Two Mango Tango; Not A Dancing With Stars Story


So. I would like to first discuss a personal wonderment before moving on to more fruitful ruminations. For some strange reason, my “visitor” list has swelled by more than a thousand individual visitors since last Thursday. OK, wait. Maybe my list has swollen, or maybe it swoled. I’ve gone back to look for obvious reasons, I say obvious reasons because I lack the life skills needed to examine a dealie like that in depth.

If we were talking about my pecker and the issue was not that it had swelled or swollen or swoled, but rather it wouldn’t swell as needed, that issue would be one wherein my life skills would be expert in nature.

But this recent spike in new individual readers is intriguing. I mentioned it at breakfast this morning and Gram says to me, she says, “That whole bloggie dealio is a stranger ta me, Mooner. But it might be what ya said about Mashie Adderlson tha other day.”

Hunh? Mashie Adderlson? Oh, Ashley Madison. “Well, Gram, I didn’t put the website down for what they do, I simply used what they do as an example in support of gay marriage.”

Gram’s face was half buried in her oatmeal as she burrowed in to find the fat fig I placed in the bottom of her bowl, when she said, “Then maybe ya got’s yersef a bunch a new gay folks readin’ yer silly shit. Much as ya been yakin bout it, maybe they think yer one of ’em.”

Now Gram places her spoon beside her bowl and looks me up-and-down with a flinty-eyed squint. “I always wondered if yer mother was gonna make ya a homogous sexy gal tha way she was always fussin’ ’bout shit. Ya can be a sissy sometimes but I cain’t see ya with a bunch a peckers in yer yapper.”

Mother and Gram were always fighting about how Mother’s fussiness would make me gay. “Thanks, Gram, I think,” I told her. “But it’s “homosexual” not homogous sexy gal.”

Now I got a first stage evil eye, and, “Don’t chu be back-talkin’ me, Mooner Einstein Johnson. I wasn’t worried ya’d be a gay, I was worried ya’d be one a them crissed-up crank dressies an pertend ta be Marilyn Monroe. Hell, I might like ya more ya if’fn ya was gay. Course then I might hafta whip yer ass if’fn ya went after my men.”

How much do I love a woman who would rather me be gay, but not a cross-dressing female impersonator, and who wants to fistfight me over men? I got up from my chair and kissed the top of her knotty old skull. “I love you, Gram. Please don’t ever change.”

She whacked at me with a half-hearted swat and grabbed her spoon for more fig diving. Me, I’m eating my Irish rolled oats with a fresh mango—the subject of the rest of this discourse.

I went to the store yesterday to see what was on special, and one well-priced item was mangos. They were two-for-a-dollar, a stellar price in any of the last several decades, and they were large and smooth skinned. As I was washing it and getting it ready to slice this morning, I got to thinking about that price. “I only paid fifty cents for this mango,” I told everyone.

Mother said, “You didn’t go the the HEB did you, Mooner? Please don’t tell me you went to the HEB. After all of this homo-sex-u-al talk I want you to stay away from the HEB stores. All my friends from church shop at HEB and I don’t need you aggravating my life.”

HEB stores are owned by the HE Butt family who are Baptists and big Baptist church supporters. I have no reason to dislike or even distrust all of those Baptist Butts, but I have an extreme dislike for the Baptist assholes who guide the Baptist church. “You know I don’t shop at HEB, Mother. Why would I want to support the fucking Baptist Church?”

OK, stop. This isn’t a Baptist story or a gay story either one, this is an economics lesson. So, like I said, I only paid a half-buck for a giant, healthy mango and that got me to thinking about the costs of mango production—land cost, fertilization, weeding and tending, picking, processing, shipping and spoilage and all that other shit. The more I thought about it the more I appreciated affordable food.

This half-dollar mango weighed just over a half pound. I know this because I weighed the second mango purchased at two-for-a-dollar. Bottom line, I paid a dollar a pound for mangos that were grown in Guatemala, shipped 1,700 miles to a distribution warehouse and then reshipped to the store. Those mangos had to clear US Customs, a fact that reminds me that we have far greater control over the flood of cheap mangos across our borders than we do the flood of drugs.

Maybe that’s because a $Million worth of mangos is easy to spot. Maybe that’s because Border Agents aren’t bribed to turn their heads on illegal mango shipments.

Anyway, I got to wondering why mangos are only fifty cents and gas is, basically, $4.00/gallon. Gas and mangos have much in common as far as products go. Like oil, most mangos are imported to America from Third World countries. Each product is often produced using near-slave labor. They are difficult to ship—mangos since they bruise and spoil, and oil because it’s liquid and an environmental threat.

You know what? I’m in too good a mood to start ranting about the big oil companies,the assholes who run them and the politicians in their pockets. We got three-inches of rain last night and I’m feeling great. I’m headed back to the store for more mangos. I’m making Mel’s trifle recipe only with mango pudding. Manana, y’all.

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5 Responses to “Two Mango Tango; Not A Dancing With Stars Story”

  1. squatlo says:

    When I was in Jamaica the first time they had several varieties of bananas available at the resort. Each had a unique flavor, some were sweet, others more bitter, some had banana-times-ten flavor. A guy there was explaining that the reason we don’t have those bananas in America is because (sigh…) Chiquita and Dole own the banana industry and they want only their brands sold in America. So they forbid the importation of Jamaican fruit as part of the World Monetary Fund’s loan agreements with Jamaica. In other words, you’re in poverty, we’ll help you with loans you can never afford to pay back, and in exchange we’ll set up textile mills and sweat shops, pay your people wages a galley slave would object to, AND ban the import of your best fruits to the largest market in the hemisphere. You’re welcome.
    The fact that a mango makes it from Central America to your kitchen table for 50 cents is remarkable. I say the same thing whenever someone bitches about the cost of a stamp.
    “Hey, you want to haul a personal letter to Alaska for 45 cents?”

    Maybe your new readers are following the head shaving drama? They probably read about it over on my site and followed you back to your nest. No need to thank me, it’s a service I provide.

    Or maybe it’s the Babtists sizing you up for a hack? Do Babtists hack computer systems of their enemies?

    Could be Rick Perry’s fan club trying to get into your system, too.

    Now that your paranoia is in gear, I’ll be off. Things to see, people to do.

  2. admin says:

    Squat. OK, first, thanks for the hyperbole re: Mooner’s anxieties. If you check the comments from the last post you’ll see that one of my catholic admirers has come back for a visit. I think she and/or her pedophile priest supporter buddies were responsible for the Trojan Horse invasion on my website awhile back. She’ll be required to invent new tricks to get through this time, and I am at the ready with a little surprise for her.

    Can you say “reverse virus contamination”?

    The banana syndicate are an evil bunch who maybe I should call the banana and pineapple syndicate. They held the Hawaiian economy hostage for years. Those fuckers were Big Oil before oil got big.

    For the life of me I don’t know why smart people don’t see that classic “free market capitalism” is outmoded in today’s world. When we existed in cells of civilization that were isolated by limitations of transportation and communication, free market capitalism worked in its purest form.

    If you fucked a neighbor on a cow-for-a-donkey deal, he told the entire county your donkey had fleas and the marketplace adjusted to your bad dealings. If you put 13 eggs in a dozen basket and each egg had been washed and checked to see if it floated, word would likewise spread good cheer.

    We didn’t allow one farmer to own all the fucking chickens in town and we didn’t let anybody steal cows. And we didn’t pay farmers to grow soy beans nor did we pay them to NOT fucking grow tobacco.

    But hey, guess what? Times have changed and big business is now controlling every aspect of life. It’s time to fix it. I’m never buying another Dole or Chiquita product again.

    Power to the small banana growers in Jamaica!- Power to the small banana growers in Jamaica!

    OK, I need a better rally cry.

  3. squatlo says:

    Try this one, mon…

    “Hey Mister Tally Man, tally me banana…”

  4. squatlo says:

    Best documentary you’ll ever see on the financial deal Jamaica signed up for is a film called “Life and Debt”, comes complete with a killer reggae soundtrack, too.

  5. squatlo says:

    BTW, most of the people in Jamaica live in extreme poverty and despise their government and it’s bullshit treaties with the IMF. The only thing that keeps them from burning down the island is ganja… People who are smoking ganja hardly ever want to riot for anything other than more Doritos.

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