A Confession- Can I Get Respect Now? (Part 8)

OK, I’ve got a joke for you. Ready? What do you call a 240-pound skunk?

Mooner Johnson.

After ten full days of no bath no tooth brushing and eating a garlic and onions diet, skunks think I stink. I took some scrapings from my armpits and between my toes and sent them to the research lab that Streaker Jones and I have over to New Mexico. That’s where we do all of our secret testing on potential new products.

I think I might have invented a 100% organic, sustainable chemical weapon to use against terrorists.

But I need a bath, my teeth have gone all rainbow colored on me, and I just tried to eat Rush Limbaugh. Rush the 500 pound pig here to the ranch, not the brain dead radio shitball. I got the pig out to the Travis County Livestock Show and Rodeo one year when Streaker Jones and I tried to outbid the Aggies on some of the prize livestock.

He’s one of my favorite animals because he furts Gram with stunning regularity. If you remember, furting is when you sneak up on a person, gently poke your finger to their taint and say, “Furt!”

Excepting that Rushie uses his snout and says, “Snorft!”

Sends Gram halfway to the moon every time.

“I’m gonna plug yer fuckin pig with tha 12-gage iffn he furts my ass agin, Mooner.” That’s Gram’s pat response.

I never get tired of hearing that. I had Dixie teach the pig how to sneak up on folks. It’s hilarious to see this 500-pound tusked hog all up on his tippy-toes to get a good angle on Gram’s ass. Have you ever seen a pig smile?

Anyway, when we last left off, I think I was telling you about that one time when Woozie, Streaker Jones and I went down to Mexico in the late summer and how Streaker Jones was waking me up so’s we could get the hell out of Dodge. It wasn’t Dodge but rather a small town down to central Mexico with a Mexican name I don’t recall, but I meant that we were skedaddling our butts post haste.

So, Streaker Jones has the comatose Woosie draped over his shoulder like a serape and I’m digging in my pockets looking for the keys to my 1963 Impala Super Sport and thinking about marriage and wondering why I felt different this morning from yesterday at this time- and I don’t mean feeling hung over but rather a feeling I’d never had before, and all of this as we hurried to where the car was parked.

As I’m unlocking the door, Blanquita, who must have awakened, is yelling at us from across the town square, she’s yelling, “I suppose so, I suppose so, I suppose so,” like that except she’s crying and stumbling around like she’s been shot of something.

She keeps yelling, “I suppose so,” and I tell Streaker Jones I want to go say goodbye and he give me this look that means, “No. Do exactly what I say,” and then he says, “Mooner, get in, start tha Paller and git us gone.”

Streaker Jones called the car the Paller so I started the car and took off. Lucky we had left our stuff in the car so we had a cooler with some Cokes and tequila for breakfast and to tide us over until we got most of the way back to the border.

As I’m driving I keep going back over my thoughts and wondering about my dream about getting married. I told Streaker Jones, I said to him, “Streaker Jones, I had this dream where I was getting married and the Sheriff was holding a gun to my head and we were eating roasted goats and pigs and rabbits. The food was good and the Carta Blanca beer was cold but that agave juice wasn’t something I want to do again.”

“Twernt no dream, Mooner. You’s a mairt man. Now git us to tha border an quick!”

Then he added, “An she twernt sayin I suppose so, Mooner. She was sayin ‘mi esposo,’ which is Spanish for ‘my husband.’”


This is the moral part to my story started a few days back about how the distinctions between dreams, hallucinations, reality and a person’s various separate realities are important. Stay with me on this, OK?

When I say that I have been divorced ten times I hope you have noticed that I have never said that I only married ten times. I won’t say how many times I have married because I am uncertain how to count my nuptials.

I can say with absolute certainty that I have been married ten times, each ending in an amicable divorce with significant divorce dowries. I know the ex-wives names, birthdays, favorite colors, favorite sex position, sex position wherein I think they best perform and I have their addresses and phone numbers and all of that shit.

These ten marriages I know happened in the real reality for sure even though most happened while I hallucinated and lived in several of the separate realities that inhabit my ADHD-addled brain. I have photos, newspaper mentions, receipts for tuxedos and all of that stuff to remind and verify the reality of the events.

That wedding (maybe) to Blanquita (I think her name was) under threat of bodily harm (according to Streaker Jones) was not a certainty. I even spent the summer after my first divorce, the one from Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, down to central Mexico looking for the town and possible wife and in-laws. Found nothing.

I did get arrested and Gram, Streaker Jones and Dixie springed me in a daring prison escape, but that is a whole nother enchilada. Maybe they sprung me. And why did I have to say enchilada?

Did I tell you that I tried to eat Rush the pig alive. I am a sick man and need help.

Will somebody please show me some respect?

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