My Grandmother Was A Butthole

My grandmother was a butthole. Well, at least it could be said that she was evolving into a butthole. She had tendencies. Certainly—-she presented us with a number of intensely powerful butthole moments .

Although, in consulting with Dr. D. Moseley, Chairwoman of the Department of Animosity at Whatsa Mata University, who has dedicated her entire career to the study of a sect(we won’t say a religious one) she deemed Buttholists, it would have appeared grandma’s moments were random and episodic occurrences, no body of evidence of her belief, or of her faith in, or of actually being, a practicing Buttholist.

Dr Moseley claims there is no concentrated population of this sect anywhere.(Well, maybe Texas, I mean really, think about those Texans for a minute.)

The exact word Dr Moseley used was “ubiquitous.” “They’re everywhere!” In a quest for solid proven science I asked Dr. Moseley if it’s possible to “know one when you see one?” Her eyes got real big and she said, (now this is pure science) “OH YEAH!”

Notice: Dr. Moseley doesn’t want you to know who she is or where she lives or that she helped Pud Rutledge smuggle Pixie Bob cats in from Nicaragua last year. They’re $10,000 a piece. It explains everything.

The road to becoming a butthole, before that “ist” thing is added or the state of having nearly become a butthole: I need the correct term;

Should I go with buttholedom, buttholiness. Or maybe buttholalonian, like Thessalonians.

eg; my grandmother was a——Buttholalonian?

Does buttholiness sound too Christian? Are butt and holy a contradiction, a forbidden combination? I need answers. Today. And I’m not shitting you. The Anna Nicole Smith trial is being re-run tonight. No way in hell I’m missing that!

An average family, worldwide, even rare Nicaraguan jungle tribes(who raise the even more rare Pixie Bob cats—(strange coincidence)—-according to Dr. Moseley, has in it at least one butthole. The simplest(Occam’s Razor) solution to putting a name on the butthole in a family is family consensus. We all know who it is!

If you aren’t sure who it is, then the proven science answer is, and I mean it is EVERY time, it’s YOU! Even more telling is that if you are laughing right now, guess what, YOU have been caught in the butthole trap! Yeah! More tricky Moseley science!

We are packing a serious load of buttholes in my family. The simplest solution to managing this potentially nuclear circumstance is to alternate being the butthole. But there are so many of us that it becomes necessary to be in a continuous survey of a family butthole who is beginning to vibrate. Pay attention now. This is critical. We know—-when to back down.

In fact, just yesterday, our family’s most well-spoken and articulate butthole(the most dangerous kind)began to vibrate when ordering apple pie at a local restaurant. We have no rational explanation. Everything seemed to be going well, then—-it was served. Improperly. We all gave each other the glance, which is tantamount to surrender. Recognizing my position at number two butthole sitting at this table, I glanced first. Vitally important.

We’re REALLY good at this. We’ve witnessed two and three simultaneous butthole meltdowns. We’re hardened veterans.

Let me leave you with this thought; no matter how badly buttholes in public can behave, there is a butthole right there in your house that cause you more anguish. The bitterness of the family butthole is unrivaled in any other setting.

I’m at home today. Just Katherine and me. Everybody in my family knows that one of us is THE butthole. The one that actually received the gift of a belt with the words “The Butthole” on it. And it ain’t Katherine.

Sid Richardson was a wealthy Texas oil man, perhaps one of the most wealthy and influential men in American history. At one point in Sid’s life he disappeared from the pages of history for about ten years. I’m fascinated by that fact.

I am definitely no Sid Richardson, but I recently disappeared from the landscape. No, I’m not in prison. Well, not since that thing back in 2012. It was a close one. But I was never indicted! (No laughing Kristi Chapman)

I had a total shoulder replacement 5 weeks ago. In the process I found out that I am allergic to Dwarf Australian Barking Deer. It’s a long story that involves Pud Rutledge some Honduran male tabby cat smugglers. I don’t have the time or energy to go into the story, but trust me, it was ugly. Do you know Pud? He is also the prime suspect in the theft of that tortilla making machine at Posado’s. If the Mexicans find out about this, there is going to be a lynch mob after Pud! I volunteer to put the noose around his neck!

I’ve been reading a lot. Just started book number eight. At the end of number seven I realized that I had gained eight pounds.

I found out about the extra pounds today. I was back in my doctors office for the fourth time, attempting to get my axe murderer prevention medication adjusted. Weight gain, according to my doctor, comes from laying around on your ass reading books. Who knew that?

Now—murdering people with an axe burns a lot of calories. I figure about four hundred calories each. Any other guesses? I could burn some serious calories if I would just quit taking my medications.

But then I recalled the story told to me by a good friend who is a cancer survivor. In the story he explained that he had experienced severe weight loss during treatment. Following treatment and recovery he gained all of his weight back. “Being skinny is overrated,” he said.

So there! It’s anecdotal and only one case—- but convincing! I stopped off at Sam’s Club and bought a giant bag of chips, some of those stuffed peanut butter pretzels and a dozen Greek Gyros. I feel so much better now. Is there a Lane Bryant for men?

Other than all of that ridiculousness I shucked off my shoulder immobilizer last week. Sleeping with that thing strapped around you neck is miserable and it was beginning to smell like tepid hot dog water. The shoulder is improving right on schedule.

Today I had the idea that I might get started writing some vague, apocryphal account of my life, making up a bunch of stuff to make me look better and more thoughtful and intelligent than I really am, as opposed to the circus of vulgarity and bad judgements it has been. Nobody will read it but it would be fun to do.

We are headed to the beach soon to watch the fat people on the beach, you know, the ones that show up from Illinois in October. I’ll write about that. Did you know that they steal the Splenda off the tables in our restaurants down there? I’ll fit right in! I’m taking a few more books. I figure about an extra pound for each book.

What have I learned this week? Milk your nightmares. There might be something useful in there. Swallow those damned those pills. They’re good for you! And hand over that axe!

On any given day my friend Lane Pittard’s mind is more full of sh*t than a port-a-potty at the end of little league baseball season. This is not to lodge a complaint in any form or fashion—it’s some brilliant sh*t! He harbors some deeply felt beliefs.

However there is now one particular belief of his that I am now prepared to contest. In case you are unaware, he is a Baconist—bacon worshiper.

It all came to pass(sounds kinda biblical doesn’t it) last night at Cotton’s in Minden, Louisiana. Pittard is the one who sent me out there so I could argue that this is all his fault.

Cotton’s is a rather rough looking fried chicken joint. Not as rough as Gary Busey looks after a week long bender—-but fairly rough.

When we approached the place on hwy 79 what we witnessed could only be described as a frenzy. I haven’t seen that much craziness since we came up short on banana pudding at the Methodist church back in 1995! We ended up having to send the pastor to a three month Banana Pudding Addiction Recovery program. I hear he relapsed down in Lake Charles years later. Banana pudding is pure dope to a Methodist.

But back to Cotton’s.

The one place left to park in the pot-holed, dimly lit parking lot at Cotton’s was more narrow than Maxine Water’s mind. But we managed to squeeze in there.

There is a walk up order window on the outside, and an order window on the inside. A third window is badly needed.

Once seated across from a very large photograph of an old man(must be, or have been, Cotton) we waited. His photograph portrayed a man who appeared to have known many chickens. Yes, you can tell by looking.

At last our order arrived. Then—————then, I bit into that first drumstick. I passed into what can only be described as a dream state!
The holy fried chicken spirit came upon me! I would need a certified Pentecostal to adequately describe how I felt. Methodists like me never have such experiences. But I knew in that moment that I had reached out and touched the beak of the holy god of fried chicken! Who knew such food existed?

Later, as I drove away, I began to ponder Pittard’s bacon worship. I’ve heard he has an underground bacon bunker where he stores bacon in case of some unforeseen apocalyptic event.

As a matter of full disclosure I will reluctantly admit that I attended one of his late night meetings wherein he built a large bon fire, fashioned hats out of bacon and danced a weird pagan looking dance around the fire. It looked sort of like Elaine’s dancing on Seinfeld. Then we all ate bacon until we passed out. The next morning when I woke up the fire was continuing to smolder and I looked around to see that the still sleeping attendants, including myself, were all wearing Arkansas Razorback hats. Weird.

I’m going to go out on a limb here. I’m going to say that Cotton’s fried chicken
is, dare I say it, better than bacon!

Now——as many of you know, I am in fact, a baconaholic myself. I just can’t quit. Hell, I had a half a pound of bacon for breakfast this morning!
I’ve struggled. I’ve been to the twelve step meetings. I even had a sponsor(Susan Prestidge)who quit bacon many years ago and now drinks Vienna sausage juice, which is basically like methadone for bacon addicts.

Lord help me! I can’t get that chicken out of my head. I wonder if there are any crumbs in the bottom of my trash can from last night? It’s out on the curb. I could dig those out! Would that be wrong? Is this just trading one addiction for another? Maybe I should call Susan.

OH MY GOD! I HEAR THE GARBAGE TRUCK COMING! SH*T! I GOTTA GO!