Steady Rain Deadlogs Johnson Women; Mr. Dave’s Giant Pecker Remains Rock Solid In Downpour

 

So. After enduring three years of severe drought and excessive heat, Austin has become Seattle, Washington. Steady drizzle for days, and daily temperatures of 50 degree nights and 52 in what Washingtonians call “daylight” hours. Personally, I love it. I love the brisk, chilled wet air and the feeling of having the sky close on my head. I love the smells and sounds and the incipient eeriness of prolonged wet weather—that sense that something’s in the air tonight that I just can’t put a finger on.

The women in my life, however, don’t do well with weather imported from the Northwest Coastal regions. “Si ce n’est pas arreter de pleuvoir, and I mean right fucking now,” Squirt told me last night after her late trip to the backyard to take a dumper, “ich werde mich aufhangen.”

“Stop with all the dramatics, little lady, I don’t think you’ll really hang yourself if it keeps raining. We’re supposed to get a reprieve for an entire day next week before we get another ten days of this.” I always try to look at the bright side of things when I parent. “Maybe now you’ll wear the rain slicker Aunt Hilda made you. Yoda loves his.”

My adorable and batty old aunt made the dogs and cat rain slickers. Yoda loves his bright yellow rain gear so much I have to make him take it off. He and I love to frolic in the rain together. Of course the fucking cat shredded hers into a big pile of red rubberized cloth spaghetti. Honor loves to shred shit and most especially fabrics with stretchy give to them.

“I look like someone shit after eating a boxcar full of split pea soup in that thing, Bwana Mooner,” Squirt says of the admittedly weird green outfit. “I can’t be seen wearing that thing—I’ll end up on the Fashion Police and not on their Best Dressed list.”

“I think you look cute all dressed for bad weather, Sweetie. Like a steamed edamame bean.” I picked her little body up and kissed her full on the mouth. “I could just peel you and eat you right up.”

“Put me down, pervert, and get over that butt-fucking ugly rain coat.”

“Fine,” I told her, “don’t come belly aching to me if you catch a cold.”

Does getting wet really give you a cold? I’ve always wondered that. I know you can catch a chill, but can you really catch a cold by walking in the rain unprotected?

But the Squirtie isn’t the only Johnson woman out of sorts with this weather. Mr. Dave, of course, is unhappy with all the rain because the Johnson women are out of sorts with it.

“Business is way down since the rain started, Mr. Johnson. Do you know of some way to brighten the ladies’ spirits?” Mr. Dave asked me last night after supper.

“Well, Sir, I told him. “That’s why I’m paying your room and board and banking weekly checks to your account. Maybe if you wear a thong around the house more often you can take their minds off this miserable rain.”

Mr. Dave is the giant-peckered old geezer I hired to service the herd of Johnson women stabled here at the ranch. “Why don’t we get Gram to brew up a rainy day potion for you. See if she’s got any of that mushroom juice from the new strain Streaker Jones brought her last week. Just a sniff of that shit gives me wood. Maybe it’ll work on the girls.”

God’s truth, that new magic mushroom breed my best buddy bred gives me instant wood. Never seen anything like it. OK, I never had anything work on me better except for getting popped with a stun gun.

“Maybe we should do just that, Sir. Your mother is in quite a snit,” Mr. Dave reported.

His saying that made me wonder if I should be something other than happy at having procured, paid and housed a gigolo for my own mother. Should I be embarrassed or feel icky or something? When I tried to counsel with Gram about it she said, she told me, “Oh who gives a shit, fer shitsakes, Mooner. Long as that woman gits her a little tanger we’re all better off.”

Gram’s right. Mother with regular poontang is waaaaay better than Mother without booty calls. Then, I got to thinking that the girls haven’t fought over Mr. Dave since about the third consecutive day of this rain. That thought made me wonder. “Hey, Mr. Dave. This might be an indelicate question, but are you having any troubles getting it up?”

Mr. Dave Looked at me like I’m crazy, a look I’m quite accustomed to viewing. “Nope, between the wonderful diet of fresh fruit and vegetables you provide me and the Viagra prescriptions, I’m rock solid and ready to go. Wanna see?”

I had to grab his arms to prevent another personal exposure to his Japanese eggplant pecker. “I’ll take your word for it.”

OK, I need to stop. It’s time for me to go get my head shaved for St. Baldricks Foundation to cure cancer in kids. Manana, yall.

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