Lessons In Parenting; Hot Sauce Torches Breakfast Mood


So. We were all at breakfast this morning enjoying pancakes, apple wood smoked bacon and a big fritatta with peppers, onions and strips of zucchini. I went to the walk-in pantry for a fresh jar of my homemade salsa for the eggies only to find the cupboard bare of tasty sauce picant.

“Moth-er fuck-er!” I was pissed. “Why didn’t somebody tell me we’re out of salsa?”

I walked back into the kitchen and waved the offending last jar at the table full of formerly laid-back diners. “Who took the next-to-the-last jar from the pantry without telling me?”

The kitchen air chilled with my harsh, frosty bitch. Everyone but Gram pulled a church mouse and picked quietly at their plates. Gram, however, didn’t.

“Shut yer yapper, ya pissy little shitbird. What was ya plannin’ ta do iffn ya knowed?”

I didn’t have a good answer to that question, but not having a good answer never stops me from having something stupid to say. “I have a right to know and you guys have a responsibility to tell me.”

“Awright, fuckball, we’s outta hot sauce. Now open tha last one an’ give it ta me. My eggies er dry ’cause ya left ’em in tha oven too long.”

I can always count on my Gram to straighten my ass right up. What real difference would it make to have known we were down to one jar of sauce made from fresh produce from our garden when we’re still six weeks out from having any produce from which to make a new batch? How much more would I have obsessed about it if I had known? Answer, an entire week’s worth.

“OK, sorry, guys. I should actually thank you for not telling me. Saved me anguishing over it for the last week. I had no idea we were so low. I was just in there a couple weeks ago and there were eight or ten jars in the pantry.”

Mother still had the front page of the newspaper clenched in her fist at what was now the midway point of Sunday breakfast. She said, “Says here that our dear, sweet ex-Vice President Cheney got a heart transplant. God bless him. And there were a dozen jars week before last and I took eleven to the church for the big Fiesta party last weekend.”

Huh? She stole eleven of the last twelve jars of MY hot sauce to feed a bunch of fucking Baptists? My “top-ten in the entire world, scorch-the-skin-off-your-lips hot sauce with a secret ingredient” hot sauce was consumed by a church full of fucking Baptists?

“You what???” I half yelled. “You stole MY hot sauce and took it to church?”

“Don’t you dare yell at your mother, Mooner Einstein Johnson. Show me some respect?”

I didn’t need the fiery-hot salsa to heat me up now. “Show you respect? Show you some fucking respect? Why, I’ll show you some…”

I didn’t get anything else out. Mr. Dave rose from his chair and pointed an elegant finger my way. “Sit, and zip your lip, Mr. Johnson. I don’t want to feel required to take you outside for a lesson in manners, but I most certainly will.”

I’d never noticed that Mr. Dave has elegant hands to match his elegant pecker. Long, slender fingers and perfectly manicured nails. Fitting, I guess, that a man with a giant pecker should have good hands to hold it with.

“But,” I started, then realized what I was doing. “Aw, shit on a dinner plate and call it fudge.” Now I looked at my own hands that I’d clenched into fists. “I’m sorry for being an asshole, everybody. And speaking of assholes, did they say if they could find a heart to exchange when they cut into Mr. Haliburton, or was the new heart an add-on rather than a replacement?”

Actually, old Dicky C must have had some semblance of a heart. The one issue he and I agree upon is his support for gay rights. Then again, his support likely stems from the simple fact that his own daughter is a lesbian. Funny how spawning and rearing a gay child can effect your world views. But who gives a shit how he got there. Dick Cheney had to have a little heart.

“And I’m sorry for what I said about your idol, Mother. He must have had some sort of heart before. I have a tendency to judge by content rather than by the cover.”

That was breakfast and now I’m fixing to give the kids another shaving lesson. The cuts on my scalp and nose have healed into fresh scars and I’m feeling brave. And Mother’s theft of my hot sauce has given me an idea. What if I tell Rick Perry he can have his breast implants if he and the other animals can raise the money? I think an ostrich getting giant rubber titties is very close to a really dumb idea, but I thought liquid paper was stupid too. We’ll jar hot sauce to sell and the kids will all participate in growing the veggies. I’ll let the ostrich sell the idea, and if he can convince the dogs and fucking cat to help him, I can teach teamwork, entrepreneurship, hard work and charity, and all in one gift basket.

Multi-tasker is my middle name, and better parenting through creative thought is my game. But maybe I should hide a stash of this season’s hot sauce over to SAC Ellen’s place. Manana, y’all.

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11 Responses to “Lessons In Parenting; Hot Sauce Torches Breakfast Mood”

  1. Granny Ook says:

    Ya gotta put a lock on that pantry, fella. Or put in one of those gun safe dealies to protect the good stuff. You handled that extremely well, by the way. If someone had hijacked almost alla my special sauce to give a bunch of proudly clueless Baptists, they’d STILL be trying to peel me off the ceiling. Here’s to a good harvest this year!

  2. Q says:

    I would be pissed if someone gave away 11 jars of anything that I grew in a garden! Unacceptable! BTW, thanks to you, I have to go to the store and get some Applewood bacon! It sounded so good when I read that!

  3. Father-of-the-Year Nominee, Mooner Johnson says:

    Granny. Thanks for the support. I’m trying to be a better person, but everybody keeps fucking with me. How am I supposed to be a better person if I’m the only one making the effort? Sounds like a subject for psycho therapy.

  4. Granny Ook says:

    Mooner, I just can’t let this go… You DO realize that your mother is doing stuff like this to mess with you? This year, when you are making up the salsa, put on your biggest shit-eating grin and brag to mom that you are putting in marijuana and magic mushrooms to spice it up, and then offer (still grinning) to give half the batch to her church ’cause it’s so good it will turn them all into homosexual liberals…

  5. Father-of-the-Year Nominee, Mooner Johnson says:

    Q. Glad I could stimulate the old salivary glands.

    Granny. What a great idea! Maybe I’ll have Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry have sex in the compost pile before I spread the next batch over the onions. Maybe I can name it “Mooner’s Gay Salsa”… OK, that sounds too much like dancing. How about “Mooner’s Gay Pig and Ostrich Goo Hot Sauce”[?]

    Mmmm-mmm and mmm some more. As for the mushrooms, I’m thinking that mind altering substances require an actual operating mind for maximum efficacy.

  6. chrisinphx says:

    Funny that ol Dick couldn’t man up for his daughter’s rights when he was still in office and his thought and opinions actually mattered to some people. Evil shit bag is 71 years old, if HIS GOD wanted him to live he wouldn’t have given him a bum ticker in the first place. Fuck Dick and both Ricks with a rusty barb wire encrusted dildo.

  7. admin says:

    Chris. Your sentiments are difficult to counter. Maybe his new heart has a heart and he’ll change. I like your sex aid dealie, though. I think a rubberized barb wire dildo could provide texture “for her pleasure” not found in typical ribbed dildos.

  8. squatlo says:

    What bothers me most about a heart transplant for Evil Incarnate is that someone, somewhere probably didn’t get the transplant he or she needed to survive. After half a dozen heart attacks (and if a man’s own heart tries to kill his ass that often, maybe it knows his true character better than we do?) and a lifestyle obviously un-conducive to good health, why should a perfectly good organ be saved for Cheney? There used to be a list of factors including age (he’s ancient, compared to a lot of young folks who need hearts), viability for organ acceptance (how much of an improvement could a new heart make to a man who’s only going to use it to stew in his own bile ’til he passes?) and quality of life with/without the transplant. On all three counts I would have to think Cheney would rank near the bottom of the donor list.
    Of course, having more Halliburton money than God helps. And if you have wealth and wealthy friends in influential places you obviously get preferential treatment when organs are available. David Crosby is one of my favorite musicians of all time, but he fried his liver with drugs and alcohol for thirty years. It bothered me that others did without and he somehow got a liver transplant at the front of the line when his own liver shut down on him. Don’t get me wrong, he’s one of my favorites and has made great music since that surgery, and by all accounts has turned his life around. But why should a man who ruined his own liver get to the front of a line full of people who had nothing at all to do with their own health issues?

    Cheney’s a evil asshole, pure and simple. I don’t wish him any malice, but someone somewhere deserved that organ before Dick Cheney did. Money talks, and them that’s got it gets what they want. The rest of us can suck shit, as far as they’re concerned.

    bah… Mooner, you’ve put me in a foul mood.

    And I’d kill a person if they took eleven jars of my salsa without my knowledge. I don’t care if it’s for Babtists or starving Ethiopians. That shit’s too hard to make and too valuable to be pilfered like tube socks from an overflowing drawer… You’re a better man that I, Gunga Mooner.

  9. mel says:

    Ok, first things first, I read this when you first posted it…I didn’t comment because I read it from my phone and I HATE making comments from my phone because of the goddam auto correct. If I type the word “fuck” I meant to do it, and no I did not mean “duck”. I got the voice registering keyboard to understand that, but I can’t get the keypad one to. That has nothing to do with your post. Anyhow, I would re-read, but I am getting sleep and nervous, so I will just tell you what stuck with me…I would be so fucking pissed off if someone took MY salsa to a church function. Especially without my permission. I agree 100% with Granny…get yourself a lock!

  10. mel says:

    AND…I totally think that Reck wants to go trolling for Vets at the VFW with Gram. For real.

  11. admin says:

    Squat. OK, but what do you really feel about Dick Cheney?

    Mel and Everybody Else. Ten years ago I might have gutted my own mother and used her for sausage casings if I’d caught her stealing my hot sauce. But I have grown and matured considerably over the last decade.

    Having said that, I have a litle trick up my sleeve for this Sunday’s breakfast. Can you say, “Oh, I’m sorry, Mother, will this make you late for church?”

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