I've asked my ol' buddy, Mooner Johnson, to liven up my site with his randomness! Mooner, the only blogger buddy that I've ever met in person, is not just a blogger. He's also an author of an extremely funny book. Prepare to be appalled and entertained at the same time!
Well, I'm going to let Mooner do his thing. After you read this and enjoy his work, then cruise on over to MoonerJohnson.com and subscribe to his blog. It's good stuff. It wouldn't be on my page if it weren't. Take it away, Mooner.
It isn't often that sane people turn me loose without any reservations because without rules and guidelines, I tend to go way off the reservation. While I'm but one-sixteenth American Indian/Native American, that small part of me dominates all reservational conditions. Said another way, if I don't have something to hold me back—if there are no dumass conditions or stupid rules to tether my actions—then I have trouble getting untethered.
Another issue lying herein is that Quincy is all about having common sense, and then using it. I've got no common sense—an admitted fact—and many say I have no sense at all. My own mother tells everyone at her church, she'll say. “Oh, you just need to ignore all of those heretical things Mooner writes about. My son doesn't have the good sense God gave a grape.”
I do, on the other hand, sense that you readers of this bloggie, Quincy's bloggie, have enough going for you to pick through the bullshit and find the meat of matters. Which reminds me. How about that pink slime, huh?
I know that you are already saying to yourself, you're saying, “Holy shit, Grandma, but this Texas boy is confusing the ever-loving bejesus right out of me.”
Welcome to my world.
As a life-long sufferer of the dreaded ADHD and its tamer little brother, ADD, the obfuscations already contained herein are but the standard contusions of daily life as manifested through the distractions of life, as said life is lived by me. Again said with a slightly different twist, my ADHD is highly contagious and the first symptom is when you shake your head and reread sentences.
Having said all of that, since Quincy always asks a question with his postings, I'm going to present you with one of my dilemmas and see if you can assist me with its solving. OK, stop. Do you solve a dilemma or does it just go away when its causes subside? Are dilemmas like hemorrhoids and need to be removed for a permanent cure, or are they more akin to poison ivy, wherein you stop scratching and it just goes away?
I got poison ivy this one time when I was a teenager. A neighbor cleared some land and burned the cleared vegetation. I breathed and walked through poison ivy smoke that resulted from the burn. Got that shit in my nose and sinuses, my eyes and throat, in my ears and all over my pecker and balls. If memory serves me, the pecker and balls eruptions were secondary afflictions. Since poison ivy's rash spreads from contact and I was a teenage boy, I managed to spread my secondary eruptions over most of my body not already covered.
I spent about six-weeks covered head-to-toe with calamine lotion. Gram called me “The Pepto Bismol Man” and made me a white hat shaped like a bottle cap to keep the sun off my blistered scalp. Sunshine makes the rash itch even more and seems to promote fatter blisters, and my Gram can be seriously funny.
Anyway, the dilemma-of-the-month is this. My adopted 350-pound African ostrich, Rick Perry, wants to get breast augmentations so that he can better please his gay lover. Said lover, the 550-pounds of domesticated pig named Rush Limbaugh, is a breast man as it turns out, and Rick Perry wants to be able to fill-out a wedding dress for Rush's benefit. I'll not go into the wedding dress aspects here as we don't have time. Quincy told me he likes to keep things short here to his place, so just know that the big bird has sound reasons for getting giant rubber titties—some logical reasoning and some purely emotional in nature.
Personally, I feel that Rick Perry has a way-plenty ample breast for any man. Have you guys ever seen a full grown African ostrich up close? There has to be a hundred pounds of brassiere meat on a mature male ostrich. But love and vanity are distant relatives to common sense, and he wants this in the worst way.
I'm pretty liberal about all things Love, so my reticence is all from the practical perspectives. The bird is already so top heavy he can't fly, and I'm concerned that the additional high-front ballast will make him walk funny and maybe hurt his back.
Then there will be that whole nipple and aureole dealie. Rush Limbaugh is a piggish fellow and he has already asked me to get him nipple clamps for his birthday. I went shopping for them last week and brought home replacement ends for truck jumper cables. I had Gram make purple velvet pads for the clamps. I hope they'll be big enough.
But where will the doctor get the skin and flesh to form nipples from? Other than his breast, the only meat on the silly bird is perched on his tight little ass. Maybe he can use those spurs on the back of Rick Perry's feet. Nipples made from the spurs would always be hard and I know that would take a lot of the fun out of playing with them. At least they'd never get sore.
As his father, it is my responsibility to advise him and insure that I only give him my best advice. He's a grown man and I won't tell him what to do, but let's face the facts here folks, Rick Perry is not all that smart. He's got a very pretty head but it's mostly thick skull and just a tiny little brain. Rick Perry isn't smart enough to know just how stupid he is.
Which reminds me. My ostrich's namesake, the pompous dickhead Governor of Texas, just made a big speech about pink slime and how people need to just shut up and eat it. He made this speech because most of the pink slime is made by the big agricultural conglomerates in their plants up to the Texas Panhandle. Don't know if you noticed, but Rick “the Prick” Perry didn't eat a plateful of that shit at the news conference.
Help me here, guys. What advice would you give your son if you were me? Do I suggest he see a psycho therapist or should I just buy the damned things as a wedding present? I must admit that I bought a pair once before as a birthday gift for one of my ex-wives, and I must also admit that I liked them. Still do. Ingrid owns Ingrid's Hot Wax Emporium and, well...
OK stop, as I've left the tracks in the altogether. Ingrid is an incredible woman but has nothing to do with what I need from you guys. What I need is some serious insight from people with common sense. I need a common sense solution for an uncommon problem.
Go here for a follow-up on this blog.