Not Mayonaise, Dumass- Maliase

 

So. It’s Monday. I’m looking at today as a new beginning of sorts, and I’ve promised myself that I won’t get out of sorts with political or religious assholes for the entire week. I promised myself I’d let dummies be dumb and stupid say as stupid does.

OK, I’ve started the week not breaking my promise but with a lie. I didn’t promise myself I’d maintain composure in relation to the incorrectness that is the Republican Party, I made said promise to the Squirt.

“You’re out of fucking control, Monsieur Mooner. You are ranting and raving like the lunatic who gets himself locked away over at Shoal Creek Mental Hospital,” Squirt told me while we were fishing.

Those of you who have read my book, Full Rising Mooner—available on Amazon or Kindle with a simple clicking over there ===}}} to the Bloggie Roller—already know about Shoal Creek Loony Bin. Those readers know how much I hate that hellhole. Fuck the rest of you, you can use your imaginations. Unless, of course, you have the book but have not as yet reached the Shoal Creek Mental parts, in which case you don’t need to be fucked at this time.

The reason I was ranting while fishing is Rick “Super-Prick” Santoria. That shitwad had the gall to actually say that he doesn’t want church and state separated. He wants to conjoin them in accordance to his personal religious beliefs. For the life of me I can’t see how these assholes are finding enough support for getting elected to anyfuckingthing. What woman in her right mind would vote for this prick?

I guess the short answer is brain-dead or frightened women. Like Sarah Palin in the first sense and my very own mother in the second. Sarah and her twin-separated-at-birth, Michele Bachmann, are obviously dumb enough to give a guy like the Voodoo Prince control of their lives. Sarah still thinks Moose hunting should be legal in all 50 states (except that she only knows the names of thirty-one of the fifty), and Michele is married to a gay man who says he thinks the same as Santoria.

My mother is so frozen with fear that she isn’t good enough to get into heaven that she’ll believe anything Pastor Browningwell tells her.

Anyway, we’re all out to the dock fishing this morning. Rick Perry was scratching Rush Limbaugh’s back with his beak making long swipes back and forth. The big pig was splatted out on his stomach and the ostrich was standing at his side—wings fully extended to the sides for balance, ass high in the air as he leaned over to scratch Rushie’s tough hide. It sounded like #4 grit sandpaper dragged across a cedar plank as the bird made long, rhythmic arcs back-and-forth.

The sound reminded me of this Buddy Rich riff when he was playing in a trio with Art Tatum and Lionel Hampton. Buddy played almost the entire album with brushes rather than sticks, and the sounds of his drums made an indelible print on my memory.

“Swishhhh-shishhh-shi-shi-shishhhhh.” The big feather duster tail on Rick Perry’s ass fluttered in syncopation to his head movements—cantaloupe head one way-big ass and top knot of feathers the other. It was mesmerizing.

I was staring at the bird’s ass and trying to dredge my memory for the strains of “Lover Man” off one of the trio’s albums. I tried to pull the full picture of Buddy Rich’s face too, but all I got was his Cheshire Cat grin—that grin that said, “I know you dig this, baby, but there’s deeper thinking here than you’ll ever get. I’ve got rhythms that got their own rhythms.”

I was sitting with my eyes closed doing my best rendition of wire brushes on top-hat cymbals with a still-cold Carta Blanca resting nestled in my crotch, and a smoldering dube sitting in the crack in the pier plank that serves as my roach clip on fishing trips. Squirt jumped into my lap—front paws braced on my chest, her nose jammed on my chin, and the beer bottle pressed between her soft belly and mine. Her breath smelled of earthworms and dandelions, a not altogether unpleasant odor.

“Listen to me, Mooner, you jackass, wake up! You have got to get yourself under control. It’s nine months until the elections and you’ll be apoplectic by then if you can’t settle down.”

“I just don’t know how to not react to this shit, Squirtie. I’m so scared that there are enough stupid Americans to put one of those assholes in the White House.”

“Then write about it, bitch about it. But don’t take it out on the rest of us,” she counseled.

I took a deep breath and said, “You’re right, Sweetie, I can’t bully you any more than I can let them bully me. Now get you’re smelly ass off me so I can drink my beer.”

I guzzled the rest of my then tepid beer, picked a pair of short brown dog hairs off my tongue, re-lit the dube, closed my eyes and took a big drag. When I opened my eyes again, I realized that the music had stopped. The ostrich was now splayed atop the splayed pig. Rick Perry looked like an ostrich back pack mounted on a giant pig’s back.

I poked Squirt’s side and said, “Look at that, little lady. Ain’t love grand?”

Squirt scrunched her nose at the sight. “Beauty in the eyes, big guy, beauty is in the fucking eyes.”

“And me without my camera.”

I looked around the dock. Rush and Rick deep in love’s sleep, Yoda and the fucking cat were chasing a snake or a lizard in the tall grass at the base of the dock, and my favorite puppy was sitting at my side. All seemed right with the world for a moment.

“OK. I promise I’ll try to not take this shit out on you guys,” I told her. “I promise I’ll try.”

Squirt lay her soft head on my hand and looked out over the water. She took a deep breath and let it out with a “hmmmmmm”[.] She said to me, she said, “I guess that’ll be good enough for now.”

Manana, y’all.

 

Print Friendly

2 Responses to “Not Mayonaise, Dumass- Maliase”

  1. chrisinphx says:

    If pigs do happen to fly and one of those fuckballs beats Obama we’ve already decided we’re packing it up and heading for Uruguay.

    From wikipedia… Reader’s Digest ranked Uruguay as the ninth “most livable and greenest” country in the world, and first in all the Americas.[12] Uruguay is ranked highest in Latin America on the Global Peace Index. Uruguay is also noted for its low levels of corruption, being ranked by Transparency International as the second least corrupt country in Latin America (behind Chile).[10] Its political and labor conditions are among the freest on the continent.[1] It was the highest rated country in Latin America on Legatum’s 2010 Prosperity Index.

  2. squatlo says:

    Chrisinphx, being listed as the second least corrupt country in Latin America is like being called the second most compassionate conservative in the GOP primary… You’re not likely to be kidnapped for ransom, but they’ll come by and disappear your ass if you bitch about the highway system? Actually, a corrupt banana republic would beat the shit out of living in SantorumLand, where all sperm are sacred, women are expected to shut up and get back into the kitchen, and “Church” convenes whenever Congress is in session, presided over by the Chief Justice of the Soupreems himself, Mr. Roberts. We might be able to go in on a compound together, so let me know when you’re ready to speculate on some land down there…

    Mooner, I saw Buddy Rich on Carson one night and Carson was ragging Rich for saying something about smoking pot, telling Buddy that impressionable young people might be watching and surely he didn’t mean to suggest they should do illegal drugs to help their drumming. Buddy looked at him and said (paraphrasing, I was stoned at the time…) “If you want to do something for the kids of America, bring the price of pot down!”

    Love the Lionel Hampton reference. I feel enlightened by having stopped by this morning. (that, and I’m looking into politics in Uraguay…)

Leave a Reply