So. After yesterday’s Republican primaries, Gnewbt Gangreenich has decided that he can no longer stay the course and will be quitting the race for President. Old Gnewbt rides a dead political horse way longer than he sticks in the saddle of marriage. His ex-wife was still breathing and had a prognosis for a reasonable recovery yet he left her for dead in her hospital room for his next, younger filly.
But he kept riding his dead Presidential campaign after its cancer killed it in Iowa and it’s bones lay picked clean by Herr Schmidt Rommel. Maybe his conversion to catholicism will improve the imitation Pillsbury dough boy’s stamina with his wives as well. Then again, Mz. Callista might be certain to do as much preventative medicating as she can get under her hubby’s free-for-life best-in-America health care coverage.
Isn’t it interesting that when, as available choices, the republican party had Michelle “My husband is NOT Homosexual” Bachmann, Prick Perry, the other prick, Rick Santorum, Herman “Fucking a white woman ain’t extra-marital sex” Cain, and the Gnewbt as candidates, they chose Herr Rommel. Five solid, all the fucking way-to-the- right actual christians to pick from, and the republicans have chosen the pseudo christian, left-to-right-and-back-again flippy-flopper who started the universal health care program while Governor of Mash-yer-choo-coos.
That’s what Gram calls the Pilgrim State, Mashyerchoochoos. At least I can spell Gram’s version. I’m college educated and I can’t spell the actual name. Don’t give a shit that I can’t, but I can’t.
BTW, thanks for asking, but Gram managed to pass the dozen extra-large glass balls she got stuck up her ass when the cord broke on her anal beads. Assuming the word “pass” is appropriate for having said glass bullets shoot out like metal ball bearings from a surgical rubber slingshot. Broke her toilet bowl—the bottom only—shattered her dressing mirror, and one of the missiles hit Mr. Dave a glancing blow after it ricocheted off the Saltillo tile in Gram’s bathroom.
When we were kids, Streaker Jones figured out how to use surgical rubber, like what they use to tie you off for blood pressure, to make slingshots. We used to make surgical rubber slingshots and sell them to other kids—not our first business together but one of the more profitable of our childhood. His daddy was dating a nurse up to the big hospital and she would bring the rubber tubes to us as a way to his daddy’s heart. If you want to learn about Streaker Jones’ daddy—a Peyote Indian Medicine Man—buy my stupid fucking book. Click over there =====}}}}} to one of the linksters for Full Rising Mooner and check it out.
Which reminds me. Sometime in the last month I misnamed the title of my book inside one of the wordy writings here to Loonyland. Be the first to catch and comment with its location and win a prize. If you don’t have a book, I’ll send you one with a personalized inscription. If you have a book already, first allow me to say ”Thanks” and second let me state for the record that I’ll figure something out to send you.
Anyway, this one time Streaker Jones and I were in town with a bag of slingshots that we were selling at the middle school. We had a bunch of glass marbles as demonstration projectiles and we were shooting them at a watermelon at the sports field. Actually, this was long ago enough that it was a football field because football was all that played there. Nobody had ever heard of soccer.
We had the melon at about the fifty yard line and we were standing at the ten, plucking away. As I recall, the watermelon was from a farm down to Gonzales and taken in trade from a migrant worker who wanted one of our slingshots to hunt food. I don’t remember what we were charging, but if a kid could hit the melon with one shot we’d give him a discount and, obviously, the value approached that of a ripe, 12-pound watermelon. Streaker Jones is a brilliant marketing man and most of our smart marketing moves are his. To this day, our smart moves are usually his ideas.
We’re doing a brisk slingshot business and this big kid walks up to our group—high school age punk with a tall greaser haircut and pointy shoes with toe and heel taps. Had a wire clothes hanger-and-rubber band slingshot hanging out his back pocket.
“Hey punks, what’s that?” the hoodlum asked. Back then we called those guys hoodlums.
I told him and started my sales pitch while Streaker Jones took off his jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves. Streaker Jones has had a nose for trouble as long as I’ve known him. The kid yanked one of the slingshots from my hand and looked it over, stretching and aiming it at the other kids, trying to pop them with the empty leather basket. We used leather patches to hold the marbles.
When I offered a marble to shoot at the watermelon, he pushed my hand aside and said to me, he said, “Marbles are for queers. I got this,” at which time he fished a rusty ball bearing from his pocket, showed it to us all, and set it in the basket of the slingshot.
He stretched the bands and aimed and relaxed the taught surgical rubber bands several times. Then, he turned from the melon and aimed at the school and let her go. I didn’t see the projectile in the air, but I was looking at the big glass window at the main entry of the gymnasium when it shattered.
The hoodlum laughed like a hyena, big barks of, “Ha-ha-ha-ha!” He caught his breath and poked a finger in my chest and said, “Looks like you queers are in biiiiig trouble.”
Streaker Jones stepped to the big kid. “Nope. Yer gonna confess.”
The bully stripped his jacket off and rolled up his sleeves, and all the other kids gathered in a circle around the three of us. Me, I’d been to more than one of these rodeos and knew what was next.
“Uh, listen fella,” I told the kid. “You better do what he says. People always end up doing what Streaker Jones tells them to do.”
“Who’s gonna make me?” the bigger kid snarled at Streaker Jones.
“Me,” the response.
One Streaker Jones word, full of meaning.
“Let’s go,” the hoodlum said, and he bounced at Streaker Jones to kick a steel-capped pointy shoe at his nuts.
In the three seconds following the attempted goober kick, the big kid suffered a broken nose, dislocated thumb, a kidney bruised enough to make him piss blood, and an inch circle of hair and scalp missing above his eyes—a chunk of hairy flesh that was formerly the widow’s peak in his duck-tailed greaser haircut.
The big kid was on his side, whimpering in the fetal position, while clutching his broken nose with the broken hand, holding his good hand on his forehead to stop the bleeding. Scalp wounds bleed almost as bad as cut peckers.
My best friend stood over the bully and said, “Yul be tellin’ yer momma ya broke that window, an ya won’t be back over here no more.”
I’ve always hated the word “queer” when used in the context of bullies. My sister is lesbian, knew it from birth and has been proudly so her entire life. Streaker Jones took those kinds of things personally and he defended Sister’s gayness more times than did I.
Which reminds me. How many attendants are appropriate for a gay wedding? Are gay weddings different from heterosexual ceremonies? Sister and Anna eloped because Mother was such a shit about their nuptials, and I gave them both away to each other when we eloped out to Vegas. Gram was the Old Bat of Honor and the P-cubed was the ladies’ Flower Girl. Since Daddy had died and Anna the Amazon’s divorce from me was still wet with the Judge’s ink, it was appropriate for me to be stand-in Father of the Brides. Or was I Fathers of the Bride?
This whole wedding thing with Rick Perry and Rush Limbaugh is bum fuddling me. The ostrich wants a dozen Bridesmaids and shit but the big pig doesn’t want anyone to stand up for him. I’ve designated Yoda to be his Best Man and after that I’m lost. Nobody actually likes Rush Limbaugh enough to stand at his side, and everyone wants to stand with the bird.
I’ve never actually planned an entire wedding, as many as I’ve attended and participated in. Somebody needs to help me with this shit. Need Carta Blanca beer.