A Horse Trade Story- Take A Pair Of Camel Toes For Your Dogs?

 

So. Let me begin today’s Sunday morning services with a disclaimer. What you are about to read is not a complaint, neither is it a case of a shithead writer whining about his life. My life is a good one in spite of its many travails, and I’m your basic happy clam when viewing my life from a global perspective.

Which reminds me. Travails—according to the dictionary—are excessively difficult trips or work efforts, or, childbirth experiences. Me, I think it’s unfair that I can compare my life’s tough times to that of when a woman births a baby. I’ve bore witness to three childbirths, and I will tell you that nothing in my life would compare to that.

OK, except for maybe getting raped by my Boy Scout Leader as a kid. Or maybe that one time when I fell into a prickly pear cactus. Or there was the time I went skinny dipping and sat on a hidden fire ant mound.

Or, sweet Jesus, that time my mother zipped-up my preschool pecker into the rusty steel jaws of the zipper in an old pair of Daddy’s work-worn overalls. Terrible stories one and all, but true. And available for reading should you lose your mind and choose to click over there =====>>> to my bloggie roller and buy my stupid fucking book, Full Rising Mooner.

Isn’t it interesting as to how perspectives effect a person’s viewing of any event? OK, and let’s take another anecdotal break to evaluate whether perspectives can also affect a person’s viewing of an event. Since entering psycho therapy sessions routinely some thirty-some years ago, I have been keenly aware that effects and affects are somewhat dichotomous nouns that are almost joined-at-the-hip. I’m way too fucking busy with my life to present the treatise I’ve entitled “Stop Effecting My Affects- Can’t You See I’m Crazy?”.

And don’t even start to correct me by saying to me, “Mooner, dumbass, you don’t ‘entitle’ a scholarly paper, you ‘title’ it.”

Fuck you. I carefully choose my words even when I’m forced to invent them, and that reminds me of the dream I had night-before-last, and that reminds me to say, “Fuck you,” to those grammar snarks writing to bitch about my use of hyphens. Eat-shit-and-die.

I loved saying that when I was a kid. Get into an argument and run out of pithy or cogent output? Just say, “Eat shit and die!”

Anyway, Friday night I took the dogs with me for dinner. It was still in the forties with no wind, and the Squirt had been craving tater tots from the Sonic. We piled unto the GTO for the three-block drive to our neighborhood Sonic, and piddled our way to our parking spot located in front of the door where the roller skating wait staff exit with the food.

We drive and eat in the car instead of walk and sit at the picnic tables because the goat dog will eat anything off the ground that is food, resembles food, or has been within 100-feet of actual food. We park where we can see each tray of food delivered so that Yoda can at least eyeball all the foodstuffs he’s missing.

“Order six totties and tell them extra crunchy, shithead,” the Squirt impressed on me. She calls them “totties” and she likes them fried to make the same crunch as her dry kibbles.

She was standing in my lap while reading the lighted menu, and the goat dog was on the dashboard, nose pushed against the windscreen. His eyes followed each tray of food as it left the door, and his wet snozzola left snotty contrails on the glass. The sticky lines closely resembled the criss-crossing Etch-A-Sketch flip-flops of Mitt Romney’s policy positions, and me—I love the way the British say “windscreen” for a windshield.

“And tell them I want a hot dog, cut the onions, cut the mustard, extra chili, double-extra cheese, and one teaspoon of sweet relish—not one bit more. And tell them I want them to boil the wiener first and then grill it black.”

The little bundle of brown fur and wonderment surveyed the menu with fervor. “And get me an extra-large cherry lime with extra cherries.”

Yoda’s menu selections are more difficult to translate. He “phoopfs” and “pharphs” at everything from the kitchen, so I only order things that he tries to jump through the windscreen after.

When he knocked himself silly in his attempt to get at a tray loaded with Frito Pie and onion rings, Squirt said to me, she said, “Looks like we need to get the Beano out, Bwana Mooner. Shithead is eating some gassy dinner tonight.”

I, of course, forgot to dose the goat dog with the anti-gas medicine, and that reminds me to tell you about the fucking cat. Honor has taken to Santa Fe living as if our new hometown were the Garden of Eden. I buy a whole fish for dinner at least once each week, and leave the carcass with head still attached out back for her. She’ll return home, come inside to shed some fur, sharpen her claws on the quilt hanging on the back of the couch, knead pinpricks on my chest as she nuzzles my face in thanks for the fish carcass, usually puke a fur ball filled with feathers and mouse bones, and head outside to eat the fish.

I’ve never before had a cat, but I don’t know what all the fuss is about.

Which brings me to my original thought. The dry weather here somehow manufactures dust balls. I can mop and vacuum one minute and next minute my clean floors are littered with dust balls again. Fascinating.

And the dust balls and Yoda’s gas somehow stimulated a camel toe dream about which I no longer have time to describe to you. As a tease, I’ll tell you that in the dream I decided to give the dogs up for adoption and this couple wearing tight Lycra bicycle shorts wanted to adopt them.

Now I have to go. I promised Sister that I would try to find a friend of hers who lives here but has no phone. I love adventures, so, manana, y’all.

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9 Responses to “A Horse Trade Story- Take A Pair Of Camel Toes For Your Dogs?”

  1. Squatlo says:

    I believe I’d rather put up with Honor the Cat’s diet and dumpings than deal with food from Sonic. Which reminds me, I took Cindy’s seven year old niece with me to watch the state wrestling championships in Franklin on Friday (she wasn’t impressed) and on the way home I offered to let her pick the fast foodie place. Big mistake. She insisted upon McDonalds. I suggested ten other chain restaurants as decoy bait, but once a kid has her mind set on a Happy Fucking Meal, you’re getting Mickey D’s for lunch. Now I remember why I detest that place. She got something called a McBite’s, which turned out to be cubed little deep fried chunks of some variety of fish product, and I got a Big Mac… thinking, stupidly, that it might taste something like that Big Mac in my dreams, the one that was almost as good as the worst burger I’ve ever gotten at Wendy’s. I was wrong.

    We’re thinking about getting a cat for the kid to play with on her visits, but you might have talked us out of it with this post.

  2. Mooner Johnson needs sexing says:

    Squat. When and if you ever become an actual pet owner, you either will, or will not, bend to their culinary desires. Me, I find it far easier to choke down subpar swill than to clean dog shit from the inside of my footwear.

    As for the tastes of preteens, their habits seem set by TV commercials and not their tastebuds. My kids hated Micky D’s and were big on Jack Inna Box. I think it was the free He Man characters in the kiddie boxes.

    I had one He Man and one Skelletor, and my daughter was always above the rest of us.

    On the cat dealie, let the cat pick you. Works out better for all of you.

  3. bj says:

    I think it was Bill Cosby who said his wife (Camille) told him when he asked her to describe childbirth she said “Take your bottom lip … and pull it up your face and over the back of your head. That’s what childbirth feels like.”. I know fer a fact that if we “manly type” mens were the ones having babies?This would be a scarcely populated planet!
    I had a near death experience with fire aints in 1990 when my niece got married in Lugoff, SC. I’z assigned the task of tying a HUGE bouquet of colorful balloons to the big sign out on Hwy 601 with the Church’s name on it and a big arrow pointing toward Porter Crossroad where the actual Church stood (stands? S’still there so) Stands so folks would know where to turn off the Highway. Trouble was I had to reach WAY up (I said it’uz a BIG sign) to use this one big nail somebody else had drove into the sign (fer THEIR weddin’ I reckon) and I had a hard time actually attaching the handful of ribbons that constituted a balloon rope to that nail. I didn’t get it hooked the first time I stretched and reached way up high so I looked down and saw a brick laying on the ground under that big ol’ sign so I moved it to where I could stand on one foot, wrap my free leg around the sign corner post to help balance myself and reach way up for the nail. I got a’hold of it too, but in mid-tie I started feeling something on my leg but since it had been such a travail (like the way I came back and used yer werd, there?) … since it was such a travail doing something so trivial I paid no attention to the crawly feeling goin’ up my leg until I had completely completed my assigned assignment and tied the buncha balloons to that Got-dam sign! That’s when the fire aints started bitin’ and stingin’ my leg. I come down offa that brick and stepped right smack on the nest with the foot of my wrappin’, balancin’ leg while I was tryin, to get my britches (Sans-a-Belt dress slacks) undone so the fire aint COLONY went up THAT britches leg too! And all them aints was bitin’ and stingin’ like I was their mortal enemy the whole time. I’m sure I made quite a sight standin’ there on the side of Hwy. 601 as I danced and snatched my britches off as I ran toward the car for help. My future-ex-wife was sittin’ in the cool air conditioned car listening to Fleetwood Mac or some shit until I snatched the door open and screamed for her to help me slap, swipe and pick the HUNDREDS of fire aints off my legs and ass. I wound up having to get buck ass nekkid, there on the side of Hwy. 601, to get ‘em all off, too. The doctor at the emergency room said I’z LUCKY that I didn’t fall down when they started bitin’ and that I had the presence of mind to run away from the hill I had put that brick down on. Long story even longer I had to take a series of several shots over the next few days, I blew up big as a Beluga whale all over, was covered in bite hole SCABS for the next two weeks and to this day my pretty legs, which took the brunt of the assault have hundreds of tiny spots. I was a sick puppy for those two weeks too! We gasolined that fire aint hill the next week (and blacked that big white sign and post up quite a bit in the process) and burned them fuckers out. The sign is still there … but I ain’t got out to look and see if the fire aints are. Everybody at the Church knew about ‘em, though so maybe nobody else got eat up like I did. My Future-Ex-Wife and I both missed the wedding, but the photos were nice.
    I recall adding MOTHERFUCKER! at the end of that Eat-shit-and-die epithet and Fuck-a-buncha grammer Nazis anyway! Okay, that includes me, I guesss ’cause I’m REALLY starting to notice just how many spelling and grammatical errors there are in just about every news story I read on the interwebz, these days. I dunno if they ain’t got the money to PAY someone to proofread the shit they’re writing or if they’re just too fucking ignernt to know care about their misspellings and fucked up syntax but it annoys the shit outta me. So … Fuck ME,Too, i guess!
    Lastly … Dood, I ain’t took to but one cat in my life, and have STRONGLY disliked ALL the rest? But If I had a cat like yer Honor, I’d be a happy sumbitch! Sounds like she’s takin’ a walk on the wild side a’fendin’ fer hersef like that and comin’ home just to lick and rub on YOU! Stay on your toes … you might just become HER property. Or has that already happened?
    Okay this really is the last part I’ma write today …. really …
    I haven’t been partaking of any herbal attitude adjustment for the last couple of weeks, been eatin’ healthy (fish and veggies), and quit drinkin’(Ms. Baby, too! I’m SO proud of her!). But man-oh-man! Have I been havin’ the strangest dreams! I need to start writin’ ‘em down when I wake up, I reckon, ’cause they are stranger than true! …..

  4. Squatlo says:

    I don’t have a fire ant story (dammit) but I DO know Bill Cosby gave credit for that child birthin’ line to Carol Burnett, not Camile.

    And I think getting eaten up by fire ants would be preferable to attending any wedding I’ve been party to, and I’ve only been to four of them in my life (and two of those were mine)…

  5. bj says:

    Ahh! Now that you mention it, Squat, in my mind’s eye, I can see Carol Burnett saying that those werds. And now that I think about it, Camille, during the birth of their first child, said …. “YOU DID THIS TO ME!!”

  6. Mooner Johnson needs sexing says:

    Beej.

    OK, for starters, great to hear the family is well–kiss, pet and whatever you do to a fucking bird for me.

    As for the fire ants, anyone not attacked by those little shits gas no idea. The initial pain and ana-shock from the bites is only the beginning. Each bite turns into an angry combination of a pimple, mosquito bite and an infected puncture wound.

    I had them from my ankles to my belly button before I could make it stop. Stopped counting at 250 bites on the one leg. Always travel with the Benadril, so I made it to the hospital in time.

    On the having-a-baby business, I did have an awake catheter insertion and removal this one time. Wife at the time says to me, she says, “Do that every three minutes for fifteen hours and tell me having a baby isn’t so difficult.”

    No… Fucking… Way.

  7. Squatlo says:

    Anybody else remember the good ol’ daze when Mooner would post shit daily? (heavy sigh…) Now he goes for weeks between tall tales.

  8. Cynthianne says:

    Yep, it’s coming up on two weeks without a post- Mooner’s among the missing. If he had’nt commented at BJ’s a day or two ago, I would be afraid that in his search for Sister’s phoneless friend, he was arrested as a stalker, and thrown into Shoal Creek by his psycho-therapist. Come to think of it, that COULD have happened- does Shoal Creek allow its denizens internet access? Should I be sending care packages? A cake with a file in it? (Although the file would be marginally more edible than my cake…)

    Hello?

  9. Katy Anders says:

    It’s always nice to drop in a regionalism or two that is blatantly drawn from a different region – just to confuse people.

    I used to Europeanize my dates – day first, then month, then year. Just in the hope that ONE person might stop and think “I thought she was from Texas.”

    Wait – y’all might actually DO that with your dates and with your windshields where you’re living. I mean, NM. That’s halfway to Yankee.

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