So. I’m having some work done to the house and it might drive me crazy. Restorations include re varnishing and repainting outside doors and wood house trim, repainting the walls and ceiling in my closet after installing soundproofing and metal rings strong enough to hold 1,200 pounds on the walls, building a fucking cat play-scape in my bedroom, sealing cracks in my concrete flat work an other stuff.
For those of you in wonderment as to the 1,200 pounds part, if you add 650 pounds of gay pig to 350 pounds of African ostrich—likewise gay—you get a calculated need for 1,200 pounds of towing capacity required for the bondage equipment I promised my closeted same-sex lover pets. I can’t get Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry to come out of the closet and they refuse to play their sex games out to the barn where all that equipment is already set up.
And will somebody please tell me whyinthefuck I can’t say “revarnish” but I can say “repaint”[?] What’s up with that shit? If I can re the finish on something with paint then I should be able to re the finish with varnish, right? Sometimes I think I could choke the life out of whomever it is that made up some of these silly-assed grammar rules.
The first person to start with me about the repairs was, of course, Mother, and she started in on me at breakfast. I can always count on my stuffy-assed mother to take the first shit in my mess kit.
“Butcher Einstein Johnson, you will not play a role in the ungodly homo-sex-u-al relationship between Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry. Isn’t it enough that I must endure living under the same roof where Sodom meets Gomorrah? Now you’re turning your closet into a homo-sex-u-al sex den? I’ve seen how the gays are with those chains and rubber penises. It just isn’t right!” Anytime my mother is feeling especially martyred, she’s compelled to use my full, given name. Which brings up another issue. Why don’t we spell it “unGodly” with a big G?
Anytime Gram hears Mother use my given name, she’s compelled to come to my aid. Gram sniped at Mother, she said, “Mother, yer a bigger pain inna ass than them hermatoids I had that one time. Now, you quit yer fucking bitchy-achin’ an’ pass me tha bacon?”
My grandmother swiped a chunk of crusty ciabatta bread through the remnants of runny egg yolk left on her plate and jammed it into her mouth. The yellowed bread was half swallowed when Gram added, “I swear I don’t got a clue the first one as ta what that big-assed bird sees in Mooner’s fuckin’ pig. Bird’s a pretty little thing an’ that piggie’s a mess. But they’s in love, Mother Johnson, a little sumthin you need ta git a taste of. Now finish yer breakfast an’ go schedule a visit with Mr. Dave.”
My mother blushed and started to deny she has spread her wings with Mr. Dave, the giant-peckered old geezer I’ve hired to keep the Johnson women happy. But Mother won’t tell lies, so she started, “Well I never heard of such a thing, Gram. How dare you to insinuate that I… That… Uh, that, ah… Well, it’s against God’s laws to engage in homo-sex-u-al activity, and it’s blasphemous that my own son—who I raised correctly in the Southern Baptist way—would name a filthy hog after Mr. Limbaugh and that smelly bird after our dear governor.”
Here, Mother did her left-hand-fans-face-right-hand-to-the-forehead martyr pose. “They say God doesn’t give you any burdens you can’t carry, so I guess I must be the strongest woman in Texas.”
“I’mma kick yer bourbon up yer ass if’fn ya don’t shut yer yapper. Now pass me tha bacon fer shit sakes!” I’m not the only Johnson who loves his bacon.
And here I’m reminded that the fucking Southern Baptist Convention has decided to broaden their fan base. I guess that since an asshole like Rick Santarum from Pennsylvania can spout the same idiotic exclusionary hate swill as a Southern Baptist, they need a little name adjustment. They’ve decided to add “Great Commission Baptists” to their name. Seems like ignorance, racism and bigotry has finally escaped the South and infected its way up to the North.
Me, I’m starting to think that if we were to draw the Mason-Dixon line today, there’d be a fight to move it up to include the fucking rust belt states.
Anyway, we all ate some more bacon and I grabbed a beer to go back to my wing of the house to plan the animal’s renovations. When I got there, Ricky and Rushie were engaged in a terrible row about paint colors for their closet. Their closet?
“All right you two melon heads,” I told them, “break it up or I’m taking the both of you to the butcher shop. SAC Ellen has asked for a pair of ostrich skin boots and my pork meat freezer has an opening just about your size.”
They kept snipping at each other like little kids so I sent them outside. I went looking for my puppies and found that Squirt was in the bathroom talking to the fucking cat, and Yoda was playing with the new toy I made him. I cut a little triangle hole in an old tennis ball and stuffed dandelion leaves inside. It’s driving him nuts trying to get at the tender shoots.
The Squirt informed me, “Honor says she wants it built with unfinished cedar and strapped with hemp ropes, like in the movie Tarzan The Fearless, and she wants a scratching station in each corner. She says if you’ll do that she’ll promise to stop using SAC Ellen’s diaphragm.”
“What!!!” I almost came out of my sneakers when I flinched.
Squirt and Honor were rolling on the floor with their laughter. “Got you, shithead. You should have seen the look on your face. Now listen, she wants a scratching station in each corner, and she wants you to know that…”
I didn’t hear anything else Squirt said. Until that very moment I haven’t thought about having a baby for years. I need a vasectomy, I thought to myself.
“You need to reverse that lobotomy first, Bwanna Mooner, then worry about a vasectomy. You aren’t getting enough sex to warrant making a nut cut number one.” I guess I must be thinking out loud again. Squirt followed up with, “Prioritize your medical needs, dude, you know how tricky it’s getting to get health insurance to cover shit.”
And with that my dogs and the fucking cat were all rolling in laughter.
I packed a cooler with Carta Blanca beer, made myself a couple BLT’s with the leftover bacon, rolled a fat one and headed to the dock to fish by myself. To fish and reflect, by myself. That’s when my cell phone started playing “You Can’t Get A Man With A Gun”[,] SAC Ellen’s ring tone.
“Mooner Johnson’s the name, heavy petting and sex is my game,” I answered.
“Pick me up at the airport in an hour. Drive the truck and bring something to cover the windows, my layover is only ninety minutes.” SAC Ellen’s voice was deep, raspy.
“I guess that means no stun gun foreplay, huh?” I had to ask.
“No time, baby, and bring my diaphragm and some moist towelettes. I can’t be traveling with my boss when I’m stinking of Mooner Johnson.”
I hung up the phone and decided to reflect at a later date. I did, however, hold her rubber contraceptive devise to the harsh light of the afternoon sun to check for perforations.
“Good to go,” I said to myself as I placed the disk back into it’s little case.
At least I think I said it to myself. Manana, y’all.