Archive for October, 2014

Dog Jitters And Wedding Bells; For Itchier Or Pourer

Thursday, October 16th, 2014

So. I awakened Monday morning to the smell of dog’s ass and the acute understanding that something had my balls in a twist. Upon opening my eyes the canine ass dealio became clear. Crystal clear. The goat dog had found a way to pretzel himself around my arm as I lay on my side, his head on my shoulder and his hairy ass two inches from my face. It took me maybe three seconds to realize that if I didn’t handle my bed exit strategy just right, I’d end up with the bull’s-eye smack on my nose. Yoda is still skittish some three years after I rescued him and he jumps at a whispered “Boo”.
I carefully—and I must say quite carefully—moved my free hand from where the Squirt had it wedged between her fluffy, brown face and my scrotum. I then remembered a dream wherein one of my sons’ aunties had made an untowardly remark my way—something about her foot and my balls—and I’d felt required to protect the family heritage. Squirt grunted rudely when I jostled her, which startled Yoda, and I managed to spring enough synapsis fast enough to turn my head and catch the dog anus on my cheek rather than squarely on the snout. The goat dog then spooked the Squirt and she scratched a long, and now angry-looking, welt in the crease between my leg and pubic area.
That particular patch of skin can become problematic when gouged, causing itching and irritation and the deep-seated and sometimes unconscious desire to rub or scratch, things I’ve done both absentmindedly and with full focus all week.
The reason the dogs slept in places other than their usual, with the white one nestled against my side and the brown one between my legs with her head resting on my belly, is that I’ve been gone for ten days to attend my son’s wedding back over to Austin, Texas. The dogs stay with my friends Marla and Cheryl, whose own wedding I attended several weeks ago. They have five dogs of their own and seem to actually enjoy having Yoda and the Squirt visit. My two canines seem to have a good time while there, but still prefer things here to home.
“We didn’t get to sleep in their bed this time, Mooner. Maybe it’s because their wedding bliss is still with them, but we had to bed down on those lumpy foam things you got us. I didn’t sleep for shit the entire time, and the goat dog had nightmares. Said it reminded him of the puppy mill except without the beatings and throat slitting.”
“I’m sorry, Squirtie girl,” I told her, “but I couldn’t find a motel to take you and me, and no acceptable kennel in the little town where the wedding was held.”
“Then you need to know that Yoda’s liable to be skittish and clingy for a while. He still worries that you’ll abandon him.”
He was, and is, and that explains the tightened sleeping arrangements in spite of the fact that I promised him he was adopted for life, better or worse. Have you ever smelled a dog’s ass from two inches away? Have you ever felt a dog’s bull’s-eye smeared across your cheek? Have you ever been served hot dogs, mac and cheese and roasted corn for a wedding dinner? Well, folks, I’ve done them all in the last week and the only desired repeats would be the wedding fare. The food was a perfect match to the somewhat informal wedding hosted at one of Texas’ beautiful vineyards.
Like I was saying, my son got married and it was a wonderful time. I got to be with family and old friends and I need to be cautious what I say from here on out. I’ve a promise to not say too much about my kids herein and I work quite hard to keep my promises. Promises make me wish I was a liar and a cheat. Promises might be the things that disturbate my lifestyle the most. Promises have everything to do with integrity and having integrity causes me much, and many, consternations.
Like promising to not make a scene at the wedding.
So, to keep the promises, I’ll not mention the things not done by me that caused a scene at the wedding and I will mention that I’m in the photo purely by accident other than to say I was reaching for the chopped onions for my hot dog when the nice lady leaned in front of me for the mustard, and her open V-neck sweater snagged on the copper bracelet I wear to ward off the arthritis in my wrist, and while I remain unsure as to how her large and firm breast became nestled in the palm of my hand, I am certain with an absolute surety that she and I both found the experience less than terrible.
OK, maybe my copper bracelet snagged her sweater, actually the camera was a smart phone and I didn’t drop a single thing from my plate throughout the entire event. I’m holding my plate out to the side with my left hand while we did that dance people do when things get all caught-up in other people’s stuff—the twisting and turning and eyeballing. I offered to put my plate down and use said left hand in assistance, but, as the nice lady put it, “It’s OK, Mister Johnson, things are already a little crowded in there.”
As the sweater was one of those loose-knit wool jobbies, each wobble of our disentanglement polka caused the end of the copper coil to poke around like a curved knitting needle. The line for hot dog condiments was stacking up behind us so we moved off to one side, me still awkwardly holding my plate of now cold food.
“Oh for shitsakes, Mooner. I turn my back on you for two seconds and you’re groping a college coed.” This from Dr. Sam I.-Am Johnson, my ex-wife number one and mother of the groom.
“Thank God for that, Sammie. I was worried she might be under-aged.” As I’ve gotten older I’ve started seeing every woman between the ages of thirteen and twenty-five as a seventeen-year-old.
“Oh for shitsakes, Deedo, it’s my wedding.” My son, newly married, who has always called me “Deedo”.
Maybe my new middle name should be “Oh, for shitsakes”. Anyway, I turned of age for Medicare last birthday and I spent the day over to Social Security to make application one day in August. What with the budget cuts to social services, it took all day to wait in line to do anything. I understand that they want you to do stuff online rather than in person, but I had already fucked-up the original application online and was forced to reapply in person over there off St. Mike’s Street. When all my paperwork got back from the Medicare people there was one mistake in my “Certifications” which needed to be corrected. Punishments for incorrect certified information includes heavy fines and jail time and I choose to not go back to jail with cause. Fifty phone calls to fix the error went straight to recorded music, so I walked the dogs yesterday and then walked the mile to the SS offices.
It was a beautiful day—mid seventies and crystal clear skies—and I sweated a bit with the walk. The sweat irritated the ribboned whelp on my crotch making it itch and burn, and what does a person do when they itch and burn? They rub and scratch.
I plucked a pleated tab of paper marked “Number 106” from the roll in the big plastic box at the security desk and moved to stand against the wall and facing approximately 100 seated, smaller-numbered-pleated-paper-tab-holding visitors. My welt is itching and I’m fighting the urge to scratch and the guy next to me starts bitching about being Number 95. We discussed the entire online thingie and then the weather and had moved on to discussing the Texas Ebola outbreak. I blamed the right-wingers and he blamed Obama and then I saw a nice lady—seated in the second row of industrial chairs and dead straight ahead of me—who was staring at me with a somewhat angry look. I gave her a toothy smile to ease her anxieties.
I shook off the look as to her maybe holding a tab marked in the eighties and went back to attempting to convince the asshole blaming Obama for the poor quality of America’s health care. I felt the woman’s eyes on me and glanced her way once more to find a somewhat angrier face. I smiled, again, shrugged and mouthed, “I’m 106,” and went back to a careful dissertation about the history of the health insurance business. The dissertation and occasional glances with smiles at the angry lady continued for what I suppose was a reduction of ten numbered paper tabs. I had made it to the part wherein Herr Schmidt Rommel had created Obamacare for the Bean State when I felt a disturbance in the air.
“You, sir, are disgusting.” It was the lady from two rows over with the security officer in tow.
“I’m going to ask you to leave the building, sir. Please go quietly.”
“Who, me?” I questioned. “What have I done wrong—I haven’t said one word to her.”
He didn’t reply, just pointed at my midsection. Seems I’d jammed my hand into the pocket of my jeans and was scratching myself. Might have been doing it for a good fifteen minutes. I didn’t argue, a sure sign of my growth as a person, and left. Maybe I’ll try to correct my Certifications online.
Fuck Walmart!

Little Pricky Perry; MSNBC Jumps The Shark!

Wednesday, October 1st, 2014

So. As hard as I try I can’t seem to manage either my technologies or my life. It appears that the harder I work at it, the worser I become. Let us begin with the technological side of this unequal fucking parallelogram. Don’t you love that word “parallelogram”? It was one of my favorite words from geometry. OK, it was my favorite word in the entire mathematical schedule of my formal educations. “Quark” was my favie in physics, and Malaysia my favorite in geography. I loved Malaysia because it means “bad Asia”, and that thought may be making a statement on my mental fitness, and in English my favorite word was “run-on sentence”.
My favorite word of all words is, of course, the word fuck.
In the last year I have upgraded both my technologicals and my life stylings and, having said that, I’m reminded that while upgrading those, I have downgraded my upholsteries. Now that I am re-retired from an actual job, I’ve stopped shaving routinely and wear only the clothing I deem appropriate. Don’t like my three-day growth of facial fuzz? Go fuck yourself. Paint stains and wrinkles on my tattered Mooner’s Compost Plant logo work shirt put you off your feed over to Dr. Field Goods café? Go fuck yourself. Me, I think the pizza sauce pasted in your nasty blond beard is repugnant, and you didn’t eat pizza today, shithead, you had the goat sausage special.
So fuck you once, and then again!
And what is it with MSNBC? I was trying to watch Morning Joe and they had the pompous pompadoured prick, Texas Governor Little Ricky Periwinkle, on the show. Joe Scabblurry, or whateverthefuck his name might actually be, starts this effusive mumbo-jumbo about how the Prickster is the second coming of Ronald fucking Reagan.
Really, Joseph, you’re saying that on MSNBC? Fuck you and MSNBC as well.
And your milk-toast pretend liberal cohost—Annika Sorenstam, or whoever the fuck she actually is. Who knew Elizabeth Hassleback had a clone pretending to be a progressive woman?
And now, a word from our sponsor, Attention Deficit Disorder:
“Do you ever have bouts of excessive loss of concentration? Have you ever forgotten you were having sex and asked your lady friend to get you a fresh beer? Do peoples’ eyes glaze over in the middle of your stories? Was your childhood nickname ‘He’s a Disruptive Little Shit’? Have you ever forgotten to wipe when your cell phone rang in the other room and you were expecting a phone call from your batshit crazy mother? Do you speak and write in incomprehensible allegories? Have you ever asked yourself, ‘Did I really say that?’
Well, folks, if you can answer, ‘Yes, Mr. Deep-voiced Announcer Man,’ then you, dear friend, might be afflicted with the blight of the dreaded Attention Deficit Disorder.”
Which reminds me. When I purchased a new cell phone—my first intelligent communication apparatus—I was conned into likewise buying the insurance for it. As I am both clumsy and foolish, I felt—after having ruined numerous $200 dumb cell phones—that the $15/month a wise investment to cover a $500 smart unit. As expected, I dropped the silly fucking smart phone and broke the face glass, said glass being a flat sheet of transparent molten sand with a replication cost of three-and-a-half cents. As I dropped and shattered said glass during normal business hours, I drove to the phone store to get a replacement glass.
Did I tell you that I sliced my finger when the damaged-glass phone rang as I was driving to the phone store? Can somebody answer me why, precisely, is the best way to answer one of these things to rub your finger across a piece of razor-thin glass? Why not require us to lick it? Makes as much fucking sense.
Anyway, I arrived to the phone store to stand in a line of maybe sixty other already glad-to-be-there phone patrons and started the hour-long process of waiting. Each asshole in line had: 1. a phone issue; 2. a unique and aggravating ring tone; and 3. what seemed to be forty-three calls per hour coming in over the cell tower radar beams. I felt my ears would burst, my brain microwave blister, and my patience lose itself on this shithead who had decided that “Girls, Girls, Girls” was an attractive ring tone when blasted at 88 decibels.
I finally made it to the front of the line and told the nice lady my problem, and that I had insurance and asked, “How long will it take to get a new glass thingie and do you have a Band-Aid. I have about another thirty minutes before I shove that guy’s Samsung Android up his ass.”
“Oh, sir,” she replied, “we aren’t allowed to administer medical treatment and we can’t replace the glass. You must purchase a new phone.”
Then she smiled at me like I was a moron for even asking. Moron I am, I then said, “That’s pretty fucking stupid—waste a $500 phone for a nickel’s worth of glass. But who really gives a shit, I’ve got insurance.”
She stopped smiling, stepped away from the counter and shouted, “Manager!”
Turns out that my insurance policy has a $175.00 deductible for “user damage”. Pig fucking greedy-assed cell phone companies. The phone is now sitting on my work bench and is in process of my gluing it back together. I need a new, better magnifying glass to tweeze this shit back into use.
Then again, I’ll likely not be satisfied with my glass reconstruction. If so, I’m grabbing the big sledge hammer sitting by the front door and marching out to the street to have me a cell phone party. If that fucker is rendered useless with a broken glass, then the phone company will have exactly zero used parts from it. Broken glass, broken fucking phone.
Fornicate Walmart!