So. We’re all sitting at the big breakfast table this morning having the first meal of the day. We’re all there and feeling fit and trim save for Gram, who is fidgeting like a school kid who needs to pee. She’s rolling from one butt cheek to the other and grimacing with each switch. Mother, as is her habit, has the newspaper in her possession and is reading us the highlights—as only she interprets which stories need highlighting.
“Oh, this story just disgusts me the way they’re treating that nice boy,” Mother said disgustedly. “He didn’t do anything wrong.”
Now me, I know better than to assume my mother’s heart-felt compassion is ever directed at the truly deserving but Mr. Dave hasn’t been around long enough to see things clearly.
“Oh, I know, Mother Johnson, that poor child just went to the store for a bottle of sweet tea and that Zimmerman maniac killed him because he was wearing a sweatshirt.” Obviously Mr. Dave spoke to the Trevon Martin murder—most of the rest of the table knew his reckoning was dead wrong.
My mother harrumphed and lowered the paper enough to peer across the table at Mr. Dave. She wears those silly half-lens glasses to read, said silliness enhanced with the knowledge that she has another pair of half-lens glasses to use for distance. Her dark eyes stared a hole in Mr. Dave through the half-lenses for about five seconds—the anger behind smoldering in visible expression around those eyes. I could hear the rusty cogs of her brain grind as she thought, Think before you speak, Mother, Mr. Dave makes you happy. Let him live to fuck another day.
She smiled, a placating, mirthless thing and a smile I’m quite accustomed to view. “I’m not addressing poor Mr. Zimmerman’s situation, dear Mr. Dave, I’m reading how the Obama administration is persecuting poor Ted Nugent up in Alaska. They’re using an unfortunate hunting accident to get back at Teddy for telling Obama the truth.”
OK, first, in case you don’t know, the sawed-off shit for brains Nazi runt named Ted Nugent lives on a Central Texas compound up to near Waco—a two-hour drive north of Austin. Second, the “unfortunate hunting accident” Mother mentions is Mr. Nugent’s admitted violation of the laws of the State of Alaska regarding the murder of bears. For some idiotic reason it is lawful to kill one bear per year up to Alaska, a legal tenet I find appalling.
But our fine and upstanding Teddy wasn’t happy to kill just the one bear, he needed to slay a second to fill his blood lust. You would think that a man who is so “into guns and hunting”, as Nugent says about himself, that he would know how many bears he could legally kill in one state in one fucking year. He had to buy an out of state hunting license and get bear tags, right? I know that he knew he was breaking the law.
Gram twisted and grimaced in her chair, let out an airy fart, flipped cheeks and grimaced again before saying, “Ought ta pluck his nuts with a banjo string an’ make ‘im whistle Dixie fer killing a bear what don’t need it.” Gram twisted cheek-to-cheek a good half dozen times and said to me, she said, “Mooner, you got any a them repositories they give ya fer that ass detection ya had last year? I got a little sumthin’ stuck an I need some help.”
“Oh, sweet jesus, please don’t talk about that at the breakfast table, Gram, I can hardly keep my eggs down as it is with how they’re treating Ted.” Mother harrumphed once more and hid her face with the paper.
“I’m all out of those morphine suppositories, Gram, but I’ve got some little glycerin bullets that’ll clean you out in fifteen minutes.” When I had my lower peritoneal cavity infection last year, one of the medications I got was what I think was called “phenagrin” suppositories. Better than Quaaludes, but not what my grandmother needed even if I had them.
“Do I need to redo the week’s menu, Gram? Have I been fixing too many carbs?” I asked.
“Naw, I ain’t impacterated with no celery, grandson, I was fuckin’ round with them assholie beadies ya give me, anna string broke. Got most of a dozen a them glass balls stuck up my ass,” Gram informed the table. “Still feels kinda good, but I missed my mornin’ reconstitution an I’m gittin cranky.”
I had to ask, and I had to give her the anal beads for Christmas. “Those beads had a heavy nylon cord, Gram. How did you manage to break it?”
The words were still an echo in my mouth when regret filled my brain. I had to fucking ask.
“Well, heh-heh-heh, ya see Mr. Dave was doin’ that vibrator inna ass dealie he does, an I got ta thinking a how it might feel iffn we could git them glass balls clinking and jabberin’ all up in there an…”
“STOP!!!” Mother shouted. “Dear god in heaven, Gram Johnson, not one more word of it!”
My mother whirled from Gram to face me and said, “And you, Mooner Einstein Johnson, have you lost your mind? I raised you better than to give your grandmother sex tools.” Then she added, she said to the entire table, “Einstein my ass. He doesn’t have the brains god gave a grape,” deep, martyred breath, flustered rustle of newspaper, another deep breath, then, “A stupid grape.”
Reckmonster is back in town and she makes beaded jewelry and is quite good at it. She just returned from Trinket Maker Fest where she won an award for something she made. When things settle down for her, we’re going to discuss a new business to sell sex jewelry at in-home parties. My first ideas for our product line is matching anal beads and jeweled cock rings. Oh, and maybe we could connect a set of beads to a ring with a studded chain.
We could do custom fitting and charge for that as well. Hell, I might pay just to get sized if the saleslady had a light touch.
Anyway, I gave Gram a suppository and now I’m headed to town to buy a replacement bowl for the toilet in her bathroom. Anal beads should come with a warning that says, “Do not use after any meal containing pinto beans. Wear safety goggles to avoid eye injury.”