Archive for the ‘food’ Category

Mustard Gas And Smelly Ass; One Man’s Efforts To Socialize

Monday, December 7th, 2015

So. Another productive week from our Republican controlled Federal Congress. For the some-dozenth time a vote to repeal The Affordable Care Act, and less than two weeks after the terrorist attack on a Planned Parenthood clinic in Colorado, Republicans voted to punish the victim by defunding PP and, likewise, reward the lunatic terrorist by insuring he can purchase another assault rifle should he get released and choose to repeat his terrorist act against women.

And I call them “do nothing Republicans” and I take it back. I call them bigoted and greedy shitheads as well, but that one I’m not taking back.

In the wake of this most recent deadly attack on women’s medical providers, it was suggested that mayhaps, just possibly, Republican/conservative rhetoric might have motivated this monstrous act. In their defense, those who spread the lies created by the false, doctored video of a PP doctor’s words both continue to lie about the video and claim Free Speech as justification.

I guess they can sleep at night knowing that they likely stimulated these murders and maimings, as verified by their continued actions. And my critical thinking on the subject leads me to a modest conclusion that they are either one, pleased with the result as a by-product of their actions, or two, pleased because the murderous attack on a women’s clinic was what they desired.

Then again, with Carly Fiorina it might be both and/or the simple fact that she appears to be a heartless autocrat and possible sociopath. The level of negative concern for humanity she displays is one of the key traits of antisocial behavior.

Which reminds me. I’m soon to be posting, herein, either a story about uncommon customer service performed by a major auto manufacturer, or instead, a tale of egregious customer abuse by said and same car maker. In either case I will be performing upon a promise made by me to said automaker to become either the best salesman this company could ever have, or, in the alternative, possibly the most gigantic pain in their collective ass they have never imagined.

And that reminds me that I need to admit that I now feel fully comfortable in saying that I am officially a cranky old fart. I’m a wears the tee shirt, card carrying, don’t give a shit what anyone says about me cranky old fart. As an aside, I just spent ten minutes adding, subtracting, adding back and re-subtracting hyphens from that last sentence. My memory from Mrs. Boulaware’s English class is that Grammar’s dictates require ten such hyphens in that descriptive sentence, and all those dashes made me queasy when I read it. So fuck it and add your own shitty little dashes.

Then again, a second count indicated twelve hyphens would have been required to accurately depict meanings. Let me show you:

“I’m a wears-the-tee-shirt, card-carrying, don’t-give-a-shit-what-anyone-says-about-me cranky old fart.” Unless you were to remove the commas and add hyphens thereat. Then there’s fourteen.

Fuck me running.  How annoying is that? And how annoying have I become? All I do is bitch, all I seem to think about is what makes me bitch, and I’ve somehow managed to lose the last tiny bit of filter I possessed when in social situations. I’d be embarrassed for myself, and often, but I don’t give a shit. I’ve started speaking my thoughts out loud as a general condition, whether to others or just myself, I’ve not been diplomatic at times when diplomacy would be the call to duty, and just the other day I was standing in line over to the coffee shop Saturday morning when a giant gas ball attacked my already-bloated gastro-intestinal system.

When I say giant gas ball, I mean “ate a quart of pinto beans two hours ago”, and when I say already-bloated, I mean I’ve been bloated like a beached whale since January of this year. One of the two worst byproducts left over from my visits to The Great Radiator, my “intestinal distress”, as the TV ads call it, has been my constant companion. When gas makes sudden attacks with its full power—much akin to a Navy Seal seek-and-destroy action—making itself known with a sharp jab at my gut followed by cramps, it can be debilitating. The closer the cramps strike after the initial jab determines whether I can simply fart the distress away, or in the alternative, run like Jesse what’s-his-name to the bathroom before I shit my pants.

Knowing the difference is an important distinction, and why can’t I remember Jesse’s last name?

Anyway, since the cramps quickly followed the jab, I knew that a fart would provide a temporary respite from the pain. Normally I’d have paused life, moved myself away from other human persons, farted, and only then continued with my life. My other life not consumed with gastro-intestinal distress. As this type of gas comes from my inability to properly digest raw, and some cooked, vegetables, the coffee shop fart was full of the robust aroma of a breakfast burrito with extra garlicy salsa, refried pinto beans and tomato. As the Squirt tells me my farts smell worse than dead fish, I make extra effort to put space between my ass and the asses of others.

That is to say that I spaced asses until last Saturday. Saturday I’m standing in an already too long line with half a dozen folks in front of me and a like number behind. The sharp jab punched my liver and the cramps followed within fifteen seconds. This “it’s OK to fart, you won’t shit your pants” signal led to the following, abbreviated internal conversation between my conscious and subconscious selves:

Me: “Uh-oh, here it comes!”

Me: “Fuck-a-duck, not now. I’ve already stood in line for five minutes and I can’t be late for another appointment.”

Me: “Ask the nice lady behind you if she’ll hold your place in line while you go outside to fart. She has a kind face…go on.”

Me: “I would but the guy behind her is the same asshole that bitched at me on Thursday for taking too much time deciding did I want a mocha or just a regular coffee. Man didn’t much like getting thumped on the nose. I really should think before acting sometimes.”

Me: “Then just stand here and let the gas leak out and act like you’re offended by the smell. Ask the asshole back there if he did it.”

Me: “OK.”

I haven’t farted a silent fart in twelve months so why did I think I could do it on demand. Just as I heard the nice lady behind me say, “Please, sir, would you step outside, I’ll hold your place,” I made a noise that sounded like an elephant sitting on a Whoopie Cushion, and released a cloud of toxic gas.

I’m looking for a new coffee shop and I’m lucky Santa Fe is over-stocked with options. Oh yea, it’s Owens, Jesse Owens was the black American who ruined Hitler’s Olympics. And Fuck Walmart!

Print Friendly

Late Wishes And Early Bitches; Hunting For Sport

Monday, November 30th, 2015

[Editor’s Note: I had fully intended to post this before I left for Texas, yet and alas, I forgot. My further intentions would be to write, and post a follow-up. Good luck to us all on that one.]

So.  I was over to Katy’s place at Fascist Dyke Motors making a response to one of her postings, and as my ADD was in full winter bloom, my eyes wandered out the window and fixed upon the sight of my small, brown puppy.  The Squirt was in full huntress mode—neck bowed, chest out, eyes steely and Devil’s grin plastered to her face—watching a mouse squiggle a red slinky upon the three-day old snow.

OK, for an early interruption, why isn’t it “…the three-days old snow,”? Word informs me it is “three-day old” snow even though the snow has lay grounded for three consecutive days and not lay a day, go away then lay again for a day, leave and come back.  OK, and why not three-day olds, likes spoon-fulls?

The little mousie has lived the summer and autumn somewhere in my, or the neighbor’s back yard, and has lived off my garden and compost patch. Since most of the garden was ruined by a spring hail, I’m assuming it was the food scraps I compost that supplied most of his rodent daily required nutritional values. I, once and again, assume that he was getting his full and complete daily needs as he was a plump little shit with keen senses and quick feet.

“OK, Mooner, I’ll block his route to the shed and you scare him to me,” Squirt told me last month after she’d spent the better part of a day keeping the mouse trapped inside our garden enclosure. She alternated all summer between chasing the mouse and catching the giant green grasshoppers our wet summer brought.

“No, dumbass, use a stick to prod him,” she admonished when I opened the gate to step inside the enclosure, “He’ll get around your slow ass, so use a fucking stick!”

I poked and prodded at the mouse and finally got him to bolt.  He jumped through a gap in the wire and did a perfect head-and-shoulder fake leaving the Squirt snarling and bitching at his shadow.

“Dammit, Mooner, you chased him to my left side. You know my right side is my faster.”

“He’s a right quick little shitbird, my chick-a-dee. No shame in losing him again. You’ll get him one day.”

My adorable mix of Chihuahua and miniature Dachshund must have captured, tortured, viewed with pride and then consumed a hundred or more grasshoppers as practice for catching this small rodent.  While I missed the chase, capture and initial tortures, I made first sighting as she sat like Snoopy waiting for Charlie Brown to load the feed bowl. As the mouse made pathetic efforts to run away with a severely mangled back leg, the red loops were growing smaller—just as a Slinky does when stretched to length.

I typed a few words of description of this event as a comment to Katy, then watched the rest of the death play. Mercifully, Act3 came quickly as the Squirt picked the mouse up by its head and pranced to the back door. I heard her bark, repeatedly, and ignored her, repeatedly. She came to stand outside the office window, barked. I ignored her there.

“Hey shithead!” I heard, muffled. “I’ve got a present for you.”

With that she sat like a bunny on her back haunches and held the bloodied mouse aloft. The she set it down to Slinky circle again, nudged it with her nose, picked it up and slung it across the snow. It slid, then banged to a stop against the rock wall. I banged on the window and hollered. “Don’t play with it like that. Either eat it or put it in the garden to compost. I won’t have you waste it, and it is NOT coming inside.”

That’s when I deja-vued my childhood, the memory hitting me like a brick. I was sitting at Thanksgiving dinner between Aunt Hilda and Mother, not my usual spot. I sat here because the buttered Brussels sprouts I didn’t eat Tuesday were still sitting on my plate Thursday afternoon. As the lone occupant of my holiday dinner plate, the small, now brown cabbage halves were getting worn thin from my moving them around with my fork.

“Stop playing with your food and eat it, you disruptive little shit. You’ll not get another morsel until all those greens are eaten!”

My mother’s voice was seething with anger, hissed through half-clenched teeth. I’d endured a second whipping at breakfast for refusing to eat the now cardboard-like vegetables. I was then threatened with a third.

OK, that was waaaay off point, and likely my ADD-addled brain’s method of dealing with the simple fact that I’m headed to Texas for T-givers.  It’s been awhile since I saw my maternal unit and I’ve those mixed emotions one has at these holiday memory moments, still comment way off subject.

What I meant to ask is this. Why do other animals play with their captured food and we humans scold for same? Mother lions and cats and dogs teach their kids to play with their captured prey yet we punish ours for pushing a few green things around a plate with their forks. I get that we humans don’t capture our vittles any longer as all our food has long been products of systematic incarcerations. But why must our kids eat everything we want them to?

My guess is that should we still be chasing our breakfast, we’d be a thinner population by miles. Hard to be 5’8” and 300 pounds after hunting pigs all day.

Anyway, may you all enjoy this best holiday and fuck Walmart for some added joy.


Print Friendly

Impulse Controls; “Hey Mikey–They Really Like it!”

Saturday, October 12th, 2013


So. The dogs and I spent last Saturday night over to some friends house in Albuquerque so that we could watch the big Balloon Festival. They live high on a hill in Corrales that is maybe four miles from the Balloon Park. As the ABQ is perfectly located for hot air balloon flying—what with its daily “box wind” phenomenon—the largest city in New Mexico draws people worldwide to attend the annual Balloon Festival.

The box wind dealio is because of the mountains around ABQ and the fact that the wind blows every which a direction as you ascend to different heights. So, basically, you can fly in circles by moving to higher and lower elevations. In spite of the rough landings that broke legs, and the one balloon that hit high power lines and burst into flames, it was fun to watch.

Before we left Santa Fe Saturday afternoon, we winterized the GTO—parked and covered and got it ready for a few months’ nap. The grand old girl is heady fun when it’s warm, but Winter’s cold and slick roads are anything but fun. Which is what sparked me to write today.

The other car previously holding the second slot in the fleet here to La Casita de Santa Fe was a rather large Chevy SUV. Big enough to carry 4’X8′ sheets of plywood, the oversize SUV was a menace on my adoptive hometown’s narrow streets and skinny parking slots. It was likewise a little clumsy in the mountains in spite of its four-wheel drive system.

The big Chevy met its demise two weeks ago when we drove it to get veggies from the Farmers’ Market. We were later in the morning leaving than usual and all the prime parking spots were already filled. I finally found a target space on Guadalupe Street, but some asshole in an Audi had parked over the back line of my assigned spot. The driver had not only parked over the line, but had done so quite crookedly. As I cursed started to drive off, Squirt said to me, she said, “You can fit it in, Mooner, I’ll guide you.”

I unhooked the diminutive brown ball of piss and vinegar from her harness and she jumped from front seat to back, and then over to the rear deck. I watched in the mirror as she surveyed the situation, pacing front-to-back and mumbling to herself, as she laid her backup plans. “OK, shithead, pull up at an angle and start backing up. Slowly.”

I started backing, slowly, and after we traveled maybe ten feet I heard, “Hard left!” and I did, and then, “Straighten her out,” and I did again.

“Slowly, slowly… slowly” Squirt cautioned me as she guided me with her muzzle pressed to the rear window. Her tiny face was squished to the glass as she gauged the distances between curb and Audi bumper. “OK, cut it hard right! No, shithead, the other right!”

After maybe fifteen minutes, the two of us managed to wedge the rear tire of the Chevy tight against the curb, and our ass-end to the Audi in a way that made it impossible for the Audi to move without dragging against the back of my car by snagging his bumper against the sharp, truck-like edge of mine.

The Squirt had the goat dog take a pee on his driver’s side door, and we left the two cars to defend for themselves.

“You need to send that monstrosity back to Austin and get us a proper New Mexico winter car, Bwana Mooner. Yoda and I plan to spend way plenty time exploring this snow season, and we want a fun car for it.”

“What do you have in mind, little lady? I haven’t car shopped for years now and I don’t even know what’s available.”

She and Yoda conferred for a bit. “Well, I want a Porsche and that silly shit wants a horse. He said that would be the historically correct choice of transportation.”

I’ve been reading Santa Fe histories to the dogs to help them get a feel for our magical hometown. The original roads in town were built to be only two horses wide, an effort to make invasion a quite difficult task.

“No Porsche and no horses. Too expensive, too much trouble, and uncomfortable for three to boot.”

We were walking along the railroad tracks that meander from Santa Fe to the ABQ like an umbilical cord sprung from my new hometown’s belly button, the Rail Yard. Squirt stopped at one of the many benches where she and Yoda jumped up to perch. “Sit down, Mooner, and let’s get serious. This can’t be a knee-jerk decision. Cars cost a lot of money these days and you need to take your time. The goat dog and I have a wish list—all wheel drive, roomy, dependable, panoramic sun roof, stain resistant interior all around, and a really great sound system. You can’t just be buying the first thing that catches your eye.”

She was right, you know. I can’t choose new cars with the same impulsive decision making process as I have with the wives. I keep cars for twenty years or longer.

We did our market shopping without too many distractions and returned to Guadalupe Street to find the Chevy SUV sitting on four flat tires and a full dozen Daisy’s Farm Fresh Free Range eggs dripping and sun-drying on the finish. I’m pretty sure they were Large, and I knew they were Daisy’s because of the color of the yolks. We buy a couple dozen of Daisy’s finest Large each trip to the market.

Anyway, the Audi was gone and I got pissed and after getting the car cleaned and tires inflated, we went car shopping. The three of us drove through every fucking car lot in town as we window shopped. The kids would “Oooo,” and “Ahhhh,” at all sorts of shit, and the Squirt was a running string of car commercials as we passed her favored models.

“What’s the matter, asshole, you haven’t stopped to see a single thing. What could possibly be wrong with the Acura MDX? It’s been totally redesigned and made for mankind! You don’t seem very excited about any of this.”

She was right. I just couldn’t get into it. “Let’s go down to the ABQ and get some hot dogs at Der Weinerschnitzel.” We love Der Schnitzel dogs, the three of us do.

So we did, and we exited at the wrong street and were forced to drive the access road to get back on the freeway. “Oh look, asshole, it’s the Mini store! Let’s check them out,” Squirt exclaimed.

So we did. Bought the first thing we saw—a Mini Countryman S All-4 with six speed manual transmission, no panoramic sunroof and a basic stereo system. It’s the ugliest thing you ever saw, and we love it.

Which reminds me. Has anybody thought to say that the reason the Affordable Health computer systems crashed from overuse is because the silly fucking Repubbies spent so much time promoting Obamacare? Planning for the best from a soft opening, Government computer systems planners felt that as many as 50,000 people would be logged on at any given time. Since all the systems were new, no real advertising program was planned and when you give the great American populace three months to do anything, the great bulk of us do it on the next-to-last day. Plan was, get the glitches worked out in early October, fix those glitches, and then be ready for the rush with a proven system.

But—thanks to those silly boys and girls who wish to take affordable health care away from the rest of us—the months of heavily vitriolic anti-Obamacare rhetoric spurred huge numbers of visitors to the site. More than 250,000 at a time, or five times as many as expected in the wildest dreams of the planners.

And guess what. When people take the time to look at the actual data, they like it. Even the bigoted and greedy, close-minded assholes like it. It’s like that old cereal commercial. “They like it!”

Thanks, shitheads, for selling a great product. Manana, y’all.

Print Friendly

Sniff, Hike, Dribble: A Parenting Lesson From Mooner Johnson, Father-of-the-Year Nominee

Friday, June 15th, 2012


So. I’ve been pretty busy with shit and stuff and haven’t been around the computer much. I did do an article for Katy over to Lesbians in my Soup, a returned favor for the public service work she did on my behalf. She said she’ll post it today. All the extra editing I did on that little dealio is why I’ve not been around here to the home site.

And speaking of Katy’s favor, can you even believe how quickly word spread about that non-party? Some people were even talking about how I was roasting whole hogs for dinner and how Willie and the gang were coming to entertain us. People were making guesses about the guest list and all kinds of shit. Maybe they were confusing me with Mathew McConnaughey.

Someone even sent the fucking governor an invitation, and let me tell you right now, that was funny. I got the fake RSVP card in the mail yesterday. It was marked “Decline” and in a scratchy scrawl at the bottom, it said, “Rick doesn’t think you’re funny.” It was signed, “A.”

I’m guessing that the “A” was Anita Perry, the long suffering wifey-poo to the pompadoured prick we call Governor. I’m also guessing that the scratchy scrawl to her handwriting is from the “vitamins” she takes for her nerves.

As soon as I get clearance to tell you the story, I can provide you with some very interesting insights into Mr. And Mrs. Perry. You won’t believe what happened because I wouldn’t believe it my ownself if I hadn’t been there for the experience.

And by the way. Who taught Mathew McConnaughey how to spell?

I spent the morning over to Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson’s house doing her lawn and pool. I like to walk the dogs in her neighborhood when I’m there so that the puppies can interact with other dogs, and also walking them on the pavement and concrete sidewalks keeps their nails trimmed.

Yoda the goat dog is a total trip when he walks the neighborhood. As he was raised locked in a cage at a puppy mill over to Oklahoma, he came to us without any of what the dog people call “socialization” skills. So he goes nuts every time we encounter another dog, and he barks and snarls 100-pound threats that his 12-pound butt can’t keep, and he still hasn’t come to grips with the whole concept of leaving his mark around town.

Squirt and I have spent hours teaching him the proper pissing protocol yet he still screws up most of the time. “Oh for shitsakes, Yoda, you dumb ass,” Squirt told him this morning. “First you sniff, then you lift your hind leg and then you dribble a few drops. And if you piss on my head one more time I’m feeding you to the coyotes.”

Then my adorable little puppy-translator turned to me and said to me, she said, “Do you have any idea what the attraction is with that entire golden shower thing, Mooner. I love the smell of urine but I hate to get it all over me.”

“We-ell,” I dragged out, “I’d like to say that I have no experience upon which to base an opinion, but, of course, I do.”

I then told her about the time I was down to Costa Rica with Roshandra, my ex number five and a large bladdered woman, and how I got stung on my back and the backs of my thighs by a sea nettle. “All the times before I’d been stung on my feet and calves so I could pee on myself to kill the pain,” I said. “Since my pecker is way too short to douse my back, Roshandra did the honors for me. I was lucky Roshandra can pee buckets.”

I reminisced for a minute and added, “I’d also like to say that I hated everything about it, but I can’t say that either.” For some reason the memory sparked thoughts of Thai hot and sour.

“Jesus, but you’re disgusting, Mooner. Where we going for lunch?” Squirt’s favorite meal is lunch.

We settled on Torchy’s Tacos and we hadn’t been finished eating for ten minutes when Yoda started with the refried bean farts in the car. He was riding shotgun in his harness and I had the windows up and the GTO’s A/C blasting. Squirt said, “Let’s throw him out of the car, Bwanna Mooner. I can’t take him any more.”

But the Squirt started farting too and we all got the giggles and played fart games. I was thinking about that just a while ago and it came to me that the dogs have the maturity level of ten-year-old boys, and so do I.

And I miss my father. For no visible reason at all, I have this longing to spend just one more hour with Daddy. Maybe it was the retelling of the bean farts. Daddy loved fart humor. Maybe I miss him because he was so missable.

Manana, y’all.

Print Friendly

Guess Who Is Coming To Dinner; Regular Sex Regulates, Part Dos

Tuesday, March 6th, 2012

So. It’s only Tuesday and my already action-packed week has gotten more actioned. Actionerated? Actionalized? Wait, that one would modify on the packed part, right? So, to print a self retraction, please allow me to say that my already action-packed week has gotten more action-packeded.

Oh, for shitsakes. Action-packederated? Maybe this is one of those “tablespoon fulls versus tablespoons full” sort of dealies. See, that spoons thing is ruled by the Grammar Police to mean that when taking the steps to create multiple spoon fulls, a person would take one spoon—a singular grammatical event—and fill it multiple times. Thusly, the baker or lemonade maker has added tablespoon fulls of sugar to whateverthefuck it is they were baking/mixing.

The Grammatik Polizei, however, do not have the dreaded ADHD or even it’s little brother, ADD. Nope. You cannot make it passed the short-form application for the Grammar Pobos if you suffer from any of the Attention Deficit maladies. If you could, a person would be granted an option to use either tablespoons full or tablespoon fulls.

In way of elucidation please allow me to expound. Say you’re me, an altogether confusing supposition yet the perfect scenario for this exposition, and you’ve taken on the task to make lemonade by the glass. “Why by the glass?” you might ask, and legitimately so. By the glass because each of the Johnson family lemonade drinkers likes their ade at differing levels of sweetness. And we all know that it takes awhile for good, low-refinement sugars to dissolve even in lemon juice.

OK, wait. I actually make quart batches of lemonade when making it for the family. Nobody can drink just one glass of my lemonade. I have a secret—a splash of Limoncella—that makes my le jus de citron sucre’ simply adorable. That’s what Aunt Hilda calls it, adorable.

For Gram, a tart old tart from the word “Go”[,] I place only six tablespoon fulls of sugar into her batch. Aunt Hilda gets ten spoons with an extra jolt of Lemoncella and Mother gets nine. Me, I like three sugars and three liquors.

Imagine now as Mixologist Mooner stands at his big kitchen counter. I’ve got a dozen each quart jars of fresh squoze lemon juice sitting on the counter in front of me along with twenty-eight each tablespoons, eight each booze jiggers and one of those rubberized jar lid grippers. I’m constantly screwing jar lids on more tightly than my dry hands can remove. I have a large bottle of Limoncella and a big bag of raw turbinado sugar standing by. You’ll notice the absence of water at this juncture of lemonading, and that’s because my other secret is to give each drinker a bottle of chilled San Peligrino bubble water. Dilute and bubblize at will, that’s my motto.

I approach Gram’s quart jar—I know it’s Gram’s because it has a label that says “Gram” in emerald green. I fill the six tablespoons (notice please that I said tablespoonS) with sugar and pour Limoncella into two jiggers, again notice jiggerS.

I dump the tablespoons one-by-one into the jar and then in goes the liquid. I fancy myself a dashing bartender, so I take a shot glass in each hand and pour both Limoncellas at the same time, and with a flourish. Then, and once more with a flourish, I wipe the spilled sticky Limoncellas from the counter top with the pre wetted cotton dish towel at the ready, and always to my left hand side.

I’m a tad bit obsessive and a touch compulsive as well, so the towel must always be already wet and always at my left hand. I know it’s a sign of just how fucking nuts I am to admit that not only do I suffer from the ADHD but that I also endure the tortures of the dreaded OCD.

But I take heart in the knowledge that the OCD is a self-imposed solution to some of the worst symptoms of the ADHD. By having compulsives I can limit a few distractions. Like when I’m taking one fucking tablespoon with which I’m to fill with sugar nine times to place into Aunt Hilda’s lemonade jar. The emerald green ink on Aunt Hilda’s jar label is imprinted with “Aunt Hilda and Dubbie-J” so as to acknowledge the shrunken-head-in-a-box that has been Hilda’s constant companion since she and Gram were abducted while girls.

The two sisters were in the old Congo nation as Baptist missionaries and had to be spirited to safety wrapped in blankets and smuggled in the bottom of a big wooden canoe. I’m too busy to tell the entire story, so go over there ===}}}} and buy my fucking book to read all about it. I’ll be glad you did.

Here I am, filling and counting as I fill the tablespoon and dump it nine times into Hilda’s jar. Something catches my eye from outside the big windows over the sink. It looks like Yoda is trying to lick the paint off the small smoker by the fire pit. That damned dog really is half goat. I caught him last night taking a dirty wooden spoon out of the dishwasher. He grabbed the spoon and took off like a shot to the back of the house. He’s a smart little shit, he learns right from wrong, but as I said he’s half goat and can’t help but eat anything.

So, we’re sitting at dinner last night. I fixed a pork loin with sour cherry gravy because my buddy Lloyd and his man Mike are coming to visit next week. I’m so excited to see them that I could shit myself. Almost did. I can’t decide on a menu to fix so I’m going through different things to see what I want to cook for them. We’ll have a small crowd of Lloyd’s other Austin friends out for dinner and Lloyd is a good cook. I wish to prepare something different but not BBQ’d pig innards or smoked grass carp. I’ve learned my lessons there.

I had everything on the table to eat and I started to cut the meat to order. Like with our lemonade, our cuts of meat vary among family members. Gram likes thick slabs and Mother wants hers in wafer-thin sheets. I made prosciutto-wrapped asparagus that I bake quick and high with salt, pepper and olive oil. I serve them with a shaving of Parma Reggie cheese and a drop of 20-year old balsamic vinegar, and that first bite might be the best ten seconds of eating ever.

OK, except for crème brulee’, which is the best however long it takes to eat it of eating ever.

I’m cutting Mother’s pork, concentrating to cut thin slices all the way through the roast when, “Spi-toosh!” and then, “Pfft, pft, pfft!”

Aunt Hilda spit lemonade like a sperm whale out his blow hole. “Oh, for the love of god, Mooner Honey. This is so sour it turned my mouth inside out.”

“I’m sorry, Auntie. I guess I got distracted when I made yours. That silly katoika, Yoda, was eating the back yard.” I looked around the table. “Oh, that’s Greek for goat, and maybe everyone should take a small taste of their lemonade to avoid the sperm whale act.”

Sometimes my ADHD can even overrule my OCD’s. But you get my point about tablespoons. Same thing with full bags and bladder fulls and shit.

Maybe I’ll make Lloyd and Mike lemonade and a big lemon cake. I need to get with Melanie for a recipe. If I was a gay man, would I mate lemonade with lemon cake or would my more sophisticated palate require a beverage somewhat less “complimentary” to the pastry? Like chicory coffee from Nawlins or maybe a bourbon and milk cocktail.

And why is a mixed drink a “cocktail” like you stirred it with your pecker. Maybe that’s why James Bond insists on have his martinis shaken only.

I might be decomposing now, so I’ll see you manana, y’all.

Print Friendly