So. The first measurable snowfall hit Santa Fe’s streets last night and there is already a skiable base on some of our state’s resorts. All signs are pointing towards heavy, possibly record amounts of Snow. This snow was fat and heavy flakes loaded with needed moisture.
However, as the Squirt refuses to even walk in snow, early this morning we had our now third annual argument thereabout. Tiny, brown puppy and I have repeated this fight since our first Santa Fe winter.
Me: “Jesus Christ, Squirt, do you have to shit on my welcome mat? It won’t wash out of those bristles.”
The Squirt: “Fuck you.”
Me: “Don’t you fuck-you me, young lady, you answer me and right now!”
The Squirt: “Fuck you some more.”
Me: “You are not going to melt from squatting in a little snow, for shitsakes. It isn’t even knee-deep. Look at Yoda…the goat dog loves the snow. Ever since I taught him how to pee write his name, he loves the snow.”
The Squirt: “It’s deep enough to drown my tooter, dickhead. You stick your pecker in six inches of snow long enough to empty your bladder and I’ll consider following suit.”
Ever submerged your pecker in a snowdrift long enough to drain a full bladder either on, or with, purpose? I’d accidently peed in the snow while nekid this one time back to junior high school, but that was, after all, an accident. I’d caught the measles and my Gram had dosed me with a mushroom potion she had labeled “German humps an’ German bumps be gone”.
For my part I’d semi-awakened from a drug-induced slumber and sleep-walked outside into Austin’s annual snow storm. Can’t remember if Gram’s hallucinogenic home remedy cured the German measles, but I’d fully-awakened with frozen extremities and a turtle-pecker hidden behind my sparse, pre-teen pubic hairs thickly-hung with yellow icicles.
Am I the only one, or is icicles spelled wrong? Whoeverinthefuck decided that one did a fine job of contracterating things, but it just looks wrong—not nearly enough letters for all the sounds. Like when some southerners say Mississippi. They say, “Mizsipi.” Or when Georgians say, “Marietta.” “Mayreta,” they’ll say with sugar juice dripping off their lips. If I was to say, “Mis-si-sip-pee,” like it’s properly said, and it was spelled, “Mizsipi,” it would be the same thing.
OK, stop. Maybe it’s the same thing, only backwards. Like my ADD-addled brains.
Main problem with peeing with your genitals packed inside a snow bank is that the freeze-chill from the initial submersion causes a freezing-up of both pecker and the bladder attached. Takes considerable aptitudes, and time as well, to get relaxed enough to pee, unless you’re sleep walking and don’t feel the cold. I found myself proud to have been able to do it this morning without self-inflicting frostbite.
As a compromise, I took the dogs shopping for personal doormats upon which they can do their bidness whilst we’ve got the heavy frost on our Lilies. Yoda chose a brown broom bristle mat that says, “Yes, Inspector, My Dog Bites.”
After I repeatedly refused to have my photo embossed on a slab of ridged, black rubber, the Squirt decided upon one with the sweet countenance of a yellow tabby kitty. “Second choice,” she said to my look.
Does make me wonder about Honor the cat. She’s been gone for almost two years now and there’s no word of her on the street. I’m also wondering about the state of my country. What in Hell is wrong with us? I don’t know and haven’t a clue as to how to figure it out.
So Fuck Walmart!
