How Much Bosom Is Enough?; Breakfast With The Johnsons


So. We are all way excited here to Austin, Texas. Wedding bells will soon be ringing for Rick Perry and Rush Limbaugh, and we didn’t get the predicted nasty-assed weather I was worried would wreck my garden. Last year’s garden burned all the way out in early June because of the drought and very hot Winter and Spring seasons. Last year, it was so hot and dry that you could hear the plants crack and split.

Literally. I would be walking through my veggie plants and there would be “pops” and “snaps” all up and down the rows. It sounded like a tragic Rice Crispies commercial. It was a terrible sound that I never want to experience again. Last year’s crop was pounds as compared to our usual tons of harvested tomatoes, corn, peppers, egg plant, cukers and squash and beans and such. We usually have so much that we give basketfuls away to needy folks every week. But a year ago we were buying fresh produce at the store and what was available at farmer’s markets, and we didn’t put anything back, either canned or frozen.

This year I got a jump on things. I started seeds in the greenhouse in November and began planting the garden the first week in February. Normally that early plant date would mean everything would freeze a half-dozen times by mid-March, but times are no longer normal. The sad effects of global warming are everywhere and saddest to me are with food production.

Which reminds me. Click on the following linkster and go over to watch this short video at Squattie’s place. It is totally hilarious. The linkster is:

I wish they had included an anal probe reference in that vid for more complete accuracies, but it is a real gem as-is.

I have a guest bloggie running over to wherein I’m seeking advice about Rick Perry’s request for fake boobies. I’m not smart enough to link you directly to my guest post so you might as well read Lady Estrogen’s guest post while you’re there. Unlike me, Lady E can say things simply and directly so it’s a quick read compared to my trash.

Anyway, early results over to Q’s place indicate that I should buy fake titties as a wedding present for the boys, and that creates an entirely new problem. The wedding dress Ricky chose is form-fitting and has to be ordered a month in advance. That means I need to get him measured this week or no dress in time for the nuptials.

I am taking him to the tittie doctor in the morning to pick the size for his new melons but I’m not taking Rush. That pig is totally disgusting. We decided to get an idea of what size would look best on the big bird’s chest, so at breakfast we tried things out to get the family’s opinions. I had a cantaloupe halved, grapefruit, one of those small water melons and some large balloons.

As soon as I told the table of Johnsons and attending friends of my need, Mother pipes up with, “I will not participate in this heretical display of  heathenism. It’s bad enough that you allow those two pagans to live as homo-sex-u-als under our roof. But I will…NOT… be a part of this fiasco.”

Gram, who had a mouthful of Irish oatmeal sweetened with maple brown sugar, snapped her spoon on the table and caught Mother’s eyes. “Whuf hu footh uh dho tathi bafoufh?”

“Indeed, Mommy Dearest, please tell us what in the fuck you are talking about.” Translating for my wiry old grandmother is one of my favorite jobs.

Gram managed to swallow her oats to continue, “Jesus shit onna shingle, Mother Johnson, you ain’t never happy with not a goddamn thing in life. Book yersef tha afternoon with Mr. Dave an git a clock winding. Have him do that dealie he does with the vibrator in yer ass. Ya kin have my time slit.”

“Oh my,” Mother blushed, but said not another word.

Me, I wanted to tell Gram it’s a time slot and also to ask the giant-peckered Mr. Dave what his vibrator-in-the-ass trick is, but we were, after all, eating breakfast.

Anyway, Squirt was telling me what Rick told her were his opinions as I held the fruit to his chest. I started with the grapefruit and worked my way from smallest to larger. Ricky was standing next to me as I was seated at the big kitchen table with the fruit on the table to my right. Rush Limbaugh was standing to the side, on my right, eyeballing every move. I placed the grapefruit on Rick’s chest—adjusted them high-to-low, and with different spacings—while the pig stared and grunted at every move.

When I got the grapefruit into the most favorable position, Rick turned to face his lover for approval. “Snoink, snoogle.” The domesticated porcine language is unnerving to most people when they first encounter it. I’m used to it and usually unfazed.

“OK, Rush, I think you’re right, “ I said, “the grapefruit are just too small on this big boy’s chest.”

The pig smiled at me and gave his lover boy a soulful look. Love comes in all shapes and sizes in this life, folks, and a male 350-pound African ostrich in love with 550 pounds of domesticated hog fits them all.

Next we did the same with the cantaloupe. When Ricky turned to Rush, the big hog’s eyes sparkled, but again he said to us, he said, “Snoink, snoogle.”

“All right, Rushie, but we’re starting to get out of hand. More than a bucketful is wasted. Let’s try the watermelon.” I try to be a good father and provide solid advice for all my charges.

I worked with the big melon, a difficult job as each half weighed seven pounds. By the time I had them situated in just the right spot, my hands were slippery with the juice that was now running all down the front of the ostrich. I didn’t get Rick Perry turned even half way to face Rush Limbaugh when the pig made his alpha male sex announcement and mounted Rick Perry. He had Rick on the floor and was attacking the watermelons like a madman.

“Why that is terribly disgusting, Mr. Johnson. Doesn’t your hog know about foreplay?” Mr. Dave is a true gentleman, and this randy display unsettled him.

“Rush Limbaugh isn’t one to let anything stand in the way of his piggish appetites, Mr. Dave,” I told him. Then I added, “And it looks like the watermelon wins the prize.”

I may never eat watermelon again.

Manana, y’all.

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2 Responses to “How Much Bosom Is Enough?; Breakfast With The Johnsons”

  1. bj says:

    First! heh

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

    Beej. I can always count on you. Like a brother, dude.

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