So. We got another drenching rain last night—another 2.7 inches at the ranch—but this one came without the high winds that damaged the garden earlier. We need the rain so badly that I guess I need to be willing to sacrifice my prized veggie patch for the greater good of my fellow man.
When thinking about this sacrifice, the evaluation is difficult. I love my garden, a fact I’ve over-discussed herein, but an important fact none-the-less. I love my garden more than I do Carta Blanca beer and only slightly less than I love sex. I do love me some icy-cold Carta Blanca beer but that quenching Mexican bebida is trumped by the taste and satisfactions of gardening.
Hell, if I was getting sex on any kind of routine basis I might place the garden ahead of that. But SAC Ellen is traveling so much that most of my sexing involves my lifelong love affair with Ivory soap—that 99-and-44-100ths-percent pure wonder of animal fat.
Speaking of SAC Ellen, I hinted earlier this week that I have a Governor Rick Perry story, a story you simply will not believe. I’ve been shitting my pants to tell you about it but I need the SACster’s permission to print the details, and she is withholding that OK with the same tenacity as her sexual favors.
OK, stop, as that was misleading. My lover doesn’t withhold sexing by choice as she seems to enjoy it as much as do I. She travels and is gone most of the time so, and therefore, Ivory soap.
Anyway, I was over to Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson’s place yesterday afternoon to mow her lawn before the rains hit. I mitigate some of the not small psycho therapy bills I manage to run up by performing maintenance on her lawn and pool. I took the puppies and the fucking cat with me, all loaded into the old GTO with me and ready to help.
They remind me of those old “Shake-N-Bake” commercials. You know the ones, right? “Daddy cooked fried chicken and we hepped!”
Squirt acts as supervisor directing Yoda and Honor with authority. She has a wicked sense of humor that I must admit cracks my ass right on up. Like I said, it’s been raining, and the deck around the pool was covered with earthworms and many of the live fish bait had made it all the way to the pool and drowned on the bottom.
“Yoda, come here boy and listen carefully,” Squirt barked. “I need you to pick all those worms up and put them in the compost pile. Pick them up with your lips so you don’t squish them into the cool deck.”
Yoda, dim wit that he is, barked his agreement and panted and jumped to the task. Squirt reminded the little salvage program from a Sooner State puppy mill, “And don’t eat the worms, dumb ass, you know they make you sick. You puke in Mooner’s car and he’ll send you back to Oklahoma!”
With that she looked my way and said, “I did all I could, Bwana. If he pukes on your leather it’s not on me.” Then she turned to the fucking cat. “Honor, I need you to jump in and snag those worms off the bottom of the pool. Try and not drown yourself.”
I spent a few minutes watching Yoda collect worms and Honor think about her swim. The little half Chihuahua/half Whippet had his lips curled into a silly snarl as he tried to get a grip on the slippery worms. As for the fucking cat, she’d stare at the worms gathered at the pool drain—eyes big as saucers—then look at me with that “won’t you do something, you’re the adult” look all over her face. Then she’d give the Squirt a nasty cat look and hiss.
I chuckled and went off to mow the front. When I had gotten the first few long runs cut up against the street and concrete flat work, one of Sammie’s neighbors walked over to interrupt my work. This is the racist neighbor—the one who asked me to only sell the house to white people. My ex-wife/therapist had considered moving awhile back and this asshole asked me to not sell to anyone not Caucasian. I thumped the asshole’s nose—hard—and called him a Nazi fuck.
He stopped about ten feet from me and said, “Uh, Mooner, that’s an electric mower, right?”
I nodded as I removed my right glove. My right-handed finger flicker packs a more powerful punch than the left. When I did a couple practice flicks the neighbor man flinched. “Well, I need a new mower and I wanted to ask you how you like this one.”
“Only thing to buy. Quiet, strong and dependable,” I told him as I relaxed my right hand. “Just don’t get one with a cord required. That dealie will drive you nuts.”
We then chatted about lawnmower shit like neighbors do and I pointed out some of the features of that particular mower. I put my glove on to go back to work. “Hey,” he said to my shoulder as I turned to get back to the grass, “can you believe Obama is supporting the queers and using Social Security to bankrupt the nation?”
He shook his head, eyes to the ground, so he missed me removing my right glove again. “These communist programs are ruining America. It’s disgusting!” and he spat, thick spittle sticking to his lip and landing on his chin. He didn’t seem to notice as his heat was rising to the topics.
“Leonard,” I told him, “ you get a pass on the queer comment so long as you drop it. As for Social Security bankrupting America, that’s a total fucking lie, and you know it. The entire SS system is paid for by the people who use its benefits after they retire, AND, the latest independent study shows it to have a $3.4 Trillion positive balance—enough to fund the next twenty years of benefits to every fucking pensioner. SS pays for itself, shithead, it’s just that your tea bag buddies want to use that money for big tax cuts in favor of their own self interests.”
“You are wrong, sir,” Leonard told me. “It’s just like the Postal Service—a loser.” Then he sang the word loser for thirty seconds.
Now I shook my head and thought that this asshole is what’s wrong with America. He’s so brainwashed by the masters of big business and faux news that he can’t see reality. “Look, Leonard, if you can’t stomach the truth, then try this on for size. Look at social services for the poor and elderly and infirm as a gift you give to your fellow man for being a part of this great country. For example, make a small sacrifice for our fallen American warriors so that they can get good health care for injuries they got while making a huge sacrifice for you.”
Leonard is always grousing about how we need a bigger military so I thought that might strike a chord with him.
“You sound like that Ed Schultz. You’re just another fag loving commie.”
Before I could think, I’d flicked his nose and his ear. Hard. Leonard had tears in his eyes and an expression of pure hatred mauling his face. “I’m filing charges. You’ll go to jail for this.”
“Be glad I don’t carry a gun, Leonard,” and I returned to my lawn mowing.
I’m proud of my President for taking the stand for gay rights, and guess what. I don’t give a shit if he is using it as political capital. He’s a fucking politician, for shitsakes, he has to use every word he says as political capital. It’s his goddamn job.
And how about Mitt Romney, folks. During the worst of the economic crisis Herr Schmidt Rommel wanted to bankrupt American auto companies, an event that would have cost over a million American jobs and $Trillions in lost business enterprise to overseas manufacturers. He actually wanted to ruin our country’s rich automotive history instead of providing the needed loans as were made by President Obama.
Now Herr Schmidt is taking credit for saving our auto industry. Lying, two-faced rat fucking right-wing christian asshole. I wish I could thump his nose. I also wish that I had enough resources to adequately fund our nation’s social services, but I don’t.
What I do have is a voice and a vote.
Which reminds me. Did you guys know that cats can swim? Manana, y’all.