February with nothing but a field jacket and a shelter half. Thoughts of dying ala ‘Hatchet Jack’ kept me awake until I was relieved the next morning. Other than that experience I muchly concur with the “coldest on-purpose dwelling I’ve ever been in” statement and cannot fathom an actual ‘Human Earthling’ being able to survive and propagate under those extremes; though I stop just short of an actual apology, fog-breathed or otherwise. Manly, rugged, individualist, mush-brained types don’t need no stinkin’ Blankees to ward off rigor (regardless of the lingering and ever wersoning after effects) ….. and sissy boys WILL point and snigger at the addle minded when they are overcome with the stupids. So no apology for pokin’ fun atcha, Bob. Ya’ know …. Sure LOOKS chilly and cold OUTSIDE today, what with the icy mixture and SNOW falling …… Sure glad I’m here INSIDE …. where I’m as toasty as a Yule log! How’s the weather over to Squatlo Town? I didn’t mind you using the HAND towels for ASS wiping, Squatty muh friend …. just wish you hadn’t FLUSHED ’em afterward. “Roto-Rooter, That’s The Name! And Away Goes Trouble …. Down The Drain! Roto-Rooter …. Roto-Rooter!”

    BTW …. we didn’t just rearend that dood AT an intersection ….. we knocked that mofo’ completely THROUGH the intersection …… heh

  8. admin says:

    Beej. OK, please allow me to say, “I couldn’t have said it better myself.” Hell, I didn’t say it better. And a thought struck me. I’ll bet Mrs. Squatlo got up for the blankies because THAT’S WHAT SHE USUALLY DOES FOR SQUATTIE!!!

  9. I’ll have you both know I get my blankets when I need them… and usually keep one on the back of the couch for just such emergencies. It’s snowing at the moment here in middle Tennessee, and the damp, wet, cold wind is pushing the temps down outside AND in our living room. But telling you about it might be construed as “whining” to manly men, so I’ll just hunker down under another quilt and sob quietly.

    Is frost on the surface of a hardwood floor normal? Just wonderin’…

  10. BJ, the Hatchet Jack reference was priceless. I immediately forgot the frozen character from Jeremiah Johnson and thought of Jack Nicholson’s frozen character in The Shining, and that’s an epic mash-up of cinema for you to ponder. Think I’ll post some pictures to set the mood here at Chateau Squatlo…

  11. admin says:

    Squats. How much sympathy do you think you can squeeze from this lemon?

Leave a Reply