Bulls’ Balls And Bald Pates; Busy Week Ahead

 

So. TFIF. What a week it’s been. I’ve had a very busy few days and next week will be busier still. I have to go to Dallas next week for a few days and this is advance warning that I’ll be absent from postings most of the week. However, this coming week of crazinesses will be crowned with the big dinner party for Lloyd and Mike and that will make all the hustle and bustle worth it.

Examine, if you will, my next eight days and we might as well start with today. OK, first of all it’s raining and will most days until next Friday. This is good from a global Central Texas weather perspective but not so from the Johnson family views. This is nut-cutting time for Gram and her crew, the season to snip the goodies from any boy cattle populating the herd in the west pasture. The rain turns these castrations into an indoor sport and likewise adds to the bitch factor in the house.

“I don’t see why you can’t just wait until after the rain stops to neuter your cows, Gram,” Mother started at our early Friday morning breakfast. Mother had to fucking start.

Gram fixed her daughter-in-law and my maternal parent with the beginnings of an Evil Eye. “Tha fuck you talkin’ about? Tha Farmers’ Almanac says it’s today, it’s to-fuckin-day. Now shut yer yapper and pass me tha butter.”

Gram’s fiery eyes remained fixed on Mother’s profile and I could see the flesh on that side of her face quiver with heat. The follow up remarks about nut cutting that might have come next were swallowed by my mother with a gulp of her coffee. Instead, she chose to level a blast at me.

“I was with Mildred Ross and Leticia Browningwell at the church after-school daycare yesterday afternoon, and I have been asked to speak with you, Mooner.”

“Here it comes,” I thought to myself. “Here it fucking comes.”

Mother, and daintily so, lifted a dram of fig preserves with her knife and touched it to a thumbnail-sized sliver of fresh biscuit top. I grow the figs on two old trees out back and Aunt Hilda makes the wonderful jam. Mother raised the tiny bite towards her mouth and paused at chin level. Her eyes went out of focus as she gazed into space somewhere. She sniffled—the early warning system and precursor that I think of as the “Martyr Alert!”–then carefully placed the biscuit bite back on her plate.

“Why, in god’s name, do you insist upon talking so much about homo-sex-ual-ity? Mildred says that almost every day you write something in that terrible Internet newspaper of yours about it. Or them.”

Here, she picks the bite back up and lays it into her mouth, where she will chew it with the same slow and deliberate motions a masticating cow uses to munch hay. When I see this behavior I know I’m within seconds of getting batshit angry. It happens every time.

“Isn’t it enough that I have to live with your sister and you with that pig and ostrich on my conscience? Do you have to turn our ranch into a den of sin and broadcast it to the world? I’m so embarrassed I could die.” This last line had enough dramatical delivery to earn an Oscar nod.

“What are you belly aching about?” I asked her.

“Don’t you play dumb with me, Mooner Einstein Johnson, you know perfectly well what I mean. You allow Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry to live in sin in your closet, your sister is married to your third ex-wife—your third ex-wife—and now you’re going to fill my house with homo-sex-uals next week and broadcast that fact all over town.”

OK, stop the fucking presses. I’m digressing my points something terrible. Today will be extra busy for me because I’ll now need to help Gram with cutting the cows since the operations will move inside the barn. That means that my schedule of previous plans will lose a good six hours. Wait, only lose four hours. Two hours were already on my schedule to clean and ready the bull balls for tonight’s dinner.

If you’ve never had mountain oysters you’ve missed a real treat. I cook them all the same ways as I cook chicken gizzards and tonight it’s with a light white flour fried jacket and cream gravy—like chicken fried steak. Yummy!

Saturday is a big day too. I’m going to get my hair shaved off for the Children’s Cancer Charity over to the Saint Baldricks head shaving dealie. They’ll be a hundred of us getting our manes whacked off for the kids. We’ll be at Fados Irish Pub down to West 4th Street. My time is 2:00 pm, but maybe I’ll go early and eat some Irish grub. I bet a lamb pie will be good for a rain-chilled lunch.

I’ll try to take some pictures and post them. I can’t wait to have an all skin head. I’m thinking I’ll look way cool.

SAC Ellen sees things somewhat differently. “You have a giant head, Mooner. You’ll look like a disco ball with a face on one side.”

Then she added, “If you want any sex with me after Saturday, you’d better get some grocery bags.”

SAC Ellen didn’t laugh when she delivered that line about the bags. I found myself wishing she’d laughed. At least she didn’t call me a two-bagger.

Sunday I’ll spend prepping for my Business trip and then off to Dallas for that business and then home late Thursday night. Friday night is the big Lloyd and Mike Party. That party, and my yakking about it to you guys, is what set Mother off at breakfast. Lloyd is my longtime buddy and number one good guy who happens to be gay. Some of the invited guests might also be gay. I don’t know and I don’t give a shit. They are Lloyd’s friends and that makes them my friends.

But Mother’s shitty attitude brings up a point. She did make me ask myself why I feel it necessary to tell you that Lloyd is gay? Why does it matter that Sister is gay and married to my third wife who, at least for now, is also gay? Why does it matter that Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry are homosexuals living in my closet? Why does it matter that my pig and ostrich are gay lovers?

It’s the year 2012 for shitsakes, and it shouldn’t matter. Thirty years ago, whenever I spoke of a friend who was African American, I would say, “My black buddy Everett,” or, “My ex-wife Roshandra, the ebony-skinned beauty.” When I speak of the sinfully beautiful Roshandra now, I only mention her race if race is a subject line of the conversation.

It shouldn’t matter today that Sister is gay, but it does. It matters because my sister is still treated as a second class citizen and sexual orientation seems to be a major storyline of and to itself. It matters because the current crop of right-wing conservative Christian politicians are using the killing of gay rights as their battle flag. Since the economy—the same economy that the Republicans ruined—has been set onto the road to recovery by our Democratic President, and that same President has done so much to bring closure to the wars started by Bushkin and The Dickster, the Repubs have been forced to use different issues to attack.

Like a sleight-of-hand magician, these silly assholes have chosen to place gay rights and womens’ bodies on the ballot. And me, I won’t take that shit quietly. The same way I vocally protest against the anti-abortion protesters, I will vocally speak out against any anti-gay sentiment.

Until gays are afforded the equal rights they were granted under the Constitution, their gayness is an important fact.

So, in your face, motherfuckers!

And that includes you, Mother. Which reminds me. I think I’ll shave my balls to match my soon-to-be bald pate. You know, make sure the rug matches the drapes. And I’ll need some assistance to shave my big-assed head to keep it clean and shiny. How does a person see the top of their head to shave? That sounds like a new invention.

Mooner Johnson’s Bald Head Shaving Super Mirror Set. We could package it with a special shaved head after shave lotion. Hey, what if we made the lotion scent smell like sweaty balls. How fucking funny would that be?

Manana, y’all.

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4 Responses to “Bulls’ Balls And Bald Pates; Busy Week Ahead”

  1. squatlo says:

    If you’re going to post pix of your shaved head, you might as well post a couple of your “boys” in all their dangly glory, Mooner. I mean, if your mom’s gonna have a spasm about it you might as well make it a full-blown conniption fit, right?

    If you’re really shaving your head for a charity, I’m more than impressed. Especially if you’re taking a bidness trip the next day. Most of us would alternate that chain of events out of vanity.

    You’re a strange bird, Sir Don. Glad to know ya!

  2. Squat. I’ll think about the bald balls pics. But I’m concerned that if Reck sees them she’ll quit her job and burn the asphalt between there and here. Her work at the VA Hospital is way more important than you catching a glimpse of my bald balls.

    The charity shaving is a for real dealio and one I have wanted to do for years. As for Vanity, I divorced that bitch three wives ago. Vanity is a mean lover and quite unforgiving.

    Strange bird, strange brew- what’s up inside of you? Jesus I miss acid rock. How fucking great would a concert with Cream, Iron Butterfly and Emerson, Lake and Palmer be?

    Of course, which Iron Butterfly would we want? Those silly shitballs had more different musicians than the New York Philhamonic. Which reminds me that ELP was all about classical music except stoned out its gourd. Lucky man might be my favorite of theirs.

    Fuck work. I’m striking a match.

  3. squatlo says:

    Greg Lake was my favorite all time rock vocalist, and Keith Emerson was a keyboard god among music major friends of mine… and I successfully answered two different Jeopardy questions because I paid attention to their versions of classical compositions during my stoner daze. Not that I was on Jeopardy, but we play along here at home and when I was in school back in the day… I’m a wizard when there’s no pressure, money, or humiliation involved.

    I’d love to just sit in a room at listen to Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young argue, personally.

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