So. By now I guess you guys know that Rick Perry and Rush Limbaugh finally tied the knot. We had a very small group of mostly family in attendance and only had those folks at the reception. As the pig Rush Limbaugh had not had sex with his ostrich gay lover for more than a month, keeping him off the bride’s back until after the “I dos” was a difficult chore.
I printed the press release about the wedding yesterday so go there for that info. What I’ll add here is that because of the enforced abstinence above mentioned, it was an untraditional shotgun wedding. “Shotgun” in that Gram’s 12-gage double barrel was aimed at Rush Limbaugh, and “untraditional” because the buckshot was pointed his way not to keep his feet planted but, rather, to prevent spontaneous sexing on the alter.
When he wants to do something, Rush Limbaugh just does it and he doesn’t care the effects on the rest of us. Rush Limbaugh is, after all, a fucking pig.
Which reminds me. As if Tennessee doesn’t have enough right-wing Christian assholes living up to Murphreesboro, Tn. to fill Neiland Stadium to standing room only, one of our local assholes made his way up to the Boro to screw with their new Mosque and the Mosqueteers who worship there. I want to first apologize on behalf of the state of Texas for letting one of our own escape our borders to be a stupid bigot up to Ugly Orangeville, and second, I want to thank the Volunteer State for providing that ignorant fuckball a nice, cozy place to stay. Not that having one fewer ignorant bigoted shitwads in Texas makes a dent in that particular population.
But a trip of a thousand miles begins with a first baby step.
And that reminds me to tell you that I’ve been really busy planning and hiding the details of the big wedding from the world. I’m sorry that I didn’t invite my friends, but Rick Perry was already so nervous he had the squirts, and he told me he wouldn’t be able to hold his nervous bowels if there was a crowd.
Have you ever smelled a loose ostrich shit? Have you ever tried to get that smell out of your hair?
It wasn’t a large wedding as weddings go, but anytime you have Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry involved common sense and reason fly out the window. Take the wedding cake as just one example. How do you find a bakery willing to make an alternating chocolate-and-vanilla six-tiered cake with an ostrich bride and hog groom, slathered with duck liver pate’ icing and coated with sunflowers? Once you do, how do you get them to keep quiet about it?
Mother was the only family member who didn’t attend the touching ceremony. Her refusal went something like, “If I cursed I would say to you, ‘No fucking way will I ever attend a homo-sex-u-al wedding.’”
While that wasn’t the first time in my life I heard Mother cuss, it was the first time since I decided to allow brutal honesty to be a two-way street in our relationship.
“Well said, Mother,” I told her. “If you’re too fucking bigoted to attend the festivities then I expect you to vacate the premises until we’ve finished all our reveries. I’ll have Gnat find you a room over to town for a few weeks. I expect the party to last a while.”
For new readers, Gnat is my personal assistant, and if you go to the Bloggie Roller over there ====}}}}} and buy Full Rising Mooner, my stupid fucking book, you will learn all about the little Russian wonder.
Mr. Dave helped Mother pack her bags and I’m guessing he packed the old bag as well. I used to think that what made my mother such a bitch since Daddy died was that she just needed a little sexing. While Mr. Dave’s giant penis has improved Mother’s moods in some ways, I have finally had to accept the simple fact that Mother is an asshole.
When Mr. Dave rolled two big suitcases into the kitchen to be loaded on the truck to go to town with Mother, I said to him, I said, “There’s two more cases out to the barn that match what you have there, Mr. Dave. I’ll go get them while you tell Mother she’ll need more things. We’re gonna do us some partying here to the ranch and you know Mother likes a broad selection when dressing.”
And that reminds me to say this. I just bought a case of Ivory soap and shipped it up to that asshole Jerry Sandusky. Big tough football guy my rosy red ass. I wrote him a card that said, “Here’s a little something to make things go a little smoother for you, shithead. Don’t wait until you hit the showers with those men, Jer’, lather up before you go. You’ll likely be a hot little thing up there and they might skip the foreplay. Oh yea, I’m not certain they’ll call raping you in the shower “horseplay” but I’m absolutely certain you’ll know how to play.”
Rotten child raping motherfucker. Now it appears that he adopted a boy to help fill his dance card when kiddie camp was out of season.
And now I need to remember to tell you that I’m taking the dogs and the fucking cat on a road trip over to New Mexico a week from today. We’ll be looking for a little place over to Santa Fe where we can go when we need to escape the heat and conservative Christian assholes here to home. I ordered a 14-foot truckload of Carta Blanca beer for the wedding and I hope to have a few cases left by the time we leave. We’re taking the route that goes through Lubbock but won’t have time to visit my buddy Pat Metze. But I’ll catch him next trip.
One of our side trips is to head west to hunt Peyote buttons. For some reason, the fucking cat can’t catch a buzz off mushrooms. Streaker Jones suggested that we try Peyote and I firmly believe that anyone’s first Peyote needs to be hunted down in person.
Anyway, I need to take Mother to her Hotel and then drop the bride and groom off to Emory Express for their trip to Costa Rica. Gram and Aunt Hilda went down with the P-cubed yesterday to set up the honeymoon suite and to un-crate the lovers upon their arrival.