So. I’ve decided to stop bitching about the blistering Texas heat and my state’s extreme right-wing politicians, and I’m going to get myself a place up to the mountains at Santa Fe, New Mexico. That way, instead of calling out the Roto-Rooter man to separate my balls from my leg, I can escape from the brutal heat and humidity to cool, dry mountain air. They actually add moisture to the air in Santa Fe!
A place over to the Land of Enchantment will also give me respite from the idiocy that is Texas politics. It appears that our legislatures are about to get farther to the right this year. As those silly assholes have already been driving our state’s bus way over to the right shoulder of the road, I fully expect them to race us into the ditch in next year’s legislative sessions.
Santa Fe, on the other hand, is as solidly planted in the left lanes as Texas is on the right. Hell, Santa Fe is so far left they should be driving like the British. Overall, New Mexico is considered to be moderate—sometimes Republican and sometimes smart. Their Republican governor, Susana Martinez, respects Democrats and works together with them to better govern her state. I’m not fully up-to-date with her politically, but I have recently become fully up-to-date with her.
OK, stop. How fucking confusing was that? Try this: I haven’t completed my research on New Mexico politics, so my only thought is that their Governor is a reasonable woman. She isn’t a Rick “The Prick” Perry sort of Republican based upon my research, and she doesn’t seem destined to ruin her entire state just for kicks. Again, my research is in it’s infancy so I’ll make no in-concrete proclamations.
But I did have sex with her. Intimate, tender and sweaty twist-my-hair and shout, “Hallelujah!” sex. It was Governor Susie (she asked me to call her that) and Hilary Clinton and me, and the three of us were sitting down to the fishing dock—legs dangling over the side—swilling icy cold Carta Blanca beers, just like god and I did a couple days ago. And just like a couple days ago when I was there with the big guy, we were deep into the mushroom buttons.
OK, wait again. This was dream sex I’m addressing here and not actual awake and all parties aware sex. Not that I haven’t had sex where all the parties were not awake and aware, but this was a dream for certain. I was certain it was a dream because the circumstances were so akin to god’s last visitation that I made everybody pinch everybody else to be sure that I wasn’t dreaming.
Which, as it turned out, I was.
And somebody help me with this. How, in the fuck, does pinching yourself tell you if it’s a dream or not? Who made that silly shit up? I have dreams wherein I can pinch myself and it “dream hurts” just like a real pinch in awake hurts. If Hilary hadn’t been there the other night I might be bragging that I’d bagged the SEC.-DEF and New Mexico’s governor in actual life. The former Presidential hopeful straightened me out.
“Listen to me, Mooner,” the most honorable Mz. Clinton told me. “Do you really think I’d be blowing you on a rough plank wooden deck, sweating my ass off and getting splinters in my knees while Governor Susie watches? Don’t you think in real life I’d be a bit less submissive?”
Another clue that this was a dream is that in actual life I’d be required to ponder that little question. As a social scientist and unfettered commentator, I might seek further experimentations with Governor Susie and Hilary before answering.
But this was a dream and she had a dream point. “You’re right, my Sweet Baboo,” I told her. She asked me to call her my Sweet Baboo. “In real life Governor Susie isn’t a watcher, she’s a participator. Also, I think I’d likely be the first on their knees at the alter of sex.”
And don’t go getting all pissy on me for revealing the intimate details of my sexing these important women because I’m not going into the details. However, I will say this. First of all, the former first lady isn’t a full-out lesbian, and second, her husband doesn’t fool around on her because she isn’t fun to get nekid with. As for Governor Susie, well…
OK, stop once more. My ADHD has seized control of the mainframe and cloud computers and is garbaging everything in-and-out. I have absolutely no idea where I was going with that other than to say I was going nowhere you give a shit to go. It’s just that there’s been so much going on about gay and lesbian political issues that I guess my subconscious mind wanted a little action with two nice ladies, and my dreamscape painted those two powerful women as willing participants in my fantasies. I often dream of powerful women—some I admire in actual life, and some are Michele Bachmann.
I did awaken from the dream with splinters in my own ass and shoulders, but they could have come from anywhere.
Anyway, I’m packing the animals and taking a trip up to Santa Fe the end of June, first of July. We’re going to find a place for us to use as an escape from Texas whenever our home state gets to be too much. Too fucking hot—we’re off to Santa Fe. Too much asshole right-wing politics—fuck it, we’re headed to New Mexico!
At breakfast this morning we had a round table discussion as to our wish list for the new place. I had Aunt Hilda take notes as family scribe and she somehow managed to screw things up as usual. But it’s what she does and it’s OK by me. Don’t know why I mentioned that, maybe I’m getting a case of the early onset dementia.
Squirt, in her usual opinionated way, had an entire list of wishes. “Here’s my list, Mooner, and the first ten are non-negotiable.”
She rattled off sixteen things she wanted in the Santa Fe abode. Most made sense, but several were ridiculous. “Look, little lady,” I told her, “I’m fine with you having your own bedroom fully furnished with all of that pink girly shit you like. But I will not be bringing Caesar Milan to live with us. I don’t need the Dog Whisperer telling me that I’m a bad parent.”
The Squirt somehow thinks that having the famous dog trainer as her personal confidant would have some magical benefits. I know I’m a decent father to head this herd of animals and I always have their best interests at heart. I’d never stick one of my dogs in a crate wired to the roof of the car and I never beat my pets. I might drown the fucking cat if she shreds any more of the clothes in my closet, but that would be a justifiable homicide.
I built Honor one of those around-the-room cat play scapes with worlds of carpet for use to sharpen her claws. Still that bitch kitty prefers to climb through my closet like she’s repelling the cliffs over to Paleface Park.
I want a place near the Plaza so I can walk to coffee and meals and music and all the neat shit that makes Santa Fe so great. I want it to be rustic adobe in style, have a nice kitchen and plenty of charm. Otherwise, I’ll attempt to please the animals’ wish list.
Time to hit the I-streets and look at what’s available. Anybody know a good real estate agent in Santa Fe?