Archive for the ‘Thundercat-32’ Category

@Thundercat832 Makes Honor Roll; Who Loves You, Baby?

Wednesday, September 21st, 2011

 

So. Yesterday was a pretty good day. Most of it was spent with me basking in the glory of the memory of a really good sexing. A recent memory at that. SAC Ellen had made a pit stop here to Austin to grab herself a little poontang, and took advantage and filled my tank as well.

Sex is a weird ball of wax—one that I will never fully understand. Sexual desire is even waxier. OK, wait a minute, I can hear you now, what with all your, “Didn’t you mean that your ball of wax is weirder, and not that your weird ball is waxier?”

My answer to you is, “No, silly rabbits, my metaphoric analogy is an ear wax dealie.”

Have you ever taken the time to study the entire ear wax conundrum? I have. I mean first of all doctors fill our heads with silly shit about our ears. “Don’t stick anything smaller than a basketball inside you ear, Mooner.” That was old Doc Ashburn’s best medical advice after he removed the rubber eraser from the end of a Number 2 pencil from my left ear.

I’d had a little ear infection that was finally clearing up, and my ear itched like a sonnofabitch. I knew better than to scratch it, but I figured the blunt, rubber end of a thick pencil would be a safe instrument. What I hadn’t factored into my thinkings was that I was what my first grade teacher, Mrs. Browningwell’s sister Mabel Purdy, described as, “Mooner scrubs his eraser as if he is removing blood stains from his memory.”

Fucking duh.

I made many errors when putting pen to paper as all ADHD and ADD kids do, and scrubbing-off my inaccuracies with the eraser of a Number 2 pencil seemed a never-ending task. I’d rub so many holes in my full-page test papers that they looked like well-used shotgun targets. I’d get frustrated with all my answer changing and start bearing down on my pencil, like the harder I pressed the more accurate and complete my erasure would be. I’d rub these big, black smears and crenelated tears all over my nifty lined school paper.

I often worked the rubber eraser free from it’s metal pencil end clasp, and even broke pencils with my vigor. This one time I broke a pencil and half of it stabbed into that fleshy flap of my hand between thumb and pointer finger. You know, the little bat wing part of your hand.

OK, stop the presses. My ADHD is fritzing us into near oblivion. If I don’t derail this train it’s going completely off tracks. What I was trying to tell you is that I had an ear infection, it was healing and itching as it did so, I stuck my pencil in my ear to scratch the itch and the eraser popped off with the sucking back-pressure caused by the ball of wax in my ear canal.

Eraser was glued to two sides of my inner ear and was touching my ear drum. That’s the waxier analogy I was making about sex.

I guess you had to be there.

Like I was saying, I felt pretty good about myself yesterday because a woman had gone out of her way—and half across the country—to spend a little conjugal time with me. Should I have said, “… with myself.”? Was that one of those “myself” thingies?

I was feeling so good that I decided to take a spin over to a particular website to see if one of my favorites was back on the air. This favorite simply dropped off the map one day several months ago and left me high, and dry. It was like somebody unplugged my morphine drip.

I was clicking over there sometimes fifty times a day to see if she had posted anything new only to come home empty hearted. I have missed her more than I’ve missed one of my ex-wives. I’m not saying which ex that reference was referencing, and only one of them would fit the not-missed category. But I missed my little ebony skinned I-net mistress.

So, I was feeling good as I basked in the warmth that only poontang can give a man. And ladies, allow me to say this one thing about men and sex. If you think it’s a myth that men savor the musty scent of your sexual core after a sexing event—you are totally fucking delusional. Like I said, I was sitting in my desk chair having just written yesterday’s posting when I caught a light poontang scent wafting in the air.

I have a great sense of smell, which is why I’m a good cook (I think), and I closed my eyes to savor it. Then, I wondered where the origins of scent were located, and I sniffed it out. It didn’t take long to realize that I smelled like SAC Ellen from my wrist to as far up my arm as my nose can reach. I must have spaced things out and washed my hands.

That’s when I decided to go check to see if the T-cat was back in service. And she was! I alerted everyone that she had posted, and then the debate started. “Do I name her to my Bloggie Roller now and risk chasing her back into darkness, or do I wait to be sure this is a permanent repair?”

Short debate. This lady is so fucking funny and insightful that if she’s made her last post it’s worth a place of honor here to my home. So, ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the next of my favorite bloggers: http://www.thundercat832.blogspot.com/

Falen is the T-cat and she will rock your socks off. Some of my best belly laughs come from reading her shit. Every time I go over there I turn just a little black, and ghetto. Sometimes I morph into a gansta. Find myself pulling an M&M and start sounding like Huggy Bear from Starsky and Hutch. Her stuff is that contagious.

And let me tell you this. You have never met a woman more comfortable with her body and its many functions. All I’m saying.

So raise your Carta Blanca high and join me in a salute to Thundercat832, my sistah the T-cat. I love your black ass, baby.

Click over there -} and check her out. Manana, y’all.

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Smoked Tomato Camel Toe Contest; @Reckmonster, @Thundercat832 and @ADaftScot Compete

Tuesday, June 7th, 2011

 

So. I awoke at 3:34 am to the sounds of barnyard sex. At least I think the huffing and ass smacking and grunting were barnyard sex. I hope it was barnyard sex. With Rick Perry and Rush Limbaugh I can’t always be sure. My gay pig and ostrich are noisy as lovers and likewise during their daily routines as mates.

I needed to ask them how they made that ass-smacking noise. The ostrich has neither hands to slap an ass nor an ass that would make slap sounds when slapped. His thick, dense feathers cover all of his muscular torso. Slap the giant hog anywhere except his head and feet and it sounds like a slapped ass. Him having only hooves at the end of stubby legs, and we all know that hooves are ill-fitted to ass slapping, caused me to want to ask how they made the ass-slapping noise.

I had to ask. I had to fucking ask.

While I approve of any sexual conjoining among consenting adults, as a heterosexual man, I find many aspects of gay men’s sexual practices icky. I find many aspects of man-on-man pig and ostrich sex disturbing.

After hearing an explanation on the hows of their ass slapping, they settled back into peaceful, snot-snoring slumber and I lay awake. My eyes were burning from spending the day tending my big smoker, by brain was burning with the sick enigma of knowing that I would be perfectly willing, UNDER THE RIGHT CIRCUMSTANCES, to sex Sarah Palin until she walked bow-legged. And my heart was burning with pent-up desire to sex the SACster until I walk bow-legged.

I had been dreaming when awakened by Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry having sex in my closet. It was another fucking camel toe dream, and a dumb one at that. In this dream I had a motorcycle and the camel toe contest was to see which one felt best when the lady sat behind me for a ride on the Harley. The ladies were each required to wear white cotton undies, the kind preferred by my fifth ex-wife Roshandra Washington-Johnson.

Roshandra looks just like Robin Quivers on the Howard Stern radio show, and just the thought of her rich, black skin in those white cotton undies makes my heart skip a beat. But enough of Roshandra here. She’s in the fucking book.

So, the lady would sit on the back of the bike and snuggle her camel toe tight to my back. Now look, don’t start yakking at me about just how impractical this would be. It was a fucking dream for shitsakes. My dream at that, and I really like camel toes. It’s sick, I fully acknowledge that as fact. But I love camel toes.

This particular contest, and all of my camel toe dreams seem to be contests, featured Sarah fucking Palin, Thundercat-32, Reckmonster and A Daft Scots Lass. The winner last night was the T-cat. Her pocket poochie was full and succulent. I find myself saying, “Robust,” even. T-cat was second to take the ride after Ms. Palin, and the Reckmonster was next up when my silly-assed closeted gay pets woke me. T-cat won by default, but her’s was a winner under any circumstances.

Something always prevents me from evaluating the Reckster’s toe. For some strange reason I have never seen the Reckmonster’s lady meat in any of my dreams. Maybe I better ask Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson about that one.

Now, as I tell you about this dream, I realize that tomato camel toes were in the dream too. You know how sometimes tomatoes grow in interesting shapes? Quite often they grow in the shape of a camel toe. But holy shit am I digressing the points I intended when I fired-up my PC.

Squatlo asked me about why I grill and smoke tomatoes. Here’s the deal. OK, first, I am a tomato fanatic, a tomato nut case of significant magnitudes. I love to grow them, eat them, cook them, look at them and even dream about them. I relish all things tomato and I have learned to prepare and use tomatoes in all known ways.

Some unknown as well. Like the time I experimented with tomato juice as an enema. All I’ll say is that it worked.

Squat, grilled tomatoes are good for salsa– add grilled tomatillos, onions and peppers plus un-grilled garlic. That one we can same as plain grilled tomatoes. Makes tasty sauces and soups.

Smoked tomatoes are always slow-smoked in whole and also halves. Place the skin side down on the halvesies. Smoke the whole tomatoes until the skin pops then take them off. This is what Gram uses to make her famous catchup. The halves are left on until almost dry, and they are used to make tomato paste. And snackies. Nothing like a bite of smoked tomato followed by a deep swig of icy-cold Carta Blanca beer. Sweet, chewey and smoky goodness in every bite.

Gram’s catchup is crazy good. Now I’m signing off to go make some crispy hash browns to eat with the smoky catchup. I’m drooling on my keyboard.

Manana, y’all.

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What I learned In First Grade; What Punishment Ensued

Sunday, June 5th, 2011

 

So. I’ve got the whole crew harvesting tomatoes this weekend. It has gotten too hot for any new fruit to set on our full-size varieties, and the extreme 100-degree days are making their skins tougher than boot leather. This is the harvest time when we pick for sun dried tomatoes and also to roast, and smoke them. This is the off-season for Streaker Jones’ magic mushroom business, so we use his big commercial drying operations. All of the smoking is done here on the ranch.

From this point forward, only the smaller varieties will be much good for eating uncooked. The remaining large types will be allowed to almost over-ripen for making canned tomatoes. The extra ripening adds a little extra sugar and taste that holds up under canning.

Holy shit, I love tomatoes. Tomatoes, tomatoes, tomatoes! Yum-and-kiss-your-sister-yum!

Yesterday I made a comment here about something I learned in First Grade. I mentioned learning the N-word as a describer for a person with black skin, and how I took it home with me and put it to use. I can still shut my eyes and conger-up the taste of lye soap. Lye soap mouthwash was a routine part of my personal hygiene processes until I entered high school.

One of the many side effects of ADHD and its little sister, ADD, is the inability to filter inappropriate thoughts from your brain and remove them from verbal communication. As a kid I likely suffered the effects from my ADHD the most due to this particular side effect. And all of the advice on how to avoid the problem only fueled it.

“Think before you speak, Butcher,” my school teacher mother would advise me. Mother refused to call me Mooner until, same as the lye soap dealie, until I entered high school. Called me by my quite sophisticated given name, Butcher. Don’t even ask, because it’s in the fucking book.

Gram would say to me, she’d say, “Oh fer fucksakes, Mooner, you disruptive little shit. Why’nt ya put yer thinkin’ cap on afore ya open yer yapper?”

Nothing much was known about ADHD when I was a kid. In fact, I don’t think it was even invented until the early 1980’s. One of my sons has it and we learned of it together at his school-enforced visit to a state-sponsored psychiatrist. The doctor was a snotty little prick with a pinched-up face and really bad breath. Bad tooth breath.

Look, let me give some advice to you. Telling an ADHD sufferer to think more, or more carefully, before speaking is like telling a fireman to reduce the flames of a house fire with a few hundred gallons of jet fuel. It’s the thinking that sparks the inappropriate comments.

Better to say, “Stop thinking before you open your big yap.” That way you can limit the possibilities to a minimum few offensive remarks slipping through my lips. If I have but maybe six or seven different thoughts rolling around rather than my typical fifteen, the risk of offensive speech patterns is reduced by half.

Now I’m digressing, but you get it, right? Anyway, I made my comment yesterday about learning the N-word and that sparked Squatlo to tell me about learning to say the word “fuck” his early days of school. He got his little six-year-old ass blistered for its use when he got home.

Me, fuck was one of the first words I learned. One of the first words I heard since it was used as an exclamation upon my birthing. Again, in the book and, therefore, off limits for now.

I can hardly wait to get that fucking book into print. We’re working on the cover and all of the promotional bullshit to go along with it. I hate having big chunks of my life off limits. But I was never punished for using swear words at home. School was a different fucking bag of worms, but I never caught any shit at home for saying shit. Or fuck or hell or damn. Mother would do that deep sigh shit you get from martyrs around the world, but I was never punished for imitating my elders’ speech.

Anyway, Squatlo’s comment caused me to wonder what other folks’ experiences were like with the early days of First Grade. Tell us your stories. I’ll bet there’s some doozies out there. Come on Reckmonster and Thundercat-32. I can hardly wait.

Drink Carta Blanca beer responsibly, and come back manana, y’all.

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