So. It’s a beautiful day here, one of those gorgeous May days our Austin Chamber of Commerce loves to brag about. Only thing is that it’s still March and we had our March weather in January. At this rate we can expect July to hit mid-April and destroy my beautiful tomato plants. My tomatoes are already knee-to-waist high and have flower buds all over the place. It’ll be a bumper crop with decent weather until June.
I was listening to the news this morning and it seems like the Republican Presidential hopefuls have taken a new tactic to win the hearts of their voters. These silly shitballs have decided to support President Obama in order to gather votes. Tactic change one is from the great tactic changer his own self, Etchin’ Sketchin’ Schmidt Rommel. The Mittster’s lead political tactician has said that come general election time, they’ll just shake the red-and-graphite-colored-Chinese-made-plastic box, and wipe out all of his primary positions so that they can write an entirely new slate of positions.
In order to reverse all his extremist right-wing positions, the former Massachusetts Governor will be forced to more closely align himself with the President. Former Senator and all-around funny guy, Little Pricky Santoria, has taken the tack that Obama is a better President than Mitt-A-Sketch could ever be. Basically, the two front runners have decided to imitate and support the President.
That, dear friends, is fucking brilliant. It seems that the American voting public really is stupid enough to fall for anything, as long as you make it clear that you are a christian and a conservative christian at that. Mark my words here when I say that the next step is for them to steal President Obama’s successes as their own. They’ll say that the economy is getting better and take credit for it. They’ll be bragging about saving General Motors and how it was their plan that got Bin Laden.
And please note that I am still holding the high ground in my plan for marginalization of all things right-wing and christian fuckwad. I will continue to lower-case them and theirs with impunity until I feel I’ve made my points.
Have you ever wondered who in the fuck named Boston’s home state “Massachusetts” and decided to spell it like that? According to Wiki, it’s named after a Native American tribe’s words meaning “on a large hill” or something close to that.
Bullshit. Some silly-assed Pilgrim school marm who hadn’t been layed in thirty years named and spelled it to torture school kids. Maybe I should have said “…silly-assed school marm whom hadn’t been lain in thirty years…”[.] Who’s and whose and whom’s and layeds and lains have always been problematical for me.
Speaking of tomato plants, why don’t we say “tomatoe plants”[?] One tomato is a tomato and two are tomatoes right? Well, my garden is filled with not only many different individual tomato plants, but also plants of many different varieties of tomato. So why don’t I have tomatoe plants? Come on you prissy Grammar Police, conjugate your silly butts out of that one.
While back on my tomatoes, I had all of my charges out to the garden early this am to look things over and to provide some life lessons. As a newly-dedicated father… OK, stop again. As a father with newly-dedicated desires to be a better parent, I had the two dogs, the fucking cat, Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry out to the garden to tend the crops.
I wanted to teach them that you need to love and nurture Life’s creatures if you expect the best from them in return. Since the recent rains have caused the weeds to almost jump out the ground, I wanted to use weeding as the metaphorical hammer to drive my points home.
We were weeding and talking about life when Rick Perry squawked about something. It was obviously important to him because the big ostrich was running in circles and lashing his head up and down. I couldn’t understand a word of it, so I asked the Squirt to translate for all of us.
“Well,” the brown-furred and adorable little interpretor answered, “his feelings are hurt because he thinks you aren’t taking him seriously. He feels disrespected.”
Huh? How do you not seriously take a bird that shits a ten-pound bucket every movement and can break your leg with one swing of his bowling ball head. “The fuck is he talking about? I take all you guys seriously.”
I try to not have hurt feelings with my kids but it can be difficult. “I allow him and his gay lover—a 550-pound domesticated hog—to live in my bedroom closet, for shitsakes. How much more respect does he think I should give him?”
Squirt squawked at the ostrich, who then squawked at Rush Limbaugh, who oinked and squealed at Squirt, who then turned to me and said, “You are such an asshole. Why can’t Rick Perry have a boob job?”
“Oh, for the love of god, is that what this is all about? Is this because I think he needs to think things a little deeper before getting giant rubber titties?”
This subject came up at dinner the other night and I basically ignored it the same way I did when Rush Limbaugh asked me for a sex change operation a while back. I always feel that the “First Ignore” sales approach is the best tactic to use when your kids have hair-brained ideas. Make them bring it up more than a few times before you take them seriously. Give them time for deeper thinking before attempting serious discussions.
Then again, Rick Perry lacks the actual brain cells required to have deep thoughts. Which brings a question to mind. I never really paid any attention to this until I was adopted by my ostrich, but have you ever noticed that an ostrich egg is the same approximate size as a mature adult ostrich’s head? Have you ever noticed it’s the same with chickens and ducks and robins and all other birds?
Wait, I don’t mean that all birds lay ostrich eggs, but rather I mean that birds lay eggs the size of their own heads. Except for a Duck-billed Platypus. I’ve never seen their eggs but I bet they’re either smaller or larger than their heads. Would need to be.
Anyway, we all discussed the concept of a gay ostrich getting breast implants to please his boy friend. Seems Rush Limbaugh is a breast man. I always figured him for an ass man as he has his head up his own, and those of others, so much. But go figure. My five kids voted four-to-zero in favor of me letting Rick get his titties. The fucking cat abstained from voting. Cats, I’m learning, are trouble makers.
Anyway, we’re going fishing down to the dock, and Gram and the P-cubed are heading the Ferrari down to College Station to fish for a couple young Aggie Cadets. Here’s hoping we all bag our limits. Me and my bunch are cracking the icy-cold Carta Blanca beers and baiting some hooks.