So. The three of us, Squirt, Honor and me, were out on our long dock fishing, drinking Carta Blanca beer and cutting up like little girls. The water frontage part of our land includes a deep inlet where our creek enters the big lake. The dock sits in this deep-water portage so that even in times of significant drought, we have plenty of water. And we in Central Texas are in a significant drought.
I blame Texas Governor Ricky “How’d Ya Like The Way I Fucked Newt Gingrich?” Perry for the drought. We haven’t reached our annual rainfall averages since that silly little fucker was elected to the state’s highest post. If I use typical right-wing Christian thought processes, I’m required to conclude that God is punishing Texas for electing the little shitball.
On our way to the dock, Gram had dosed the three of us with a new potion she’s working on she calls “Ain’t No Fleas On Me, An No Ticks Neither”. Summer heat brings an onslaught of ticks and fleas and Gram is always looking for business opportunities. When I asked her what was in this one, she said to me, she said, “Well, Mooner honey, there’s a double dose a tha mushroom water, some smoky tamater juice, a little billy goat piss an a peench a ground up oster-itcher feathers.”
The double-shot of magic mushroom tea explains why we were giggling and cutting up so. “Check yerself ever hour or so, see iffn ya got any skeeters er tickies on ya,” Gram demanded as we walked off to fish. What got us laughing the first time was when Squirt reminded us it was time to check ourselves for bugs, and I dropped my shorts and flashed the miniature dog and diminutive cat a pose of my recently landscaped ass.
In preparation for Father’s Day coming up, I had Ingrid pluck and dye my ass hair into portraits of my three kids. She had a little trouble with the dyes this year, so the kids have raccoon eyes. When I waved my bare ass at the girls, they thought I was hilarious.
Then they started imitating me by waggling and waving their asses at me, and each other. Squirt backed her way across the wooden planks of the dock and wiggled her butt. “Look at moi, los todos amigos. Yo es Mooner fucking Johnson. Mi ass es muy bonito.”
Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery and Squirt has a cute ass. I adore the shape of it and how the short hairs grow in patterns.
Anyway, the three of us were so drunk and stoned that we’re just goofing away while the fish are dragging our bait worms out to sea, when my phone rang. “Who the hell is so fucking rude as to interrupt our fishing trip?” I said, I felt jokingly, into my cell phone.
I heard a hiss of breath, which I recognized, and said, “Oh hey, Sammie, how’s it hanging?”
“My last nerve is hanging by a thread, Mooner. There’s skunks in my pool and they can’t get out. I need you to come right now and get them out,” she demanded. “I’ve got my Ya-Ya Sisters coming this weekend and we’re eating dinner out by the pool.”
I hate it when my ex-wife, therapist and mother of the aforementioned children tells me to do shit “right now”.
“Well, my sweet ex-wife,” I told her. “We’re too wasted to drive and I’m too happy to be upset with your rudeness. Call the exterminator.”
I put the phone away from my ear to avoid the psycho therapist’s tirade and said to the pets, “Hey, little buddies, want to go fuck with some skunks?”
The response reminded me of newsreel scenes of the streets of Paris when the Allies freed it from Nazi control. “No problem, Sammie,” I said into the phone. “The Skunk-a-nators are on the way. Soon as we can find somebody to drive us we’ll head your way.”
“Please hurry, Mooner. There’s already an oily film on the surface of my pool.”
We gathered our fishing gear and headed up to the house. We spent the time discussing how we would intimidate and scare those fucking skunks away. We’re still in mid-gigglefest. Squirt suggested that we all three moon the skunks and I told her, “Yea, little lady, we’ll make them jump straight out of the water and head for the bushes.”
Instead of The Skunk-a-nators, we decided on “The Skunk-er-ators” as the name for our new extermination enterprise. When we got up to the house and stored our buckets and poles, Gram was the only one there. “Hey Gram, how about you take us over to Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson’s house. She’s got a pool full of skunks. I’m too shit-faced to drive and Squirt’s still too short to see over the dashboard.”
We three had another giggle outburst at my joke about the miniature dog driving the car. Gram said, “I’ll take y’all so long as ya stop yer fucking giggling. Ya sound like a bunch a schoolgirls.”
She then checked us all for fleas and ticks and then scoped out our very dilated pupils. “From tha looks a yer eyeballies, I think I might need ta back off a touch onna shroomer juicie. Fucking tick could bite yas onna ass an you’d never feel a thing.”
We went to my room to clean up and change clothes, and we all took turns peeing in the sink– watching each other in the big vanity mirror. This brought on another extended jag of laughter that nearly brought me to my knees. Honor the cat is still a little pee shy and she did that start-to-go-pee-then-back-away dealie maybe ten times before she actually went.
The little Siamese cat is pee shy and I’m still a touch shy of the smell of her pee. I don’t know about the other breeds of cat, but Siamese cat pee stinks. When she finished, I pinched my nose and made an “oooee” noise, and that cracked us up again.
Anyway, Gram drove us over to Sammie’s house in her Ferrari, me in front and the pets in the mostly pretend rear seats. The cat hasn’t adjusted to my grandmother’s driving style, so I wrap her paws in gauze and tape them tight. It wouldn’t take but the one time for the cat to freak out during one of Gram’s lane changes and poke sixteen, or so, of her sharp claws into the leather of the car for us to have a significant problem.
But look, I need to take a break now so that I can go puke again.
Anybody know how to get skunk venom out of pet fur and ass hair? Manana, y’all.