Archive for the ‘Yoda’ Category

Dog Jitters And Wedding Bells; For Itchier Or Pourer

Thursday, October 16th, 2014

So. I awakened Monday morning to the smell of dog’s ass and the acute understanding that something had my balls in a twist. Upon opening my eyes the canine ass dealio became clear. Crystal clear. The goat dog had found a way to pretzel himself around my arm as I lay on my side, his head on my shoulder and his hairy ass two inches from my face. It took me maybe three seconds to realize that if I didn’t handle my bed exit strategy just right, I’d end up with the bull’s-eye smack on my nose. Yoda is still skittish some three years after I rescued him and he jumps at a whispered “Boo”.
I carefully—and I must say quite carefully—moved my free hand from where the Squirt had it wedged between her fluffy, brown face and my scrotum. I then remembered a dream wherein one of my sons’ aunties had made an untowardly remark my way—something about her foot and my balls—and I’d felt required to protect the family heritage. Squirt grunted rudely when I jostled her, which startled Yoda, and I managed to spring enough synapsis fast enough to turn my head and catch the dog anus on my cheek rather than squarely on the snout. The goat dog then spooked the Squirt and she scratched a long, and now angry-looking, welt in the crease between my leg and pubic area.
That particular patch of skin can become problematic when gouged, causing itching and irritation and the deep-seated and sometimes unconscious desire to rub or scratch, things I’ve done both absentmindedly and with full focus all week.
The reason the dogs slept in places other than their usual, with the white one nestled against my side and the brown one between my legs with her head resting on my belly, is that I’ve been gone for ten days to attend my son’s wedding back over to Austin, Texas. The dogs stay with my friends Marla and Cheryl, whose own wedding I attended several weeks ago. They have five dogs of their own and seem to actually enjoy having Yoda and the Squirt visit. My two canines seem to have a good time while there, but still prefer things here to home.
“We didn’t get to sleep in their bed this time, Mooner. Maybe it’s because their wedding bliss is still with them, but we had to bed down on those lumpy foam things you got us. I didn’t sleep for shit the entire time, and the goat dog had nightmares. Said it reminded him of the puppy mill except without the beatings and throat slitting.”
“I’m sorry, Squirtie girl,” I told her, “but I couldn’t find a motel to take you and me, and no acceptable kennel in the little town where the wedding was held.”
“Then you need to know that Yoda’s liable to be skittish and clingy for a while. He still worries that you’ll abandon him.”
He was, and is, and that explains the tightened sleeping arrangements in spite of the fact that I promised him he was adopted for life, better or worse. Have you ever smelled a dog’s ass from two inches away? Have you ever felt a dog’s bull’s-eye smeared across your cheek? Have you ever been served hot dogs, mac and cheese and roasted corn for a wedding dinner? Well, folks, I’ve done them all in the last week and the only desired repeats would be the wedding fare. The food was a perfect match to the somewhat informal wedding hosted at one of Texas’ beautiful vineyards.
Like I was saying, my son got married and it was a wonderful time. I got to be with family and old friends and I need to be cautious what I say from here on out. I’ve a promise to not say too much about my kids herein and I work quite hard to keep my promises. Promises make me wish I was a liar and a cheat. Promises might be the things that disturbate my lifestyle the most. Promises have everything to do with integrity and having integrity causes me much, and many, consternations.
Like promising to not make a scene at the wedding.
So, to keep the promises, I’ll not mention the things not done by me that caused a scene at the wedding and I will mention that I’m in the photo purely by accident other than to say I was reaching for the chopped onions for my hot dog when the nice lady leaned in front of me for the mustard, and her open V-neck sweater snagged on the copper bracelet I wear to ward off the arthritis in my wrist, and while I remain unsure as to how her large and firm breast became nestled in the palm of my hand, I am certain with an absolute surety that she and I both found the experience less than terrible.
OK, maybe my copper bracelet snagged her sweater, actually the camera was a smart phone and I didn’t drop a single thing from my plate throughout the entire event. I’m holding my plate out to the side with my left hand while we did that dance people do when things get all caught-up in other people’s stuff—the twisting and turning and eyeballing. I offered to put my plate down and use said left hand in assistance, but, as the nice lady put it, “It’s OK, Mister Johnson, things are already a little crowded in there.”
As the sweater was one of those loose-knit wool jobbies, each wobble of our disentanglement polka caused the end of the copper coil to poke around like a curved knitting needle. The line for hot dog condiments was stacking up behind us so we moved off to one side, me still awkwardly holding my plate of now cold food.
“Oh for shitsakes, Mooner. I turn my back on you for two seconds and you’re groping a college coed.” This from Dr. Sam I.-Am Johnson, my ex-wife number one and mother of the groom.
“Thank God for that, Sammie. I was worried she might be under-aged.” As I’ve gotten older I’ve started seeing every woman between the ages of thirteen and twenty-five as a seventeen-year-old.
“Oh for shitsakes, Deedo, it’s my wedding.” My son, newly married, who has always called me “Deedo”.
Maybe my new middle name should be “Oh, for shitsakes”. Anyway, I turned of age for Medicare last birthday and I spent the day over to Social Security to make application one day in August. What with the budget cuts to social services, it took all day to wait in line to do anything. I understand that they want you to do stuff online rather than in person, but I had already fucked-up the original application online and was forced to reapply in person over there off St. Mike’s Street. When all my paperwork got back from the Medicare people there was one mistake in my “Certifications” which needed to be corrected. Punishments for incorrect certified information includes heavy fines and jail time and I choose to not go back to jail with cause. Fifty phone calls to fix the error went straight to recorded music, so I walked the dogs yesterday and then walked the mile to the SS offices.
It was a beautiful day—mid seventies and crystal clear skies—and I sweated a bit with the walk. The sweat irritated the ribboned whelp on my crotch making it itch and burn, and what does a person do when they itch and burn? They rub and scratch.
I plucked a pleated tab of paper marked “Number 106” from the roll in the big plastic box at the security desk and moved to stand against the wall and facing approximately 100 seated, smaller-numbered-pleated-paper-tab-holding visitors. My welt is itching and I’m fighting the urge to scratch and the guy next to me starts bitching about being Number 95. We discussed the entire online thingie and then the weather and had moved on to discussing the Texas Ebola outbreak. I blamed the right-wingers and he blamed Obama and then I saw a nice lady—seated in the second row of industrial chairs and dead straight ahead of me—who was staring at me with a somewhat angry look. I gave her a toothy smile to ease her anxieties.
I shook off the look as to her maybe holding a tab marked in the eighties and went back to attempting to convince the asshole blaming Obama for the poor quality of America’s health care. I felt the woman’s eyes on me and glanced her way once more to find a somewhat angrier face. I smiled, again, shrugged and mouthed, “I’m 106,” and went back to a careful dissertation about the history of the health insurance business. The dissertation and occasional glances with smiles at the angry lady continued for what I suppose was a reduction of ten numbered paper tabs. I had made it to the part wherein Herr Schmidt Rommel had created Obamacare for the Bean State when I felt a disturbance in the air.
“You, sir, are disgusting.” It was the lady from two rows over with the security officer in tow.
“I’m going to ask you to leave the building, sir. Please go quietly.”
“Who, me?” I questioned. “What have I done wrong—I haven’t said one word to her.”
He didn’t reply, just pointed at my midsection. Seems I’d jammed my hand into the pocket of my jeans and was scratching myself. Might have been doing it for a good fifteen minutes. I didn’t argue, a sure sign of my growth as a person, and left. Maybe I’ll try to correct my Certifications online.
Fuck Walmart!

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Smooth Maneuver, Shithead; Tile Floor Finished

Friday, November 23rd, 2012


So. Today is Black Friday and my ADHD has taken over my brain. I’m unsure what might have triggered the lunatics to revolt and rise up and seize the controls, but rise and seize they have done. Maybe it was the dinner party yesterday wherein I somehow managed to piss off an entire roomful of family and new friends or, maybe, it was the not-so-simple task of relaying 35 square feet of 16-inch ceramic tile floor.

Or maybe it’s the quite simple fact that I’m an ADHD-addled fuckball who lacks the attention span of an amoeba and likewise lacks the social borders required to provide filtered thoughts during polite conversation. Sometimes when a person has fifteen individual thoughts at once, plucking something appropriate to say about a canned spinach casserole with a burnt graham cracker crust is difficult. Especially when Yoda the goat dog won’t touch a bite of it.

I just realized that I spelled amoeba correctly. I’ve already misspelled casserole and roomful and misspell, but I got amoeba right.

Saying, “Well, I passed on your spinach casserole when I saw the goat dog turn his nose up at it. That little shit will eat anything,” might not be an interpersonal communications method mentioned in How To Win Friends And Influence People.

Then, when the preparing chef of said crappy casserole says, “I thought I’d be creative and, rather than use Campbells Cream of Mushroom soup, I decided to add three packets of Ramen Noodle soup base,” and the nice neighbor lady standing next to me gags, and I misinterpret “gags” for “chokes”. Her ample breast flopped against my forearms like big water balloons as I administered the Heimlich Maneuver, and now her husband won’t look me in the eyes.

Some women should wear brassieres.

I’m starting to think that it’s the tile dealio that set my attention deficits into high gears. I should have gotten with J.O.B. before I ever started the project. J.O.B. Helped Squatlo with his tile messes, but I forgot and didn’t seek his counsel. Council?

Adrian and I started the removal of improperly-installed ceramic floor tiles Sunday morning—a task we thought would take less than half a day—with plans to have the new tiles laid by day’s end. We’d grout early Monday morning and be done with it. A plan fraught with inaccurate assumptions.

I’ve had a head cold for a month or so, a malady initiated by a blast-to-the-face of construction dust. The electrician was grinding a plaster and adobe wall to run a Code-required outlet on a wall where I really don’t want a fucking electrical outlet. I’d had a fifteen-minute argument with the City Inspector about, “Fuck your stupid City Codes, I don’t want to tear that wall apart to install an electrical plug I’ll never use,” and then another fifteen-minute talk with the electrician about, “If you get dust all over the house one more time when you grind that wall, I’ll rip your balls out by the roots.”

Having concerns for his balls, the electrician used two Shop Vacs—one exhaust hose connected to the intake of the second vacuum and the second exhaust hose poking out a partially-opened window. A topical solution resulting from critical thought.

I was standing ten feet away—supervising—as he was grinding with one hand and holding the suction hose in the other, and the dust was streaming outside. I noticed that the grinder was straying off the pre-marked line I’d drawn up the wall for him and I stepped over to tell him. I caught my big foot on the discharge hose from the second Vac and ripped the end out of the window. I got a full blast of dust right in the face.

The dust clogged my entire respiratory system for a couple weeks and then allergies or a cold took over, resulting in what has felt like a six weeks head cold complete with snotty nose and loss of the sense to smell mildew.

I’d kept the hall bath closed off for the last week to keep anyone from cutting their feet or shoes on the sharp edges of mislaid, broken tile. When Adrian opened the door, he did one of those double-take dealies and said, “We got us a bigger problem than bad tile, brother. Something is rotten in Denmark.”

Turns out, when the asshole right-wing Republican shitbrained tile-laying motherfuckers had mislaid the original tile, they nicked a hole in one of the new WIRSBO plumbing lines I just installed, and hot water was leaking between the Hardiplank underfloor and the original oak plank and rough-sawn pine sub-flooring. Maybe that should be “rough-sawed” sub-flooring. Screw it, I like the word sawn.

Anyway, the entire bathroom had to be deconstructed down to the heavy fir cross-beams, those beams sprayed with anti-fungal chemicals and then dried before reconstructions. I’m allergic to some molds, which might have worsened my nasal congestions.

Which reminds me. Since my sense of smell was so diminished, maybe I should have at least tasted that spinach casserole. Can something actually taste bad if you can’t taste it?

It took us all day Sunday to remove the plumbing fixtures and tear out all the waterlogged materials. I hate chemicals but I hate the thought of dying a death by black mold worse, so I sprayed anti-fungal on the fir timbers that comprise the basic foundation of the bathroom. Monday, we allowed things to dry and then Tuesday we reinstalled sub-floorings, Hardibacker and then tiles.

The tiles were laid in what Adrian calls a “mud set”, which to my eyes was a full mortar bedding material much like when you lay concrete blocks. That dried until Wednesday afternoon when Adrian came back to grout all the seams. For the uninitiated, grouting tile is a major ass pain and requires multiple washing/drying and then re-washings to insure that you get all the grout film removed from your finished work.

I wiped the last of the grout film from the floor about an hour before the first Thanksgiving dinner guest arrived, and I only cut myself six times over the five days of bathroom re-tiling efforts. Have you ever gotten fresh garlic juice in a deep finger cut?

I’ll be working on a new medical product—an antiseptic cleaner made with lemon and garlic juice. Anything that stings that bad has got to be good for you. I’ll donate all the profits to the Food Bank. Maybe that would be an antiseptic cleanser.

Which reminds me. Can you even believe that America has approximately 700,000 homeless people? What, inthefuck, is wrong with us? I don’t give a rat’s ass why they are homeless, those are Americans, humans. We need to provide them with basic shelter and food.

But I didn’t take the leftover spinach casserole down to the shelter last night. That shit wasn’t good enough for the dogs.

Manana, y’all.

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Mooner’s Tincture Of Armor Distinguishing Trait; Take IQ Test Here

Monday, May 21st, 2012


So. It’s a glorious Monday morning and I’m harvesting tomatoes at a nice clip. We’re not at the many bushel-fulls-per-day rate of a typical June, but I was required to use the big wagon to collect my luscious orbs at this mornings collections. The Cherokee heritage and Merced are strong producers this year and are blushing out early. The Cherokee are the deep purple and red babies that look almost black when ripe.

Usually the early harvest are not the best flavored. Their skins are thinner and not as tough as a later production model, but the flesh is typically not as firm or sweet. But this not a typical year in any way and these first tomatoes are great!

I’ve been keeping in almost constant contact with Rick Perry ever since we found Rush Limbaugh engaged in sweaty pig sex with the neighbor’s hogs. I harness the ostrich to the above mentioned wagon as its motor and then put the dogs and the fucking cat inside the wagon for navigation and comment. Ricky is getting better but he still says the wedding is off. Squirt told me that last night Rick said to her, he said that, “Rush Limbaugh is a P.I.G. hog.” That’s one of Gram’s favorite things to say.

Squirt directs everyone around acting like a mother hen, and might just be the most adorable little puppy ever. She’s barking orders at everyone and is quite the taskmaster. Yoda acts dumb, because he is dumb, and reminds me of the Disney character, Goofy. He looks like his Star Wars namesake but lacks the wisdom and self restraint of the dwarf Jedi knight.

Honor is a fucking cat.

To start the day, I walked up to the Ranch Road and grabbed the newspaper before corralling the kids for the morning’s gardening. Since taking the paper away from Mother I have become emboldened with its handling. Today I read the paper while enjoying the sites and sounds of the four miscreants picking tomatoes, and then I interpreted selected stories at the breakfast table. We dragged the cat in late for the meal and were admonished by the crew already seated.

“If’n yer dominatin’ tha fuckin’ paper, Mooner, ya git yer ass here on time.” This first salvo was from Gram, and made with a mouthful of Irish oats with brown sugar and half-and-half, and what the uninitiated ear would have heard is, “Pfhn yeh thumnahinh pthuthnh pothr, Moonth, yahth thun thooth thaphpholp (Hocker noise) thphm.”

Interpreting a clean mouth full of my grandmother’s fractured English can be difficult. The same words spoken through her mush-filled maw can be an adventure. She’s lucky I love her and enjoy serving as her translator. OK, I’m the lucky one. I find the old goat’s bladder totally fucking hilarious.

“Keep your panties on, Gram, I’ll sit and get to today’s news as soon as I get a cuppa Joe.” I grabbed my coffee and sat down to a table full of snickers. Everyone knows Gram doesn’t wear panties.

“Today’s first newsworthy item is that since the year 1990, more than 2,000 convicted prisoners have been released from prison. These are only the ones convicted of serious crimes and of these, half were serving murder terms and 15% were on death row. That, folks, was 300 people who would have been wrongly killed because of a botched legal system.”

My words rung to silence at the Johnson family breakfast table. I think everyone was waiting for Mother to chime in. All she did was snort, a “Harrumph,” a noise she makes when hearing something she doesn’t like.

Those of us not named Mother debated the issue for awhile and I went to the next item. “Well, it looks like Herr Mitt Rommel is having a touch of trouble getting endorsements. Seems his former opposition all want him to let them run as President on this ticket before they’ll give him their support.”

I thought my little joke to be funny, but not my mother. “You’re an asshole, Mooner. Mr. Romney has the full support and backing of all smart minded Republicans and you made that up.”

The entire room “Oohed and Ah’d” at Mother calling me an asshole. My mother doesn’t curse. “Says so right there on the second page of the front section, my darling maternal unit.” Here I opened the paper to the page and noisily shook the wrinkles out. The thin newspaper snapped with a “pop” when I flicked my wrists. The paper just isn’t what it used to be. Then again, neither am I.

I started reading the article verbatim and in my best Walter Cronkite voice. After reading the entire thing I finished with a hearty, “And that’s the way it is!”

“Never in my life would I think my own children would hate me so much.” Mother had worked-up a good martyr while I read about the Mittster’s problems. “What did I ever do to deserve such a fate?”

That last line was delivered with her bead bowed, eyes on her lap and right hand draped pathetically on her bosom over her heart. I heard Gram’s cereal spoon clink off the side of her bowl and then rattle on the hard oak tabletop. Uh-oh.

“Dammit, Mother Johnson, but yer a whiny little snot. That boy’s a asshole ’cause yer a asshole—tha little shitbird didn’t git it from me. Least tha boy’s got him a tincture a armor an a funny hole. Now shut yer yapper an pass me tha bacon.”

I love that old woman. I guess my sense of humor and funny bone set me apart from the lower of the Johnson species in my Gram’s mind.

Anyway, before my ADHD takes control of the world, I wanted to make some observations about the falsely convicted info up there. The study I referenced is a joint effort between U. of Michigan and Northwestern U. Law Schools and an organization called the Center for Wrongful Convictions. If you know nothing about innocent persons going to prison and many being exterminated like rabid dogs, you should be appalled about this information—you should want an end to the death penalty because we civilized Americans were planning the killing injections of 300 more innocents.

As a falsely accused but not convicted murder charge defendant, I can tell you first hand what sorts of terror, strife and devastation the wrongly accused and their families endure. But I’m going to boil all of the bullshit down for you, I’ll make this an easy choice for supporters and detractors alike.

Close your eyes and pretend that you are standing in line with the other recently dead of your ilk at the gates of whatever heaven you plan to enter upon your death. Your god is there and this is what you hear him say, “Hi, everyone, I’m God. We’ll wait for your introductions because I don’t like to get too close to Hell’s inhabitants. I have attachment and abandonment issues like you won’t believe. You each will be given a one question test to determine if I invite you to reside here in heaven with me for all eternity, or if I’ll drop the elevator on you and send you to roast on the hot seat. The question is: Is it acceptable for even one innocent man to die from a wrongful death penalty conviction? The answer choices are “yes” and “no” and please take your time to answer. You have a lot riding on this little test.”

Had enough time to consider your answers?

Manana, y’all.

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Check Out The Saucy Babe; Old Tea Bag Is Bitter

Thursday, May 17th, 2012


So. I’m feeling pretty frisky today as I have reached the conclusion that my mother is who I thought she was and I’m not who she wants me to be. I took the time to reread my last several months of postings and discovered that I have been pissing and moaning about Mother more than is healthy for me. It seems as if I didn’t bitch about my mother I had nothing much to say.

I have finally and completely realized that my mother is not going to be persuaded to be, in actuality, the fine christian woman she claims to be. Instead, she’ll be the kind of right-wing christian, bigoted intolerant follower she has been trained to be. Mother is no more likely to become loving and accepting of the rest of us any more than the fucking catholic church is likely to accept full accountability for the sexual perversions they have fostered and protected for centuries.

I just saw where this head priest for one of the catholic’s most respected religious orders, a giant flaming asshole who has been been known to be a child rapist for fucking decades—what polite society calls a pedophile—has now been announced by the church to have fathered at least one child. Yeppers, the right reverend Thomas Williams, chief pedophile of the legion of christ order, has been admitted to be the holder of the catholic priest trifecta—rapist, child molester and noted TV personality. Sadly, it’s way easier to find a catholic priest who holds that trifecta ticket than it is to win a trifecta at the track.

This fucking guy was actually one of the holy roman catholic church’s most respected lecturers on ethics and morality. This guy traveled all over to represent the catholic church on moral issues for decades and all the while he’s fucking everything he can find that’s old enough to fuck. Oh, and many not old enough as well.

And self righteous christians call me cynical.

Before breakfast this morning, I decided that Mother wasn’t to be the first to have control of the morning newspaper. As I walked the long length of gravel driveway from the house up to the Ranch Road to gather said paper, I thought of accepting my mother for who she is—a right-wing conservative baptist bigot. Having opened that line of thought I then decided to take more control of what happens in my house… Ah, let me say that one more once, my fucking house, as in owned by me in it’s locks, stocks and barrels.

Every other occupant of this place is here at my will and my sense of family, honor. It is only by my approval does anyone not named me get to reside here. “Fuck it,” I said aloud to myself as I walked back with the paper, “I’m reading the paper first today, and I’ll be the one to make comments thereupon.”

So I rolled the paper into a log and stuffed it into the back of my shorts and under the waistband of my undies. Our paper is now delivered in a plastic sack every day, a waste of resources that pisses me off. By the time I walked back to the house after a way trip to check on the garden, the plastic wrapper was coated with ass sweat and stuck to my right butt cheek.

Which reminds me. I was over to Squattie’s place the other day, and through a comment posted there I somehow managed to stumble my way to a tea bagger bloggie site. Her name is Lisa, her place is called Saucy American In NZ and she says she is an American ex patriot living down to New Zealand. She posted a story about how the tea party, she says T.E.A. Party, and in my typical way I made a comment that maybe she could lure the rest of the tea baggers down there to the bottom of the world and, as is also my way, I had a typo and what I felt was a smart quip about tea bags.

In response, Lisa went directly to the “Call-all-liberals-homosexual-and-stupid” tactic too often employed by her contemporaries. If you go over there you need to look at her Bloggie Roller and check out that Hit Parade. Then you’ll also notice that Lisa seems to be devoid of free thought and can only regurgitate the right-wing homeboys she follows.

Anyway, when I finally got back into the kitchen, I pulled the paper from my pants and walked by the table towards the counter. I took maybe three steps before Mother said to me, she said, “What took you so long to bring in my paper? Please hand it to me.”

Her paper?

“Your paper?” I asked back as I stopped one chair from hers. “Last time this subscription was renewed I do believe it was paid from my account.”

I held the plastic-wrapped log in front of her and unrolled it. It was slippery from ass sweat and I almost dropped it. Through the wrapper I could read a storyline, “Looka here, Mommy dearest, it says that that shithead who owns the Chicago Cubs is going to pay for a hate campaign against the President using the church he used to attend. I can’t wait to read it to everybody.”

I poked the paper towards Mother’s face in a tease. “Give me my newspaper!” Mother said and she grabbed the paper with both hands to yank it from my grasp. I tugged back, and then it slipped from my fingers. The paper recoiled, predictably, and slapped Mother right in the face—chin-to-nose-to-forehead.

“Splat!” went the word of excellent description of the wet kiss to my mother’s face.

She had this wild-eyed look of surprise to her face that quickly turned to a sneer of distaste. She licked her lip—what I personally find to be an auto response when something wet hits my face—spit like she’d tasted a rat’s ass, and then she grabbed her napkin and attempted a derm-abrasion. Her lips and cheeks were quickly chaffed and reddened and her eyes started to water.

“What was that, Mooner? Did you let that nasty dog of yours pee on the paper again?”

Yoda is a male dog, and as male dogs around the globe enjoy to do, he takes a piss on just about anything. OK, everything. He and I are not unalike in that matter.

“Nope, that’s just a little good old fashioned butt sweat,” Mother.

She spit and “I can’t believe’d” for a few minutes and then I just couldn’t help myself. I knew it was wrong then, wrong now, and I’m still debating with myself whether or not I want to take it back. I waited for just the right instant and I said to her, “How’s that ass taste, Mother?”

I got the ass-sweat sticked plastic-covered newspaper thrown sruare in my chest in answer, and a table full of laughing Johnson clan as a review. Gram cackled like a hen and said, “Tha boy finally give ya a chunk a his mind, Mother Johnson. That was some funny shit.”

I unwrapped the paper without wiping it off and sat to read it to the table. It was a strange feeling to reverse roles with Mother at this most important starting sequence of our day. Instead of her editing every story with a bias to the right, I provided a liberal, almost way-far left slant to each story. It was also fun. When I finished I said to the table, I said, “That concludes today’s mainstream media look at the news. If you desire alternative viewpoints, Mother will meet you out to the back porch to attempt to poison your minds.”

In psycho therapy later today my topical question will be, “Should I feel bad about slapping my mother with butt sweat?”

Manana, y’all.

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