So. I’m again writing as both part of my commitment to spend thirty minutes each day writing and also my agreement to disclose those of my behaviors that are “call out” behaviors. For those of you new to the word jungle hereat mostly confined, please know the following: my psycho therapist is the first of my several ex-wives and mother of my kids (and, likewise, the arbiter-in-charge of the confessional call outs); my late-life children are two mixed breed mini dogs named Squirt and Yoda (aka the goat dog); my loony old mother is mostly confined to a memory loss home (the reason behind my recent move back to Texas) and; I seem to lack most of the thought filtering devices for socialization common in civilized persons; I’m an atheist and dislike most religions and all religious bullshit; I’m socialistic politically; I’m an ADD-addled fuckbrain, and as the Squirt has grown fond to say when she tells me, she’s been saying, “Mooner, you’re a hot fucking mess.”
Run-on sentences aside, using the above information as the colored shards to fill the round box out to the end of your kaleidoscopes, please spy through your lenses with guarded responses at whatever it is that follows. OK?
As it’s now full-blown summer and our lawns are lush and full, the Squirt has an unnatural fear of Flies and the goat dog chases himself dizzy as he spins and jumps to snap the winged buzzers dead with his mouth, and having dogs who shit in the grass breeds fly colonies who, whom maybe, like to nest in grass, deep breath…we’ve got flies. Every kind of fly known to inhabit the habitats of similar habituaries to ours. Big horse flies, fruit flies, house flies and everything between. Having tried every possible fly catching or fly killing or even the scare-your-flies-away dealios, nothing actually worked as desired.
OK, let me break here to say that while we do have Dragon Flies, they are not subject to our rancor, nor of our ire, as instead of hunting them down with evil intents, we have planted some bushes in specific design to attract them for their beauty.
Also in the name of disclosure so as to not appear to be in conflict with my own beliefs, in response to a buddy’s question that if I hate flies so damned much, why do I have one tattooed on the tender patch of skin that lies between the thumb and forefinger of my left hand, an inking of extreme visibility in my everyday life. The answer to that is simple. As flies are the first visible evidence of pending death in the animal kingdom, I placed a Spanish bottle fly on that patch of skin as a reminder that I have cancer. And saying that requires the clarification that I actually have two cancers.
The first are the skin cancers that have visited my skull starting from when I was forty, cancers that have required scalding and freezing and scalpelling in successful efforts to fully remove them from my person. I’ve had dozens of those things removed over the last twenty-eight years, and as long as I keep them removed in a timely fashion, none will threaten my life. The second of my cancers lies inside the walls of my traitorous fucking prostate. No details here, but suffice it to say that it could not be removed to prevent releasing its cancerous cells into the rest of my body, so I got the treatments designed to shrink it so small as to make it a non-issue for my future health.
I put my Salvador Dali drawn Spanish bottle fly tattoo there to my hand because I had started playing poker more seriously after my treatments by The Great Radiator, and I wanted a constant reminder that while I have no specificities thereof, the numbering of my days was in final countdown. Maybe most people don’t require so visible a reminder of pending mortality, but what with the ADD and all, and memory requiring at least a modicum of focus…
Anyhow, we were stymied as to our fly issues until my good buddy BJ from middle Tennessee told us about the “Bug-A-Salt” fly killing machine. As a complete hater of any sort of gun, it was difficult for me to buy-into the purchase of even an air rifle to make the life of my pets better. But after watching the company video and reading Beej’s description of his fly killing successes, I got one. Other than birth control, the single best purchase of my life.
OK, so what the Bug-A-Salt rifle is, is a plastic, pump action air rifle that looks like a mini assault gun, which uses ordinary Table Salt to kill flies. And it is quite the efficient fly killing machine.
When we were watching the company video depicting the operational effectiveness on the I-net, I asked the dogs what they thought, I asked them, “What do you guys think? Will that work for us?”
After some seemingly careful consideration, the Squirt looks up and tells me, “You’ll put our eyes out, dumbass. You’ll be hunting flies and start thinking about that car waitress at Sonic yesterday, and, well, you know how that goes.”
The small brown puppy who is my oldest late-life child was speaking of the quite comely woman—in and of itself an anomaly roller skating around at a Sonic—who had the quick wit of a comic and the long limbs with delicate hands I find so attractive.
What with my hating guns attitude, it took me awhile to learn how to effectively operate the damned thing, but I’ve now been proven to have killed 68 flies with a recent 72-shot whatchamacallit of table salt. OK, help me, you don’t load ammunition for a gun into a canister or a box, you load it into a_____. A something not called a cargo hold, and not the spare bullet detachable thingie kept in the pockets of those cargo pants that mass murderers seem to like, said detachments serving as a personal arsenal when some shithead decides to shoot up a nightclub. I’m talking about the internal ammo-storing container actually a part of the gun. In a revolver I think they call it the drum, right?
Anyone still with me? Anyway, you fill your whateverthefuckitis you call the thing that holds ammunition on the actual person of a gun with table salt. Ordinary Table Salt, and I get Kroger branded generic table salt that was on sale for $0.49 recently at the Kroger over to Loop 288, you know the big store. The regular price is $0.98 but I get the discount with my Kroger card. The manufacturer says you can fill the storage thingie in your Bug-A-Salt with an 80-shot load of miniature mini balls, but I can’t get 80 shots loaded without spilling another 80-shot load all over the place. So, my average load is 72 shots. Okay, perhaps my average is 71, but who really gives a shit? Whom either?
We three-that is to mean the dogs and I–say we’re going on safari when we make a trip to the outside to shoot flies. I’ve got a cammo safari hat to keep the skin cancer from re-infesting my head, and the dogs creep stealthily beside me as we hunt the pesky critters down. OK, should it be better said that we hunt down the pesky critters?
Which reminds me. Has anybody else noticed how many of the mega-church preachers have started cozying-up to the Trumpster? The Prez was in Dallas last weekend meeting at one of the local gigantic religious industrial giants, and the sound bite from the asshole pastor was, “Trump is the last hope to make America great again!”
How can a true Christian cozy up to Trump, a question the answer for which I just now realized in the simple act of writing the question. And should the previous sentence end with a question mark as it contains a question or end with the pointed declaratory period? Don’t know, don’t really give a shit to the punctuation question, and the other one seems simple.
Hypocrisy. Telling me that the man who wants to grab your wives and daughters by their pussies is America’s last hope is hypocritical bullshit, just as little Jimmy Baker fucking around on Tammy Fae while fleecing the minions of millions on a family values platform.
Dammit, it isn’t the chamber because that’s where the bullet goes to be fired, right? Anyway, got bugs? Wanna have some fun? Buy yourself a Bug-A-Salt rifle. Googlate it.
Fuck Walmart!
