Adult ADD and ADHD; Using Tasers and Stun Guns as Foreplay

Enough already with the Oprah Winfrey feedback. I mean give me a break already. What part of “I, Butcher Einstein Mooner Johnson, like Oprah Winfrey” is so difficult for you to understand. The fact is that I like Oprah, admire Oprah and even envy Oprah. Maybe it should be the “facts are” that I like, admire and envy.

Hell, I have this recurring dream about Oprah. See, Oprah is over to the ranch watching TV and we’re sitting on the couch right up close to each other, holding hands and smoocherating a little. We’ve made all of these proposition bets on the Super Bowl game, which is what we’re watching on TV. You know, prop bets- like who wins the coin toss, which player scores first, first penalty or first broken bone. Those kinds of bets.

For payment, if I win, Oprah owes me sexual favors. If she wins, I owe her sexual favors. All of the favors include sex paired with either wine, tequila or food and sometimes all three. Its a high-scoring game, so by halftime, the couch is littered with food scraps, empty booze bottles, leather straps and used condoms. But this is a major ADHD digression.

So look. Oprah is a person that I like, more than just somewhat, or a little. I like Oprah a lot.

But that has nothing to do with the very simple fact that Oprah Winfrey almost ruined my life! She did it, it is on record- video-taped as a matter of fact, it is verified and bona-fucking-fied. It is true that she almost ruined my life.

I didn’t blame her. I didn’t get mad at her or sue her for the near destruction of my total wellbeing she precipitated. I have never said a harsh word about Oprah and, in fact, have only promoted her.

So pull your collective heads out of your asses and your feet from my ass and listen here. While I cannot tell you the story, because little missy-pissy Editorator lady will get me re-institutionalized to the Bin if I confide here to the blog what’s in the book, just trust me when I say that Oprah had this week-long series of interconnected shows that set up a series of events that almost ruined my fucking life.

OK? I have proof. And I’m getting riled-up and punching at this shitty little keyboard to my new laptop like I’m playing Whack-A-Mole down to the Chuckie Cheezers joint. My fingertips are bleeding from hitting all these O’s.

Ever play Whack-A-Mole with a snoot-full of mushroom juice and about a dozen Carta Blanca beers under your belt?

Wait. The “Bin” is short for “loonie bin”. Which is short for the Shoal Creek Mental Hospital, Austin, Texas.

There was this one time when Streaker Jones and I took my kids to the original Chuckie Cheezers they had out to US 183. It was big time hoo-ha shit for Austin when it opened. He and I had just closed a big business deal and the kids were clamoring to go to the new place in town, so we loaded the crew into the recreational vehicle and headed out.

Why, you might ask, did we take the reckie for a quick stop to dinner to a place that was fifteen minutes drive from the ranch. Inquiring minds, right?

Ever try to drive with a snoot-full of mushroom juice and a twelve pack of icy cold Carta Blanca beer smoothing their way through your system?

I’m not driving. Fact is, none of us do any driving whilst intoxerated. Don’t mind writing stuff to post on my bloggie with a little influence, but drive- never. So, we took the reckie, this big Greyhound bus we converted into a road wagon. It had all the amenities of home with most of the amity.

After the kids wore themselves to total exhaustion whacking moles and rolling those little balls up a ramp and all that fun stuff, and Streaker Jones and myself had downed a case of beer, we all settled in for the night in the bus, which I had parked at the bank next door. The lot was full to Chuckie’s place and since the bank was closed, I figured, “Who gives a shit,” and parked at the bank.

However, as I discovered early the next morning, bankers lack both a forgiveness in their hearts as well as humor in their souls. Woke up at like 7:30 am when the bus jolted and rocked as this giant tow truck was lifting it by the ass-end for hauling it away. We’re all waving out the window to stop the presses and the tow driver sees us and stopped. I gave him a couple hundred and he unhooked us and drove away. I was warming-up the engine to take us home when the bank manager, followed by his “security” guard, came out yelling at me. We had a discussion, at first friendly, that somehow managed to escalate into something less friendly.

When the security guard reached to pull his weapon, Streaker Jones came from out of nowhere and in like half-a-second, the guard was unconscious, mostly undressed and hogtied with his own clothes, and the bank manager had the guard’s pistol stuck in his ear- hammer cocked.

Streaker Jones says to the banker, he said, “Go ahead, make my day,” so that tells you this was likely mid 1970’s or so. The tightly-bound security guard looked more like a badly-trussed poorly-plucked Christmas goose than he did a manly enforcer of security.

Can you “enforce” security or would you “secure” it? Need to ask the Department of Redundancy Department. Any of you guys know Fire Sign Theater or am I wasting good literary references here?

Anyway, that was the second time I got arrested in front of the kids and the first time I experienced the effects on the central nervous system of a new law enforcement technology called the “Taser”. Nowadays, I look forward to a little dose of the taser from SAC Ellen. It’s part of our pre-sex foreplay.

In fact, the last time I had the Oprah dream, she got to taser me if she won. Then, after she witnessed the effects a good jolt of Direct Current had on my pecker, she wanted me to take a dose even if I won.

I think that would make a good theme for one of Oprah’s TV shows. If you think so go to and tell them.

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6 Responses to “Adult ADD and ADHD; Using Tasers and Stun Guns as Foreplay”

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