I had planned a really lazy weekend of watching the leaves change colors and numerous college football games from my couch in Sewanee. Then I heard that my man, Rex L. Camino, had the keys to the Nashville is Talking Ranchero. So I rededicated myself to either doing something interesting enough to post about or making up something that I wish I had actually done. After all, Rex is definitely a top-fiver in my personal blogger pantheon, and he needs some content to comment on.
Unfortunately, not much is going on up here on Monteagle Mountain this weekend except for Sewanee Homecoming. Unless you plan to be an active participant in party weekend, it’s better to avoid campus unless you like sixty year old men wearing seersucker and white bucks throwing up neon red hunch punch on your shoes. Needless to say, RUABelle and I are cocooning.
So here’s what’s happened today:
We woke up early.
I listened to Car Talk and checked my email.
I took a shower.
We drove into Monteagle to pick up a few things at CVS and the Piggly Wiggly.
We ate lunch at the diner.
We returned to sit on the couch and watch football.
Not really a lot to blog about today. But then I thought WWRD? What would Rex do? Maybe I could find a way to liven this blasé day up in the style of the “Muse from Murfreesboro.” All of the elements of a classic Jack Lordesque post were there. I could see opportunities for hyperbole, anthropomorphism, onomatopoeia and many other high school English class terms. I might still even have time to go find a family of Mexicans with whom to interact in a lively, yet socially responsible manner.
But why stop there? It’s a long weekend. There aren’t really any great college games on the ole dish. Why not try to dress up the boring reality of this day by blogging in the style of many of my online favorites? What the hell! Let’s give it a try.
I know this is a dangerous undertaking. Personal satire can easily be taken the wrong way. But the folks I read seem pretty thick-skinned, and remember people, these are homages! I love you all.
First in the style of:
The Dry Spot
Nellie, the neurotic pudelhund, was apparently not aware of our plan to gradually transition away from Daylight Savings Time by sleeping a little bit later than 5:45 this morning. She began spinning around in her crate until RUABelle was forced to free her, whereupon she jumped immediately into bed landing directly on my crotch. I had been pretending to still be asleep so that I wouldn’t have to deal with the dog, but this was now impossible as I was moaning and spitting up small pieces of lymph from my crushed nodes.
The sweet RUABelle was nice enough to close off a few doors to isolate half the cabin with the dog in the other half from where I was trying to catch an extra eighty winks. While she drank coffee and did yoga, I did my own “Sunrise Salutation” by keeping my fat butt in bed for another hour. To make sure I didn’t sleep away the whole morning, she left the cranky orange cat in the bed as a living, breathing snooze alarm. True to form, Sammie woke me up for good by using my nose as a speed bag with her front paws.
I put on my robe and slippers (it’s pretty darned chilly up here) and went into the guest bedroom to get the boom box so I could listen to NPR. I fixed a cup of coffee and sat down on the sofa. No sooner had my ass hit the cushion when the first sip of coffee stimulated a percolation in my nether regions. (Oh c’mon. You knew it wouldn’t be a Dry Spot post without some reference to my bowels.)
I don’t know about you, but I have never figured out how to sit on a toilet with a bathrobe on, so I took it off and draped it over the back of the couch. I didn’t want to miss the answer to last week’s puzzler on Car Talk, so I took the radio with me. I figured I might be a while and might need provisions, so I took my coffee with me. And I demand a constant stream of input and information, so I took my Treo in there too.
I haven’t mentioned this yet, but the lovely RUABelle hadn’t seen me yet since she woke up. She was out tramping through the woods watching Nellie compulsively try to dig up mole holes. Well, during the time I was voiding myself in the extra bathroom (or the DR-Dump Room, as we call it) she and the dog had returned. Presently, she was standing behind the counter in the kitchen pouring another cup of coffee.
Imagine her delight and surprise when she saw me wandering out of the laundry room wearing only my fuzzy slippers and tighty whiteys (all of the ugly underwear has migrated to our weekend cabin over the course of a couple years), standing there with a boom box in one hand and a cup of coffee and a PDA in the other.
“Oh, that’s charming,” she said.
“C’mon, admit it. You know you want a little slice of this.” I countered.
(For a typical Dry Spot post, I think I have included an appropriate amount of parentheses, but I’m way short on ellipses. So here ya’ go:… … … … … … …)
Now excerpts in the style of:
I was sleeping soundly when I felt a little jiggly wiggly in the bed. Then I was disturbed by a glint of light in the corner of my eyes. My eyes sprang open to a shocking sight. RUABelle had apparently removed the four foot mirror from the wall of the dining room and had laid it in the bed, where she straddled it while wearing a sheer nightgown. She had a five d-cell MagLite in her left hand.
“Wake up, Smiley! Have you ever seen anything this beautiful in your whole fucking life?!”
“WTF, GF?!” I replied. But I did notice that part of me had started to embiggen.
I didn’t get a blowjob this morning. Just thought you’d like to know.
The dog jumped into bed and put pinned me back to the pillow with both of her front paws. “Not so fast, bucko” she said.
“When the hell did you learn how to talk?” I asked.
“I’ve always known how. There’s just never been an occasion where I wanted to share any information with you.”
“Well what changed your mind now?”
“You looked like you were about to disturb my God.”
“My God? Oh you mean RUABelle.”
“To me, she’s my God. She feeds me. She takes me for walks. She gives me my medicine. She takes me to the vet and the groomers and to PetSmart and the dog park. As far as I can tell, all you do is tie that piece of polyester around your neck each morning and disappear for ten hours. Besides, weren’t you calling her ‘My God’ last night?”
“Err, sorta. Points well taken. I’ve got a question for you, Miss Talking Dog. If you’re so damned smart, why do you eat out of the cats’ litter box.”
“Don’t knock it til you’ve tried it.”
Wouldn’t it just be easier to bring the litter box into the bed? That way, the cats wouldn’t have to even leave the twenty square foot area that they spend the whole day in and we wouldn’t have to feed the dog.
Somebody would have to be willing to deliver pizza and chocolate to the bedroom though.
“Get off the damned bed BusyDog! Don’t you know we have six soccer games, two different playgroups to visit, take out to pick up and an intern to cane this morning? And that’s before lunch. Plus, somebody is going to have to take the blender in to the repair shop again before cocktail hour.”
So I finally got up and left the BR and headed to the well appointed guest BR. I picked up the portable entertainment unit and returned to the spacious great room where I enjoyed a cup of coffee from the industrial-sized dual pot Williams Sonoma coffee maker. But as soon as I sat down in the warm and welcoming sitting area’s sectional sofa, I realized that I had to quickly head to the 1/2 bath.
[Photo taken with the Treo 600 SmartPhone/PDA]
Seein’ as it wuz time for Car Talk on the NPR, I cut on the victrola. My timing was well nigh on purfek as I heard the theme song just startin’ up. I recognized it was “Dawggy Mountain Breakdown” by David Grisman and his Dawg Band.
Little Davey Dawg Grisman kicked it off with a mean run on the mandolin before Keith Little took off on the 5-string. I remember Keith when he played banjer with my buddy Ricky Skaggs and from Mista Smiff’s sometimes boss, a certain Miss Dolly Parton.
You know what I fuckin’ hate about NPR?! How come “The Corporation for Public Broadcasting” even exists!? Why should my tax dollars go to support the mouthpiece for the liberal agenda? It’s not that I don’t agree with some of what they say, but where do they get off taking public monies to broadcast?
You could argue that Tom Joyner, “The Fly Jock,” is as important a representative and expression of the black culture as NPR is for white liberals. But the difference is that if not enough people want to listen and buy stuff that advertisers pay to buy airspace to peddle, then the show would go off the fuckin’ air. But NPR listeners don’t have to sit through commercials with porn music in the background while Barry White’s mellifluous voice tries to sell me relaxer from beyond the grave. They get to have their liberal claptrap commercial-free.
We should just let the free market sort this whole NPR thing out. Or maybe Disney could buy them.
I hate the pledge drives. I wish they would stop badgering me. I’ve started calling them to make a $1000 pledge in somebody else’s name. Then I have them send the pledge card and return envelope to my work address. Finally, I take the “postage guaranteed” pledge envelope and put some of my pubic hair clippings in it. Then I tape it to a 20 lb. Breeko Block and drop it in a mailbox. That’ll teach the little bastards to interrupt my “Thistle and Shamrock” and “Splendid Table” shows to beg for money!
On the other hand, who but NPR really truly speaks for the liberal and downtrodden? Certainly not the traditional print media. Now excuse me while I go pour some thumbtacks in the driveway of Bob Corker’s campaign headquarters.
So how was your day, Nashville?