Fuck The NRA- A Capitalization Offense

 

So. I’m wondering what it is about America and Americans that makes us think we’re so fucking great. I know the words we use to tout ourselves, I’m just having trouble translating the conceptualizations contained in all this “America is wonderful” rhetoric into actual actualizations. After extensive research and memory searching, it appears to me that the most common “sell America in as few words as possible” sales pitch would be contained in the old tried and true axiom stating that America is:

“The Home of The Free, Land of The Brave.”

Really? Home of the Free? Free what? Free to love who we want? Free to make decisions about our own bodies? Free from economic suppression? Free from the autocratic edicts of another’s religion?

Land of the Brave? Really? Like brave enough to vote for simple, smart gun legislation?

Bullshit. It’s like the same thing as I see on the sides of police cars. “Protect and Serve,” might be written on the sides of more American automobiles than the word “Police”. Ask those three young women up to Cleveland in the O-hi-o about the quality of protective services rendered in their favors.

Which reminds me. Whatthefuck is up with the grammatical usages of the words “who”, and “whom”? Why does it even matter? Is there a single English-speaking non-moron on the face of the Earth who wouldn’t know what you meant if the two words were merged into one?

OK, maybe that should have been, “…non-moron whom wouldn’t know…” See what I mean? It’s the same thing with I/me. And answer me this. Why, in-the-dog-shit, do we capitalize I and not me? Hell, if I’m so important to deserve capitalization why aren’t me and mine? For Christsakes, I am me. And what about you and her and them? Why does my shit stink and I don’t?

Talk about your capitalization punishment. I say we string up all the grammar Nazis by their nipples until they fix some of this shit. I think it’s time for a little Grammatical Anarchy!

We need a slogan and a name for our cause. How about “Free Americans for Brave Grammatical Change!” as our name? Oh-oh, and our slogan could be, “It ain’t about whom, it all about Who?”

And speaking about stringing-up by one’s nipples, there was this one time when one of my ex-wives visited her buddy up to New York City. I’ll not tell you which of the ten exes I’m referencing herein, except to say that she’s the one with aureoles the size of porcelain saucers and nipples you can hang your old letter jacket from while role playing “Cheerleader meets football hero”.

Anyway, this lovely and buxom woman had this buddy living to the big city, and on this one trip to visit, the friend took my wife to one of those bondage clubs. Wife comes home with an extra suitcase of what she called, “This is a case full of sexual delights, Mooner my main man.”

After a short discussion as to why I was her “main man” and not simply her man, and, likewise, numerous slapping of my hands when I attempted to open the suitcase, I was instructed to, “Go take a shower and shave yourself from your belly button to your knees. Then put on the pink Speedo I bought you and meet me in the basement.”

And don’t even start with me about the pink Speedo. I never went swimming in it and you, likely, have never seen nipples the size of Little Smoky Sausages get hard enough to cut glass. So back off on the pink Speedo.

Me, I should have had the presence of mind to carefully examine my lovely spouse’s words. See, the “shave yourself from B-button to knees” part was a key phrase. Shaving my hairy ass alone is a two-hour process involving the dulling of three new razors, so the half-day it took me to get skinned and make it to the basement in a pink thong gave the wifey-poo plenty of time to adorn said basement with her newly-purchased sexual delights.

I slid the pink swimsuit up my legs, settled it into place, and took a look in the mirror. “Holy shit!” I said to the surprised look on my own face, “Half of my man package was fur!” I then spent a few minutes fluffing myself and then went to the basement, which was locked.

Me, I’m thinking that my finding the key and doing a “breaking-and-entering” scenario was part of the plans. After finding the key I decided to sneak in like a cat burglar. So I craftily opened the door and crept (creeped?) down the stairs where I fully expected to find a pair of giant, oiled breasts awaiting me.

“What about that? Is that one there fer you twatter er yer titties?” I heard from behind the big stone column that supports the floor above. It was my Gram’s voice, and “that one there” was a pair of car battery clamps with mink pads, fastened to a fancy bungy cord.

The wife’s voice answered her, “Here, let me show you.”

There was a yelp, and then, “Oh, baby, that’s what I’mma talkin’ ’bout!”

I turned the corner around the stone column and saw a sight that still gives me nightmares. Wife and grandmother—both naked—were standing at my work bench with the opened suitcase atop. I can only describe what I saw by saying, “Think battery boosting competition.”

Remember how the Bedouins used to make water bottles out of dried camel stomaches? Pin jumper cables on a pair of those nomadic water jugs and you have a perfect visage of Gram. Think “instant wood” and you’d gain understanding of the lovely ex-wife.

Have I ever told you that I have the dreaded ADHD and its little brother ADD? I have no fucking idea why I called this meeting other than to say, “Happy Mothers’ Day!” to all you mothers, and that reminds me that my very own mother is coming to visit in less than a month.

Ugh. Please send drugs. Manana, y’all.

 

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4 Responses to “Fuck The NRA- A Capitalization Offense”

  1. Squatlo says:

    There’s a meme on the internet that usually accompanies horrible pictures, and that caption is: “What has been seen cannot be unseen”. After this post, I’m thinking it should be changed to: “What has been read cannot be unvisualized”. You owe me some mouthwash, ’cause the combo of you shaving and putting on a pink Speedo and your Gram nekkid with battery cable clips and bondage gear sent a little chug of vomit back up to the flapper seal in the back of my throat.

    I’m back. Doesn’t take me long to spit.

    About selling America, I think we’ve got a boatload of millionaires (elected officials and those who bought them their seats in Congress) to whom Selling Out America is their primary source of entertainment. How else do the two Senators from my state appear in public at the drop of a hat to cut ribbons, or hold forth on any rightwing television channel, yet won’t hold town hall meetings to explain to the voters why they voted against the background check bill. Seriously, what are they gonna say?

    And that line “land of the free and home of the brave” is still ringing in my ears today. I was the photog at the Tennessee Rugby Association’s State Championships yesterday here in the ‘Boro, and I had six rugby title games to cover. Before each game they played the Natty Anthem on the PA system, and everyone was asked to stand, remove their hats, cover their hearts, and face the flag while a recording of Whitney Houston’s version of the song was blared out at us. Six mother fucking times. And if you’ve not heard Whitney’s rendition of the song, with full orchestral accompaniment and spiced up with her own interpretative warbles and trills, you’ve not suffered in public.
    A military band cranking through the song in about 45 seconds is my idea of playing the National Anthem before a ball game. Whitney or some other Madison Avenue “artist” spending seven or eight minutes warbling her way through it with all of the bells and whistles she’d normally reserve for butchering one of Dolly Parton’s tunes is excruciating. Six fucking times.
    I’m as patriotic as anyone you’ll meet, I really am. But once was too often, and twice was abusive. After the FIFTH rendition of that song, I found myself looking around as players and coaches on the sidelines and people in the stands squirmed and scratched. They were looking around, too. No one felt patriotic about any of it. It was a formality, done to an extreme that actually did more to inspire disrespect than patriotic fervor. When they cranked it up for the sixth time, I opened a cooler I’d brough to the field and ate a chicken and cheese wrap I’d made before leaving the house. Chewed right along in time to the tune, too. Cap on head.
    Remember when George HW Bush was running for reelection and had the audience at every rally recite the pledge of allegiance? The reporters assigned to cover that campaign finally stopped taking part in the little show after a month or two on the road with that asshole. They were called “unpatriotic” for not chanting along with the rubes and hayseeds.
    I now understand why they stopped saying the pledge.

    Fuck George HW Bush, fuck Whitney Houston, and fuck the two Senators from Tennessee and anyone else who voted against strengthening background checks on firearms.
    Happy Mothers Day.

  2. Mooner's on Lunchbreak says:

    Squat. Thank you for writing a guest article. I feel that I have mostly abandoned things here to Bloggieland and your contribution to the pages herein is greatly appreciated.

    As for the story above, first I think that you should have developed a far tougher gag reflex by now. You are, after all, a lifetime resident of Tennessee. Besides, having never seen me in my pink Speedo, you should reserve judgements thereon. I’ll send you some pics–then you decide.

    Which brings up the Star Spangled Banner. Play it on the 4th of July–I’m standing up and singing my little heart out. Memorial Day, Veterans’ Day, days when we honor heroes or Presidents–I’m standing again so long as it’s not some stylized version. But you can stick your rugby game fake patriotic-symbolic shithead American Idol ego-driven noise right on up Whitney Houston’s dead ass, and I mean that in the kindest possible way.

    It’s the fucking National Anthem and if it isn’t respected, it deserves no respect. Just like the American Flag. Put it on a flagpole or military uniform–I’m one tight-saluting sonofabitch. Put it on a lapel pin and just like my Gram says, “I don’t really giveashit.” And that reminds me about your Senators.

    What ever happened to accountability? When did it become so commonplace to “spin” your problems and mistakes rather than to face them? I once tried to blame Sister for something that I did. ONCE! Entire family slapped the leather belt to my ass and some took seconds. Man that can’t say, “I did it but I’m gonna handle it,” is not a man at all. He’s a godamn shitbrained, goat-fucking asswipe, and likely a right-wing Christian conservative to boot. Not that we don’t have a few of those dickheads our ownselves.

    OK, finished my sammich and must go back to work.

  3. Squatlo says:

    You’re welcome. I think. Actually, if you go over to my place you’ll see that I used YOUR space for the rough draft of a work in progress. The more I thought about it, the madder I got, so I had to rant on my own site as well.

    Turns out others were worn out by the tune, too, ’cause I’ve asked around.

  4. Q says:

    “Land of the Free.” Yeah, that’s an oxymoron. We’re only free to change underwear and maybe a few other small things. We’re definitely not brave since we allow old people to send young ones to die overseas. Nothing brave about that at all. Bush, Obama and every other prez should go the route of Capt. James T. Kirk and fight the leader of these other countries! Don’t put other people in harm’s way, be a leader and get into a boxing ring with some of these nuts! :)

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