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.