A Fossil Fuel Alternitive; Psycho Therapy Sucks (Part 1)

What does a man have to do to be appreciated? Sometimes I feel like all I do is give, give and give some more and all I get in return is a load of crap. I give up my valuable time to walk Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson’s little shitbird dog, Squirt, every day rain-or-shine, busy or not and what do I get in return? Arrested.

Arrested and scolded by the fine doctor.

I follow my therapy homework assignment to a “T”, with one little exception, and agree to donate profits from my sales here to the bloggie to Health Alliance for Austin Musicians. And because I only scored a 90 on that homework (I see my attempt to get HAAM to market my products as a mere ten-point deduction from a perfect score), I get scolded again by Sammie like I’m a ten-year-old school boy who just mooned his appreciation for America’s Veterans at the big parade down to Congress Avenue.

Born on the Fourth of July is one of my best ass shows and likely the most performed of them all. The Veterans’ Day Parade was a big deal when I was growing up and I wanted to show my elders that I could be grateful. We’d been studying about the Vets to school in fifth grade Social Studies Class, plus Grampa was yakking about “the Big War” so much, until I wanted to do my part.

I had planned the first of my July 4th celebration moon shows for the big parade. Red, white and blue-painted butt cheeks were adorned with the American flag and banners from all of the Armed Services. I even included the Coast Guard banner because Pastor Browningwell had been in the Coast Guard and his wife, Leticia, was a teacher to my school and she made sure we got that, “The Coast Guard is a Veterans group, children.”

The moon show went great until I set a lit punk to the 1,000-pack string of Black Cat Firecrackers serving as the finale to my show. The firecrackers set my underwear ablaze at my ankles and started quite a stir. I don’t make that mistake anymore as all of my pyrotechnics occur off-site from the main attraction.

Since I’m visiting Dr. Pain-in-the-Ass ten times a week these days, I told her at this morning’s session that I am not taking this lack of appreciation any more. She’s scolding me to beat the band and Squirt, that little shitball, is sitting there grinning and dissing me under her breath. Which brings to the surface another entire situation to which I am not appreciated.

In all of the years since I first realized that Dixie could talk, she has only spoken human-speak to me. When she was a puppy I couldn’t distinguish her mewling from the battalion of other noises that rattle inside my skull. Once I understood that this one childish voice I was hearing was my sweet puppy talking to me, and not my own early childhood memories come back to taunt, I was elated. I felt special.

I felt special for having a doggie who could talk and we could share our problems and solve life’s mysteries together. That specialness lasted like maybe a month before I realized that Dixie would only speak to me and that Dixie is female. For whatever reason, I stupidly assumed that my dog would be grateful to me and that somehow she would express her gratitude in un-womanlike ways. Maybe that should be not womanlike ways.

Nope. Dixie is no different from all the other women in my life- she takes advantage of my kind heart, spends my money like it is her own, and she talks back. Now, she is teaching Squirt to talk to and back at me, and only me, and Squirt is abusing me like I’m her owner. I can’t even get respect from man’s best friends.

After like something close to the full fifty minutes alloted to this morning’s therapy session spent with Sammie six feet up my ass and her goofy dog smirking at my discomfort, I said, “I got it. I’m not gonna take a bath until I get a little respect.”

“No problem, Mooner,” responded the psycho therapy queen bitchball. “You don’t smell so great to start with.”

You don’t smell so great to start with.

Then Squirt added, under her breath of course, “Mooner got in trouble, Mooner got in trouble!”

“Nanny-nanny-boo-boo to you too you little shitball.” A clever retort from a clever man.

“We’ll see who’s zooming who in a couple of days,” I told the two of them. “I’m going on an onion and garlic diet. And I’m not gonna take a bath or brush my teeth.”

I’m now discovering that an all onion and garlic diet is something akin to an all ice cream diet except without the ice cream. I once made it four days eating nothing but ice cream before I caved in and ate an entire roasted goat. But I’m having difficulty making it through my second pungent meal without something not colored white to eat as a filler.

My hope is that cold Carta Blanca beer will help me keep the wheels on the bus during this road trip to appreciation. Actually, this might be one of those rare instances wherein my ADHD/ADD might be an attraction rather than a distraction. Maybe I’ll get all brain fritzed and forget how miserable I am on this limited diet.

Did you ever light farts as a kid? We all did and it was great fun. The first scientific research project Streaker Jones and I ever did was this one where we determined which foods produced the best gas. It was a simple testing model with simple criteria since it was our first attempt. We were looking for the largest fireball.

Basically, each of us kids- Streaker Jones, Sister, Woozie, Walley, Tony and the rest of the gang, each of us would eat only one food for an entire day. Then that evening we’d all meet up to the Baptist Church and gather in the Sunday School Classroom that brought me so much mental anguish growing up.

It was summer so we could all stay out late, and our parents were all so very proud of us for spending so much time in church.

Being boys, and Sister a lesbian in-training, we were only interested to discover which foods sparked the biggest flames when lit. Since Sister was naturally the most gassy of us all, we used her as the baseline tester. Whenever one of us boys hit on a good food, we’d have Sister eat it the next day for Beta testing. We didn’t call it Beta testing and I’m not disparaging my sister.

When I say Sister is naturally the gassy-est, I only mean that she farts when she drinks water. I was not knocking lesbians.

The church classroom was this long, skinny rectangular thing with three small windows on one wall and two parallel rows of light fixtures with exposed incandescent bulbs running end-to-end. I got my first hand job in this same room a couple years after our ass-gas experiments were interrupted. Wait, my first hand job that wasn’t administered by a Baptist Boy Scout Adult Leader as I lay petrified in my sleeping bag to Aquatics Summer Camp.

Fucking asswipe Baptist shitwad.

So, we would pull the drapes tight to the windows and turn off the lights. Part of the fun was the metal chairs with molded seats. The molded shape was like two big hands cupped and held close together, like if some giant was using his cupped hands to get water from a bucket. You guys know those chairs. They added an extra dimension of sounds as we farted and fidgeted our butts around to release and ignite our gases.

In the darkened room, I was the starter because I had a Zippo lighter, and Streaker Jones was the scientific observer because he was the smartest. Streaker Jones is still the smartest and I carry that Zippo to this day. We set the drapes on fire when we decided to see if the seven of us could produce one big fireball.

We could.

Anyway, my point to all of this is that onions and garlic were top five on the Streaker Jones Fart-Flash-O-Meter rating system. I remember that broccoli was number one, a fact I still don’t understand, and of course pinto beans was two. I forget what came after garlic and onions but who gives a shit.

Maybe for nostalgia’s sake I’ll torch a few when I get home tonight.

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4 Responses to “A Fossil Fuel Alternitive; Psycho Therapy Sucks (Part 1)”

  1. Great information! I’ve been looking for something like this for a while now. Thanks!

  2. admin says:

    Thanks PT.

    You are welcome. Please pass this trash to others- recycle, recycle and recycle some more.

  3. Theresa D. St.Johnswort says:

    I’ve been reading your missives and wanted to respond regarding the walking of your dogs. Yes, foo foo dogs can be a pain. But if there is datshund blood, it’s not a technical foo foo. Datshunds are born killers and the smartest, but, unfortunately, most manipulative dog around, as you have evidently discovered. Their whole MO is food and marking their territory, which they cleverly disguise as attentiveness and love towards their “master”. Don’t let this fool you. They own you with every drop they dole out. Kind of like your therapist and maybe others you have mentioned, both human and animal. My companion, Rue, the canary, who has nothing to gain, has taught me many things, but this has been one of the most helpful.
    As far as animals talking to you, in the past, we were able to talk to animals, but we were able to talk their language and understand them, not the other way around as it is now. Be thankful you can communicate with Dixie and Squirt, but be aware that they call the shots, since you don’t know their language. Or maybe you do, being ADD/ADHD. This diagnosis covers alot of unrealized potential.
    But what i really want to warn you about is the danger of walking your dog in Austin, which is the home town of pistol=packing Gov. Rick Perry. See the story in the Austin Statesman this Wednesday, if you still read such a made paper. Evidently, he has taken to shooting coyotes on his running jogs, and claims he can take one down one with his .360 ruger, pistol=loaded with hollow bullets. It seems a bit precise and overkill, but hey, a weapon in the right hands can be magic, especially in Texas, during an election year. But, unfortunately, it’s in the wrong hands and likely that he may be apt to shoot a small dog or even you, if he sees you as a threat, although he claims to be carrying a gun while jogging because he is “afraid of snakes”. Really, read the article. Dr. Sam, your therapist, would probably have something to say about penis envy, or such. But leave that to the experts on duty. I’m writing this off duty, and normally don’t get envolved in politics unless it involves people bragging about killing animals. D

  4. admin says:

    Hey Delores- what’s shakin?

    As always you have managed to hit the nails square-on the head. Wasn’t it interesting that little Ricky Perry is afraid of snakes and carries hollow point bullits. I find his religous-based ignorant political viewsare based upon hollow points, and also that he’s one of the snakes to be most feared.

    But the boy is not afraid of a mirror. As for my dog problems, I think my next pooch will be a neutered male cocker spaniel. Maybe a brainless, ball-less ADHD boy dog will talk back less than all of these women.

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