Cottonmouth County, home of Spinster HQ, is the droughtiest county in the droughtiest state in the country. I know, because, like all spinster aunts, I am an expert climatologist, and also because I consulted the U.S. Drought Monitor. If I may direct your attention to Fig. 13a? Observe the section of the map that looks like dried blood on a bullet wound. That’s Cottonmouth County.
Thanks, global warming!
There hasn’t dripped a drop of rain around here since about 1947. Even the rocks are beginning to wilt. All along the highways, instead of wildflowers, are signs reading “Burn Ban in Effect. This Includes Lighting Farts.” * Everything is dead or dying, which, I grant you, is a bonanza for vultures, but for most everybody else the drought is pretty inconvenient. It’s pointless, for example, to plant food in a drought, which condition has obvious consequences for both food planters and people who eat food. It is also inconvenient for livestock who eat food. A spinster aunt can’t tootle down County Road 666 for half a mile without seeing at least one skeletal cow planted in the dust with four in the air. I expect the wild herbivores are similarly feeling the pinch.
Meanwhile, bone-dry perma-winds have been howling through El Rancho Deluxe at 20 to 40 MPH for two weeks straight. Whenever I leave the bunkhouse I have to wear goggles to keep my eyes from being ripped from my skull. I pick my way around the landscape clinging from tree to tree, brachiating on foot like some mutant earthbound gibbon.
To prevent the pruneo-dessication of my person I’ve been forced to have water trucked in by price-gouging drought profiteers. The water driver is a guy named Keith who, irritatingly, always accepts what I intend to be a strictly disingenuous offer of coffee. While my water pumps into the cistern he stands around slurping and raconteuring about the good old days in the Navy when he was a real ass-kicker. Unless I want to see ex-ass-kicker Keith every week, I have to be fairly frugal with showers and the laundry. So a certain aroma hovers.
But overarchingly, I’ve been pretty much living in a state of panic that some crazed armadillo hunter’s insufficiently stubbed-out Marlboro will float over here on a dirt devil and El Rancho Deluxe will go up in a blaze of deluxeness like some crap Hollywood special effect.
How dry is it? Two nights ago I was awakened by what could only have been an army of hydrophobic claw-footed aliens parachuting onto my hot tin roof from a giant pulsating mothership hovering directly overhead. I surmised that the aliens were allergic to water, and had journeyed to the Texas Hill Country from a recently flooded planet 4,307 light years away in search of the parched conditions that could sustain their species. I supported this hypothesis with the direct observation of two instances of thunder and one instance of lightning. As you know, mothershippal pulsations always generate thunder and lightning.
But the origin of the roof racket turned out to be even more alien than an alien invasion. It was, of all things, rain. Like all the other spinster aunts in Cottonmouth County, I tested this wild hypothesis by leaping into my wellies and hot-footing it dramatically out into the anhydrous dust that used to be my hay field, twirling with outstretched arms and singing my number one jam, “Africa” by Toto (including the keyboard “flute” solo, because damn those are some hott lixx).
Sure enough, I became damp. Hypothesis confirmed.
The precipitation continues today. Please join me for celebrational cocktails on the Lido Deck at 4 PM.
* Remember, during W’s first term, how he was always hanging around his Texas ranch “clearing brush”? Ranchers fucking hate brush. Almost as much as they love fetuses. Brush is anything that grows where the rancher wants to plant genetically modified hybrid grass to feed genetically modified hybrid cattle. The product of brush-clearing is a huge pile of wood. Ranchers always burn this pile, sending gallons of nasty hydrocarbon globules into the atmosphere, rather than going to the expense and trouble of turning it into mulch, thus incurring pollution and increasing the likelihood of wildfires. Nice.