Rush Limbaugh Porks Neighbor’s Pig; Nuptials Negated?


So. I’ve fathered three human kids and raised a dozen animals as if they were my own, but I’ve never had to deal with anything like this. As you all know, we have a big wedding scheduled and the planning activities have been a crazed string of events. Right away I had to get Rick Perry’s wedding dress ordered—a not unremarkable get. Before this month’s wedding date, I had to locate, alter and obtain timely delivery on a dress appropriate for a 350-pound ostrich in dress size eighteen but with its bodice a size 56-FFFFF.

As a large man who has gained a few pounds with middle age, I’m used to shopping for oversize garments and the slim pickings offered to those of us who don’t fit Life’s standard deviations. My big bird would have been difficult enough to fit before the installation of his giant rubber titties. Post breast augmentation surgery his fitting was a bitch.

Speaking of bitch, did any of you visit the Saucy babe ex patriot linkster I postered yesterday? If you check out the string of comments involving me, you can get a microcosmic view of just how deep the divide is between those of us left of center types, and those to the right. The rigid right are acting like medium-sized rattlesnakes, who having been driven from beneath their rocks have slithered frantically for cover in the corner to the barn. Rather than chance that a person who approaches with a snake noose and a gunny sack might seek to return them to their homestead habitat, they lash out with venomous strikes.

I tried to engage Lisa in a dialect but she only wanted to spit the poisoned words of the right-wing talking heads she follows. Too bad for all of us. The little drama between she and I (her and me?) is much akin to the chasm of divide in our US Congress. Failure to compromise leads to change by only two choices. Abandonment or force. Either one side gives up or one side attacks with superior strength. Like 1930’s Europe. and no way to run a railroad.

Ricky’s bridal dress is a combination of compromise and brute force. He agreed to do without extra rhinestone adornments and I agreed to buy two separate dresses and alter them into one that fits. Even still, the bodice seams had to be reinforced with heavy nylon fishing line to keep my son’s huge bosom harnessed. And it is that bosom that has brought the joy and pain of a Russian novel to the Johnson family ranch.

The rubber titties are my wedding gift to Rick Perry and Rush Limbaugh—something they both wanted in the worst way. The big hog was so enthralled at first viewing of the surgery’s results that he dry sexed Ricky at the breakfast table in front of the entire family. He was so engaged with his lover’s new breasts that he wouldn’t leave him alone. So I banished him over to the neighbor’s place where he could stay in Smitty’s pig pens with a gaggle of other hogs. His absence has allowed me to get things done with minimal interruptions.

Have you ever wondered why we say of people who are gluttonous that they are piggish? Have you ever wondered why we call a person who takes too much of something a hog? Or why a slob is called a pig? The answers lie (lay?) in the natural habits of the porcine. Pigs are hogs, and hogs are piggish. Spend a few hours at a pig pen and you will see every possible pig/hog cliché played out in real life.

And therein lies today’s rub.

I took Rick Perry over to Smitty’s place to visit his future groom. The bride-to-be was lonesome and whiny in his lover’s absence and I relented to the visit. Ricky got all duded up with bright painted talons, a sharp trimmed beak and one of his Madonna bullet bra dealies. He’d sat at my vanity and preened and picked at his feathers for hours, and he wouldn’t let me have the rear-view mirror on the drive over as he checked hims look the whole way. He was like a soldier’s wife headed to the airport to see her returning hero come home from far away Afghanistan. Full of hope and excitement and anticipation.

I pulled down the gravel drive at Smitty’s and parked my farm truck by the barn and maybe twenty yards from the hog-wire-and-metal-stake pen where Rush Limbaugh has been temporarily housed. Rick didn’t wait for me to come around to open his door. He somehow squeezed his fat bosom through the open passenger window and bolted to Rush’s pen. I followed and met the ostrich as he stood on his tippy-toes to find his lover.

There was roiling action inside the pen and I thought it must be feeding time. I pay Smitty a pretty penny to room and board Rush Limbaugh and it looked as if my money was at work when we arrived. As I looked closer I realized that the pigs weren’t eating, they were embroiled in a cluster fuck. Half of the hogs were mounted on the the backs of the other half of the hogs.

“Your goddamn pig has turned all my boars gay, Mooner. I’m having trouble getting them to mate with my sows.”

It was Smitty and he was pissed.

“Aw, Smitty,” I told him, “you know pigs are born swinging from both sides of the plate, and old Rushie there is a manly sort of man. You can’t turn what’s already gone to seed.” Why is this whole sexual orientation dealie such a difficult concept? Even a man like Smitty—a pig farmer who knows better—chooses the position that you can’t simply be gay. They think it takes either choice or coercion to be homosexual.

“I know you’re right in concept, Mooner. I’ve been around pigs my entire life and they’ll mount anything that’ll stand still for. But shit, Mooner…” Here Smitty removed his straw cowboy hat and mopped his head with faded red hankie. It’s been hot and humid this week and hog farming is hard work.

Which reminds me. Why isn’t it hog ranching?

Smitty added, “Ever since you dropped him off your pig has been terrorizing the place.”

And then the wailing started. Rick Perry isn’t very smart and he’s slow on the uptake so it took him some time to assimilate, then react. Have you ever heard a mature adult ostrich cry? It’s one of the most unsettling things I’ve ever heard. It conjures thoughts of what the Greek mythological Sirens must have sounded like. Rush Limbaugh caught ear of Rick’s crying jag and stopped humping the spotted hog he was attached to long enough to look over his shoulder at the big bird.

He got a surprised look on his face that said, “Uh-oh!” but he didn’t dismount.

That was early this morning. When I got Rick Perry back home he raced to hide in his bed in the closet of the master bedroom. He hasn’t come out or stopped sniveling since. I brought him some hot tea and a bucket of locusts and mealy worms but he won’t eat or drink. The Squirt sat and talked with him for several hours and she told me all the big bird will say is, “I’ll kill the bastard,” and “The wedding’s off.”

I wonder if that woman Morganna—you know, the kissing bandit of baseball—will be getting married any time soon. I need to see if I can recoup some of my investment in the wedding dress.

Manana, y’all.


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8 Responses to “Rush Limbaugh Porks Neighbor’s Pig; Nuptials Negated?”

  1. mel says:

    Awwww….that is so sad. Is there any hope? I was totally looking forward to some wedding pictures.

  2. Squatlo says:

    I paid your NZ pen pal a visit and found the blog post / comment thread of which you write, and left a pithy comment of my own.

    She sounds like a handful, Mooner. Careful, you might knock Reckem down to wife number twelve with a little more communication with the southern hemisphere.

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

    Mel. Hope springs eternal and Rick Perry isn’t very smart. My guess is that Rush Limbaugh will spon some yarn and poor Ricky will think he’s the one done the wrong.

    Squat. THX for checking it out. I don’t think I’m off on that one.

  4. Mooner, dahhhhhhhling…forgive my absence. Nobody is knocking me out of my wifey # 12 spot. I checked out her blog. I didn’t bother to comment because she deleted all of your (and Squat’s) comments stating that she wasn’t going to give any lefties the time of day. Bitch rag. I’m glad she is an ex-pat. Now, if we can just get the rest of the ignoranuses (SIC) to jet out of the country… I hear Bangladesh needs some stupid rich Americans to populate their lands.

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

    Reck. How’s it hanging, baby? Squat needs to be chastized for his attempts to drive a wedggie between us. I could never fall for such an angry woman when the anger is at me and mine. I’m saving myself for you. I think the ex-pat broad wants me but doesn’t know how to be civilized and she senses rejection.

    Which reminds me. The saving would be far less painful with some pics, if you know what I mean.

  6. Squatlo says:

    Hey Mooner, I know a good photographer who lives in Reckem’s general area… ahem…

    I had no intention of driving wedgies between two of my favorite people, I just thought a woman as angry and hostile as that one you pissed off down in Maori Land was your kind of trouble, seeing as how you’ve collected ten or eleven EX’s already. Some people are just magnets for abusive types.

    Personally, I’m happy to know my comment was deleted. That means her accolytes won’t be swarming over to my place with their venom and bullshit, and I need neither at this point in my life. Got plenty of my own.

    See if you can get Michelle to rejoin the living and crank her blobber back up. I miss the stories about the Church Lady at work, the psycho-momster, and Hooligantics!

  7. Q says:

    “Madonna bullet bra dealies?” LOL! That visual is as humorous as it is disturbing. And good luck finding a buyer for that dress. If Morganna doesn’t buy it, then you can always sell it to Tyler Perry for his next movie role.

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