Big Boobie Bonanza; Rick Perry Gets His Rack


So. TGIF and all that shit. I took Rick Perry to the cosmetic surgeon to get his new rubber titties this morning and I just delivered him back to his bed in the master closet out here to the ranch. Moving a fully-stoned and groggy 350-pound ostrich when you can’t touch his chest is, if you will allow me just a touch of exaggeration, a gigantic pain in the ass.

Rick Perry shares said closeted bed with his gay lover and fiancée, Rush Limbaugh, and we had to rent a major appliance dolly to move Ricky from the surgery ward back here to the ranch. I gathered all our down comforters and pillows for padding, and loaded them, Rick Perry, the dogs and the fucking cat, and a cooler of Carta Blanca into the farm truck for the ride into town. Streaker Jones and Dixie met us at the doctor’s office to assist me. Streaker Jones to help me manhandle the big bird, and Dixie to play cowboy on the rest of the herd.

Those of you new to these parts need to know that Dixie is my now-retired Golden Retriever and original translator. Dixie chose the Squirt for adoption and tutored her to communicate with me and speak many other languages as well. I love Dixie—enough to set her free when she asked. She found a late-life interest in spores and all things fungi, so my former best dog and translator is now head assistant over to the lab at Streaker Jones Spores And More.

Now that I think on it, if you’d go buy my silly fucking book you could read all about my beloved Dixie. So click over there ====}}}} to the Bloggie Roller and check out all the Full Mooner Rising listings. There’s a book trailer, a third party review, and ways to buy it in paper and on Kindle.

Anyway, I locked Rush Limbaugh up in a hog pen over to the neighbor’s place to keep him off of the bird until his new breasts are healed. The way he acted the other day when we were trying out new boob sizes for Ricky, I decided the big pig needed to be kept at bay. And why don’t we say, “Kept away from bay?” Is “keep at bay” a nautical term or does it have to do with fox hunting?

I also think that some separation before the wedding will act as a pre-marital aid for my pet hog and ostrich. Then again, the way Rush attacked Rick in the kitchen the other morning left no room for extra ardor. I was getting the family’s thoughts on size for the new titties, and when we held a halved watermelon up to Rick’s chest, Rush Limbaugh lost it—threw Ricky to the floor and dry screwed him without any preamble.

We had a little party this morning while we waited for Ricky to be ready, and one of the Doctor’s receptionists fell in love with Streaker Jones. She’s one of the doctor’s “living show-and-tell mannequins” that he uses to demonstrate both before-and-after comparisons and also “see, these new titties feel just like original equipment breasts”[.] I had met her on Rick Perry’s first consultation visit with the doctor and I must say that the 36 Double-D’s are a remarkable difference from the little half-apples she had originally.

But I had to tell him, I told the doc, “Well, doc, I think these are some mighty fine titties—they have a firm but giving feel, a great shape, and I really like how you got the nipples pointing just a few degrees up to the North. However, since I’ve never felt a bosom this large that wasn’t artificial, I can’t give you a good result on that part of this comparison.”

I did like the way Melissa cooed at me and how her breath fluttered when I examined her breasts. This morning, and it had to be before seven am because we got checked in before six, I notice Melissa sitting over to her desk and giving Streaker Jones the moon-eyed look of a doe in heat—big brown eyes with a lustful look. Next thing I know, she’s sitting in Streaker Jones’ lap with him holding one big bazooma in each hand, and she’s saying, “… and I love it when you pinch this nipple and suck on that one at the same time.”

I wonder why I have to work so hard for love and my best buddy has it fall into his lap?

Anyway, my ostrich is goofy as all hell to start with, and redefines the word with a bill full of knockout meds. All my life we’ve had birds on the ranch—chickens and ducks and Guinea hens and doves and quail. Until now, I’ve never seen the first bird do anything I would call a smile. But Rick Perry has this giant, goofy shit-eating grin plastered to his mush, and his big bugged eyes are spinning around under half-mast eyelids the size of tea saucers. Reminds me of the old joke that goes, “Do you think Minnie Mouse is crazy?” two, three four, “I’m not certain of that, but she’s fucking Goofy for sure.”

We’ve got him on his side in the water bed and he’s so stoned that he can’t control his head. It’s difficult to control the thirty-pound bowling ball at the end of his long neck without drugs, but when he’s stoned it’s an impossible task. He keeps trying to lift it and you can see the muscles in his thick neck quiver with the effort and only get it a few inches off the pillow before it plops back down with a “plufft”[.]

The Squirt and Honor the fucking cat are in there now playing nurse and keeping him in bed. As big an ass pain as Squirt can be, she can always be counted on to do the right thing. When I left them a few minutes ago, the adorable puppy was singing to him in Swahili while the cat purred and rubbed against Rick Perry’s beak.

Have you ever heard “Stairway To Heaven” in Swahili?

Me, I’m roasting a goat for dinner with a big pot of ranchero-style pinto beans. I did a mole rub on the goat and the beans are in an open pot in the smoker with onions, jalapeño peppers and some pork belly. Mr. Dave wanted to try his hand at making some corn tortillas, so all the women are in the kitchen with him giving direction and support.

Maybe I have to work so hard for my loving because I don’t have a twelve-inch pecker in my pants like Mr. Dave. Then again, maybe it’s because I’m an ADHD-addled fuckbrain.

But who really gives a shit, right? I’ve got family and good friends for dinner, and a cooler full of icy-cold Carta Blanca. Manana, y’all.

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9 Responses to “Big Boobie Bonanza; Rick Perry Gets His Rack”

  1. mel says:

    Um. Hi. I wish I could wrap my head around that whole experience, but if you go back to my place and read what I just posted you will see why. My head is T-H-R-O-B-B-I-N-G and I hate myself right now. I read over your whole post a couple of times at least, and I just don’t have concentration skills today. I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to get sad for not having a comment. What I did get from the post was that it sounds like quite and experience and I am thinking you should write a book about all the shit that goes down in your kitchen.

    OK…trying some yoga.

    I hate me right now.


  2. chrisinphx says:

    Mel has the right idea, “Breakfast with The Johnson’s” except I think I’d like to see it as an alternative to The View….fucking priceless!
    I do need to ask though, did Ricky get new nips as well or just the boobies? Either way, I’m sure Ol’ Rush will be in hog heaven!

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

    Mel. Baby. We need to get you well and healed. Maybe I should get Gram to custom blend you a potion. I already know what she’d call it, she say, “I’mma call it ‘Fix Mel’s shit and stuff.”

    As for your headache I always find that a blow job makes me forget all about my headache.

    Chris. I’m trying to strike a deal to get Jeff Bridges to play me in the series. We’ll start that lobbying effort soon.

    As for nipples, I’ve not seen the completed works of art, but the doc said he used some darkish skin and flesh off Rick Perry’s ass to form his new nipples. I’ve seen that area and I think it a wise choice. They come already showing those big goose bumps that great nipples display.

    If we do put this circus on TV, what companies would buy commercial time?

  4. Squatlo says:

    Glad that’s over with. Whew… Keep us posted on post-op difficulties, just in case one of us is thinking about putting new boobs on a bird.

    Where’s Reck, anywho?

  5. I’m right fucking here. COMMENT COMMENT COMMENT! There…now that we have the “comments” out of the way (so’s that Mooner’s prissy assed feelings don’t get hurt again), I’m HERE. I told y’all I was on a hiatus on account of my bad case of blogger’s block. Fuck. You skip a few posts worth of commenting and all of a sudden your husband to be is getting all titty-baby on your ass. Fuck. MOONER JOHNSON!! GET YOUR BALLS BACK OUT AND PUT YOUR TEATS AWAY!!!

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

    Squat. Cast your seed upon the wind, and…

    Reck. I grew weak in your absence. How’s it hanging, kid? You are missed–send latest pics.

  7. chrisinphx says:

    Hhmm…advertisers huh, I bet you could get one of them stretch mark removal creams and more than likely something for flea and ticks. You might even be able to get the Pork industry on board since this is all for sweet little Rush

  8. Squatlo says:

    Mooner, I thought I’d put a wet finger up into the breeze to see if Reck was anywhere in the vicinity, and lo and behold! There she be! With great advice, too!

    Reckem, you’ve discouraged me from even dropping by your Rantings of the Reckmonster site due to your prolonged case of writer’s block. Something tells me you’re not Rantings-blocked, just writing them down has gotten tedius. Why not allow Mooner, your future husband, to write in your stead? You could just hand him the reins of your blobber and trust him to have something worthy to offer. Quincy did the same thing a couple of weeks ago, and other than a lot of suspicious snooping around by the Animal Husbandry Department down at Ole Miss it’s been successful.

    Hey Mooner, you could work up something special for Reck’s site, right?

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