A Welcome To New Readers; I’ll Have One Of Those Hot Dogs On A Pretzel Bun

So. I’m again writing as both part of my commitment to spend thirty minutes each day writing and also my agreement to disclose those of my behaviors that are “call out” behaviors. For those of you new to the word jungle hereat mostly confined, please know the following: my psycho therapist is the first of my several ex-wives and mother of my kids (and, likewise, the arbiter-in-charge of the confessional call outs); my late-life children are two mixed breed mini dogs named Squirt and Yoda (aka the goat dog); my loony old mother is mostly confined to a memory loss home (the reason behind my recent move back to Texas) and; I seem to lack most of the thought filtering devices for socialization common in civilized persons; I’m an atheist and dislike most religions and all religious bullshit; I’m socialistic politically; I’m an ADD-addled fuckbrain, and as the Squirt has grown fond to say when she tells me, she’s been saying, “Mooner, you’re a hot fucking mess.”

 

Run-on sentences aside, using the above information as the colored shards to fill the round box out to the end of your kaleidoscopes, please spy through your lenses with guarded responses at whatever it is that follows. OK?

 

As it’s now full-blown summer and our lawns are lush and full, the Squirt has an unnatural fear of flies and the goat dog chases himself dizzy as he spins and jumps to snap the winged buzzers dead with his mouth, and having dogs who shit in the grass breeds fly colonies who, whom maybe, like to nest in grass, deep breath…we’ve got flies. Every kind of fly known to inhabit the habitats of similar habituaries to ours. Big horse flies, fruit flies, house flies and everything between. Having tried every possible fly catching or fly killing or even the scare-your-flies-away dealios, nothing actually worked as desired.

 

OK, let me break here to say that while we do have Dragon Flies, they are not subject to our rancor, nor of our ire, as instead of hunting them down with evil intents, we have planted some bushes in specific design to attract them for their beauty.

 

Also in the name of disclosure so as to not appear to be in conflict with my own beliefs, in response to a buddy’s question that if I hate flies so damned much, why do I have one tattooed on the tender patch of skin that lies between the thumb and forefinger of my left hand, an inking of extreme visibility in my everyday life. The answer to that is simple. As flies are the first visible evidence of pending death in the animal kingdom, I placed a Spanish bottle fly on that patch of skin as a reminder that I have cancer. And saying that requires the clarification that I actually have two cancers.

 

The first are the skin cancers that have visited my skull starting from when I was forty, cancers that have required scalding and freezing and scalpelling in successful efforts to fully remove them from my person. I’ve had dozens of those things removed over the last twenty-eight years, and as long as I keep them removed in a timely fashion, none will threaten my life. The second of my cancers lies inside the walls of my traitorous fucking prostate. No details here, but suffice it to say that it could not be removed to prevent releasing its cancerous cells into the rest of my body, so I got the treatments designed to shrink it so small as to make it a non-issue for my future health.

 

I put my Salvador Dali drawn Spanish bottle fly tattoo there to my hand  because I had started playing poker more seriously after my treatments by The Great Radiator, and I wanted a constant reminder that while I have no specificities thereof, the numbering of my days was in final countdown. Maybe most people don’t require so visible a reminder of pending mortality, but what with the ADD and all, and memory requiring at least a modicum of focus…

 

Anyhow, we were stymied as to our fly issues until my good buddy BJ from middle Tennessee told us about the “Bug-A-Salt” fly killing machine. As a complete hater of any sort of gun, it was difficult for me to buy-into the purchase of even an air rifle to make the life of my pets better. But after watching the company video and reading Beej’s description of his fly killing successes, I got one. Other than birth control, the single best purchase of my life.

 

OK, so what the Bug-A-Salt rifle is, is a plastic, pump action air rifle that looks like a mini assault gun, which uses ordinary table salt to kill flies. And it is quite the efficient fly killing machine.

 

When we were watching the company video depicting the operational effectiveness on the I-net, I asked the dogs what they thought, I asked them, “What do you guys think? Will that work for us?”

 

After some seemingly careful consideration, the Squirt looks up and tells me, “You’ll put our eyes out, dumbass. You’ll be hunting flies and start thinking about that car waitress at Sonic yesterday, and, well, you know how that goes.”

 

The small brown puppy who is my oldest late-life child was speaking of the quite comely woman—in and of itself an anomaly roller skating around at a Sonic—who had the quick wit of a comic and the long limbs with delicate hands I find so attractive.

 

What with my hating guns attitude, it took me awhile to learn how to effectively operate the damned thing, but I’ve now been proven to have killed 68 flies with a recent 72-shot whatchamacallit of table salt. OK, help me, you don’t load ammunition for a gun into a canister or a box, you load it into a_____. A something not called a cargo hold, and not the spare bullet detachable thingie kept in the pockets of those cargo pants that mass murderers seem to like, said detachments serving as a personal arsenal when some shithead decides to shoot up a nightclub. I’m talking about the internal ammo-storing container actually a part of the gun. In a revolver I think they call it the drum, right?

 

Anyone still with me? Anyway, you fill your whateverthefuckitis you call the thing that holds ammunition on the actual person of a gun with table salt. Ordinary table salt, and I get Kroger branded generic table salt that was on sale for $0.49 recently at the Kroger over to Loop 288, you know the big store. The regular price is $0.98 but I get the discount with my Kroger card. The manufacturer says you can fill the storage thingie in your Bug-A-Salt with an 80-shot load of miniature mini balls, but I can’t get 80 shots loaded without spilling another 80-shot load all over the place. So, my average load is 72 shots. Okay, perhaps my average is 71, but who really gives a shit? Whom either?

 

We three-that is to mean the dogs and I–say we’re going on safari when we make a trip to the outside to shoot flies. I’ve got a cammo safari hat to keep the skin cancer from re-infesting my head, and the dogs creep stealthily beside me as we hunt the pesky critters down. OK, should it be better said that we hunt down the pesky critters?

 

Which reminds me. Has anybody else noticed how many of the mega-church preachers have started cozying-up to the Trumpster? The Prez was in Dallas last weekend meeting at one of the local gigantic religious industrial giants, and the sound bite from the asshole pastor was, “Trump is the last hope to make America great again!”

 

How can a true Christian cozy up to Trump, a question the answer for which I just now realized in the simple act of writing the question. And should the previous sentence end with a question mark as it contains a question or end with the pointed declaratory period? Don’t know, don’t really give a shit to the punctuation question, and the other one seems simple.

 

Hypocrisy. Telling me that the man who wants to grab your wives and daughters by their pussies is America’s last hope is hypocritical bullshit, just as little Jimmy Baker fucking around on Tammy Fae while fleecing the minions of millions on a family values platform.

 

Dammit, it isn’t the chamber because that’s where the bullet goes to be fired, right? Anyway, got bugs? Wanna have some fun? Buy yourself a Bug-A-Salt rifle. Googlate it.

 

Fuck Walmart!

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2 Responses to “A Welcome To New Readers; I’ll Have One Of Those Hot Dogs On A Pretzel Bun”

  1. bj says:

    I’m wearing a disguise and guarded(?) AF(!) lookin’ over my shoulder for ‘new’ fucken READERS. What CHO’ ass needs is new commenters! What happened to that nice Lady who used to come by here? … Gina Lollobrigida? or something? What’d you say to her? But then, “I” … fucken … ran Squat’s ass COMPLETELY off the Light side of the innernets. So. Maybe it ain’t you. huh? How’s THAT for a guarded response? and maybe that’s what you were talking about when you said guarded comments though, huh, so I will understand if you WAKE UP! right now! and delete this comment instead of publishing it because you’ve enough problems in your life what with all the flies, amirite?
    Speaking of Trump, Televangelists, dog turd flies, and other blood sucking insects …
    I have one section of my backyard – where their dog does it’s bidness on their side of MY fence so naturally MY dog is drawn to doing HIS bidness in the same general area on my side of my fence – that seems to attract biting gotdam flies. They look like ordinary gotdam house flies but only need a second or two to bite a gotdam HOLE in a mugh! The area is way out in the far back corner area and ordinarily wouldn’t be a problem, but ‘cept, when I mow(and that’s when them sumbishes eat my tanktop and sweatshort wearing ass UP!) but that’s also back near where Ms. Polly is planted and I spend quite a bit of time tendin’ that hibiscus mutabilis. Which sucking flies are drawn to as well. Maybe if I dowse m’self in malathion while I’m back there them suckers’ll leave me alone. Whaddaya think? And Lord, Honey, Fruit flies are EVERYWHERE in my lilbiddy house! Agga-VATIN’ dam bugs! but, hey! I got an answer for fruitflies asses, though. Put you a small shallow dish of ACV with a drop or two of Dawn in there, near your bananas n maters and shit you leave out on the counter and another’n on top of your onion/tater box. It works in the much same manner that intelligent and beautiful women are your Nemesis. They lose their minds and fly directly into the sticky, sweet smelling, substance, all the while exclaiming “How’s it hangin’, Baby?”. try it. werks.
    anyway …. wishing you ‘The Luck Of The Draw’. Happy Trails
    Sincerely, And Deeply Fucking Walmart With Total Disregard,
    beej
    orrr … not. I’m completely transparent. Like Trump’s Wall. and Junior. transparent af

  2. Mooner's Cascading Rivulets says:

    Beej. It seems that unlike you, all my commentators not named BJ spend a little time here and then go off to die, or likewise end their spoken relationships herewith. Lady Lolagetyourbloodboiling seems to have ended her daily writings over the last month and in that context, stopped commenting here. Me, as long as you keep hanging I get all the feedback I need, save and except for the constant nagging from the Squirt.

    Oh, and the good Dr. I. Am-Johnson. She did ask me about your and the Johnson Bunch a few days ago and I told her you suffered through a rough patch of sick buddies and others, and that you’d nutted the Roog. She suggested I ask for your vet’s name for a personal visit, and I think she might have been kidding. And do I read that you’ve lost the fucking B. I. R. D.? Damn.

    Me, I’d pay a visit to the neighbor–take him a bag of plastic bags and a little plastic shovel. Show him how to clean the dog shit from his yard. Tell him you can do it if he wants…A little gasoline, a match on a cool, still evening.

    I do need to brag about my safari skills. A tomato fell to the ground beneath its vine and started rotting. I just cover them with dirt to start fertilization for next years garden. Noticed that the flies had been feasting and planting a future crop of their own offspring in the rotted crease right there to the top of it. Got my trusty Bug A-Salt, donned my camp hat and took the dogs hunting. We snuck up on that fallen Cherokee purple soldier and with the first shot we killed or maimed five flies! Three were mashed into the rich purple flesh and two were doing that walk-in-circles thingie of the mortally wounded.

    I need a medal. Anyway, fuck Walmart transparently and from behind!

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