So. I don’t have anything to say today. My ADHD has been turned to the 100% setting and my thoughts are more scattered and smothered than over-well hash browns up to the Waffle House. I haven’t been able to focus on any task for more than a few seconds’ time and I have already hurt myself twice because of it.
I was shaving my beautiful skull and sliced this big wart or cancerous growth off the top of my head. I had all the animals in the bathroom with me so that they could watch me shave. After tripping Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson the other day because Yoda and Squirt have poor leash training, I decided to be a better father and exhibit higher levels of parenting skills with my kids. I’ve decided to spend extra time parenting the menagerie of semi-domesticated animals I’ve chosen to husband.
Why is the act of caring for domesticated animals called “animal husbandry”[?] Except for maybe sheep herders and some of the cowboys I met up to Amarillo this one time, I don’t see a husband-wife relationship in raising dogs and cats and pigs and giant fucking birds. Should be called animal parentry.
Anyway, both dogs and the fucking cat were on the vanity top, Rush Limbaugh was lying on the floor like the pig he is, and Rick Perry was standing behind me—the actual cause for this first razor accident.
Which reminds me that I hurt myself three times during this current brain fritz. For new readers, a brain fritz is when my ADHD and/or ADD become so active that they cause my brain to go on the fritz. The first injury was suffered before the two shaving cuts as I was trying to teach my ostrich how to pee in the sink. I had him backed-up to the sink and was attempting to assist him with pointing his big bird pecker over the sink bowl to urinate. Rush Limbaugh lumbered into the bathroom and gave a loud snort when he saw me messing with Rick Perry’s genitalia. Ricky jumped and peed on my hands, and I jumped and knocked my funny bone on the towel rack. I guess Rush thought I was making a move on his lover boy.
When it came shaving lesson time, I had the big ostrich behind me at the mirror in the same pose a father makes with his son as he teaches him to tie a necktie. Except, of course, the ostrich has no actual arms and this was a shaving lesson. Rick Perry’s fat breast—a fat breast he told me last night at dinner that he wants to enhance with a surgical augmentation—is pushed flat against my back, and his big head is roaming all over the place. Owning an ostrich is often akin to having a two-year old child operate a twenty-pound bowling ball attached to the end of a six-foot rubber stick.
He’s poking his head in my face and circling around to see things from every angle, and he approaches from around my shoulders, and under my arms, and once from under and between my legs. When he came at me from between my legs, it looked as though I had a four-foot pecker with bald head, a beak and big bug eyes. I made mention of how it looked like I had a giant pecker with a brain of it’s own and everybody laughed.
“You wish,” the Squirt told me. Me, I was thinking that half that wish has been granted, and not, necessarily, to my benefit. I think Dr. Sam I. Am says it best on that issue. “Thinking men, Mooner, don’t think with their penis.”
I’ve always thought that two brains are better than one. I mean think about it. A hook and ladder firetruck has two drivers, right?
I’m there at the sink with most of my entire head slathered with shave gel. OK, wait, my head was slathered with gel, but the results were that I was lathered with the resulting foam from the gel application. I was shaving around, skipping from spot-to-spot in the typical fashion of an ADHD-addled fuck brain.
“You missed a spot, dumass,” Squirt informed me. “It’s no wonder you look like hell most of the time.”
This got more chuckles from my Peanut Gallery and caused me to try to focus better on my shaving. “How about I try to be systematic about this, guys? Everybody be still and quiet while I focus.”
Now they’re all rolling on the floor and vanity top, laughing at my dumb remark. I had to chuckle a bit myself. “OK, how about you all be still so I can imitate a man trying to focus?”
They did, and I started systematically dragging the razor over the left-center, upper-rear quadrant of my skull. On the third swipe, Rick Perry moved his head from under my elbow to get a better view, and I slashed the wart, or whatever, down to the scalp line.
Have you guys ever seen a scalp bleed from a dime-sized hole? The only thing that bleeds-out faster than a scalp is a pecker. If you want the details on pecker bleed-outs you need to go over there ===}}} to my Bloggie Roller and buy my fucking book. Full Rising Mooner has an entire chapter devoted to that story and subject. That Chapter alone is worth the price of admission.
So now I’ve got blood coursing through the suds on my cabeza, of course, and I’ve but half shaved. I told the guys that I needed to stop the bleeding, so the shaving lesson was over.
“Suck it up, sissy boy,” Squirt told me. “The pig will give you mouth-to-mouth if you faint from blood loss.”
My adorable little brown-furred puppy is for sure a Johnson, and mine without question. Everybody laughed, again, and I figured, I thought to myself, I thought, “Who gives a shit if I’ve got blood in my eyes. This is some funny shit.”
Remember that old Saturday Night Live skit with Dan Akroyd playing my beloved Julia Child cutting her hand artery when de-boning a chicken? I started my best Julia Child imitation as I instructed the animals on the proper shaving techniques employed by a prim and proper British gentleman. It was funny as all get out until I nicked the razor edge at the spot where my left nostril anchors itself to my upper lip.
“Sonofabitch!” I threw the razor at the wall. “Fucking cheap-ass razor!”
I left the vanity and went to stand in the shower to clean the mess off my head. I stood under the shower head, still in my shorts and white cotton socks, as the jets of water stung the gashes on my scalp and nose. “Fuck-ing cheap-ass made-in-fuck-ing Bangla-fucking-desh or whereeverthefuck fucking razors!”
Do women blame inanimate objects for their errors a much as we men do? Why is it that whenever I fuck shit up I always first try to blame the blameless? I pride myself for always taking the blame for my blunders, but I always first attempt to shame the razor.
And did you guys notice that I let a comment through the other day from God’s Child? She is one of my far-right wing catholic followers from back to when they infected my website and computer with virusi. Virusissi? She’d been away for awhile but has popped back into our lives. If you ever want to take a peek into one of “those” minds, read her comments. I’ll allow her to post the semi-civil stuff she writes but not the threats she tends to make. Threats are directed to a certain Special Agent in Charge, US Department of Homeland Security.
Me, I’m going shopping for some razors that are actually made in America. I’m shaving way too much of my skin now to trust an imported razor.
I guess not having anything to say can’t stop me from saying a whole lotta nothing. Manana, y’all.