So. BJ over to the Dumb Perignon told me that I had additional webber commenter information available to me that would prove his innocence in a formerly-raging commenter debate, and when I looked into his suggested bloggie administrative functions I stumbled upon an interesting tidbit upon which I will now act.
OK, let’s stop here and examine that last sentence. Let me first say that I have read that little ditty thirteen times, and while each reading has brought new meaning to those words, I remain convinced that I said exactly what I meant. And they say ADHD prevents focus and concentration.
The tidbit I tripped over was that many of my recent first time visitors had come here via Good To Be Gay
What the fuck? I can’t continue typing up there in the last paragraph without having it continue the Good To Be Gay hyperlink. I had to leave that paragraph open like that to get out of the linkster, and that shit drives me nuts.
Anyway, I was banging around the Admin section yesterday after BJ told me something, and I discovered that one, I had a significant number of new visitors, and that two, many (most) of those newbies had arrived from GTBG.
I received an email from one of those viewers that said in part, “… and while I find much of your writing interesting, I feel lost with some of people and situations. Might you give your new readers a refresher?…”
For some reason this Emailer wished to go nameless and I hope that isn’t because she is still in the closet. I prefer to think that she’s the mother of a gay person and that she finds me attractive and that embarrasses her. Join the club, Ma’am.
Anyway, I though about her request and decided she’s right. It’s been over a year since I did the Cast of Characters button up there ^^^^^ and things change. So here is my best effort to clarify things:
Mr. Dave is an elderly gentleman in possession of a penis the size of a large Japanese eggplant, said penis is a physiological phenomenon when under the influence of Viagra, and my randy old grandmother rescued him from the nursing home and brought him here to the ranch where he services the matrons of the Johnson family ranch. Mr. Dave is a true gentleman who shares his bounty without prejudice and burns through extra large rubber like a drag car.
I have a menagerie of household pets that includes regular domestic varieties and also pets not typically considered to be of the household. Squirt, the half-Chihuahua/half-Dachshund puppy, currently speaks at least a dozen human languages and is taking the place of Dixie, my long-suffering Golden Retriever and personal translator for the previous sixteen years. Yoda, the supposed same half-Chihuahua/half-Dachshund puppy who is actually a mix of Chihuahua and fucking Whippet, is a bugeyed little shitball who is so ugly that he’s actually cute, and thus aptly-named. He was rescued from a puppy mill over to Oklahoma where they beat and choked him. He has resultant bladder control issues and he sounds like an old man with throat cancer when he barks. Only had him six months and love him like a son.
Honor the fucking cat is a minor character in my life and not because I have anything against cats. It is, quite simply put—because she’s a fucking cat. Honor is with us as the result of a therapy assignment (read “experiment”) forced on me by Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, my first-of-ten ex-wives and only psycho therapist. The cat “adopted” the Squirt and me when she escaped from the crazy cat lady’s house and hid in the back seat of my old GTO.
Maybe I should spend more time telling you about what little the fucking cat does. Do gay people have an especially strong leaning towards cats to where I should add some silly cat talk for their/your edification? Would I be showing a prejudice should I allow the construction of my viewer constituency to sway my content? Did Lee Harvey Oswald really act alone?
Rush Limbaugh is 550+ pounds of domesticated porcine drag queen, a pig named after the gigantic asshole of radio fame. If you buy my book, Full Rising Mooner, you’ll find the back-story on him. Rushie and his lover, the ostrich Rick Perry—a 350-pounder in his own right—live in my bedroom closet where they pretend nobody knows they are gay. The two of them are likewise aptly named as Rush Limbaugh is a pig in every way, and Rick Perry is a pretty bird who runs in circles and has a usable brain the size of a pea.
I love all my pets and treat them like family, a condition they return on me.
As far as prejudices go, I have several. Right-wing Christian shitballs, the Baptist church, Her Royal Highness The Pope, and people who are bigoted against other people because of differences in color, religion and sexual preferences headline the recipients of my prejudice. I am a liberal of just past rare cooking and I am an anti-anti-abortion protester. I think Dr. Marcus Bachmann IS out of the same closet where Michele Bachmann hides deep within.
My sister, named Sister, is a lesbian woman who happens to be married to my third ex-wife. Sister and Anna the Amazon are quite an attractive couple and next to Streaker Jones, my first choices as backup in a bar fight. Each is quite feminine and both are well-trained in the martial arts. They and my long-time friend Lloyd are gay persons who mean very much to me. Lloyd is the man I most admire of all men I have known.
Do you guys have men and/or women you most admire? For me the choice of a woman for the category is a difficult choice. I have so many strong and amazing women in my life that I’d name different ladies at different times. Even though I’ve had some incredible men near to me, Lloyd is the one man I wish I was more like. More alike? Lloyd’s actual first name is Curtis, but I guess that really doesn’t make a shit in this context.
OK, I’m going to stop with this line of discussion because I feel like I’m starting to pander to my gay readers. I’m not opposed to pandering buy I always attempt to pander with a specific goal in mind. Let me just say that I am a non-denominational admirer of good people regardless of their persuasions.
I’m also crazy. My aforementioned psycho therapist calls me a, “crazy lunatic redneck fuckbrain,” a diagnosis not found by me in any psychiatric journal. I am an environmentalist who owns a compost business, I ingest every known organic mind-altering substance so far identified, and when I drink beer I demand Carta Blanca.
Fuck Two X’s beer and those silly commercials. Have you ever had a Dos Equis beer? (imagine the sound of me spitting) Hopped and malted rat piss.
Which reminds me. Mr. Christian Gonzales—the head muck-a-muck in the Communications Department over to the Austin Diocese of The Holy Roman Catholic Church—has not yet returned my call. I’m not prepared to call him a chicken and make clucking noises quite yet, but I’m warming up my clucker.
Which just caused a thought to hit me. When I was transferred to the Communication Department I assumed that meant the place where information is disseminated. Maybe Christian (what a fucking name for this guy) is in the Communications Department meaning he’s the guy that de-communicates a Catholic from the church.
Holy shit but isn’t the Catholic hierarchy a complicated and critical bunch of prissy old gasbags? Who is that guy at the Vatican who serves as Papal spokesman? You know, the guy I call Ratso Rizzo the Second. Has a pointy rat face and speaks with these red, pouty lips all pursed-up like he’s got a mouthful of spoiled piss in his mouth.
Anyway, I’m running out of steam and time as well. Welcome, new readers, and I’ll see you manana.