ADHD is a Terrible Thing to Waste; Not a Camel Toe Story

 

So. I am a jumbled mess of ADHD thoughts. My psycho therapy is not going well, I’ve managed to place distance between me and my sweetie, both the dogs in my life are pissed at me, and the search results for my bloggie are disturbing.

And all of this shit comes rolling my way during the start of college football season. I don’t do well with distractions and aggravations during football season. I am a Texas Longhorn football fanatic. I’m a certified, lunatic supporter of my team. I am such an awful fan that I lost my season tickets long ago because of my foul mouth and animated antics in the stands.

I rag the refs, the coaches and other fans. I don’t rag the players unless they make stupid, flagrant plays that result in injury to another player. I was a player many years ago, and I have the keen understanding of what the young players feel and think from having been there.

But if some asshole referee makes a boneheaded call, I’m there with a, “What the fuck was that, you shitball?”

Or, if we run fifty consecutive plays without a single play-action pass, and our receivers are suffering from blanketed coverage- I’m up the offensive coordinator’s ass. “Run a fucking play-action pass, dumbass.”

And if one of the fans around me starts getting on an eighteen-tear-old corner back for making a mistake in front of 100,000 screaming fans, I’m at my worst. I think what I said was, “If you think it’s so easy fuckwad, try tackling this.” That was the particular remark that ended with my loss of season ticket holder status down to the Stadium.

And subsequent arrest.

I can’t help it. So, now I watch Texas football while locked away to my bedroom. Alone, because nobody can stand to be near me when I watch.

But my football mania is but the backdrop for my real problems. My ADHD has gone to DEF-COM 8 on the brain fritz meter. My synapses are scattered and smothered and covered and burnt to a crispy well done. I have so many divergent thoughts spinning around that I can’t hang on to anything tangible.

Another ingredient in my problem pie is my psycho therapy sessions. Dr. Sam I. Am is on this, “Mooner, you must learn to develop commonality of interests with people. You have got to start building concrete bonds between yourself and others. Healthy bonds.”

I told her, “Easy for you to say, psycho-babble breath. I keep putting myself out there and all that happens is that I get slapped.”

When she gave me that look that said she was winding up for the payoff pitch, I added. “And arrested.”

“Mooner,” she started, in her calm therapist voice that makes me want to kill myself. “You need to stop excusing your bad behavior by placing the blame on others.”

“Fuck you and your commonality of interest both.” I’m thinking I knocked her off kilter with that one. “You always blame me for my troubles.”

Now, I’m getting the “I’m a patient psycho therapist and you are crazy” look.

“Bitch.” Well said, Mooner.

Then, with a smile, and that patient psycho therapist tone of voice that makes me want to choke her, she says to me, “Ahhhhhhhhh. You’re angry. Now we are getting someplace. Find the center of your anger, Mooner, and let’s talk about it.”

“I’m angry that my psycho-fucking-therapist is a tacky amateur fuckball, and she’s ruining my life,” I almost yelled.

“Oh,” she answered. “I thought you must have received the notice that I’m increasing your rate by $25.00 per hour.”

The bitter filling in my pity pie stems from my relationships with the two dogs in my life. Dixie is pissed at me because she thinks I have abandoned her- traded her in for the Squirt. All I thought I was doing was taking some pressure off of Dixie and letting her enjoy her golden years doing what she likes best.

I have let her do everything she asks, and without a single complaint as to any negative effects on me. Using Squirt as a translator allows me the pleasure of the little shitbird’s company. But untangling a seven word sentence spoken in four languages can be trying.

Like when I was trying to get the ostrich Rick Perry to take a bath the other day, and the Squirt was interpolating for us. I asked him why he was refusing to take a bath and Ricky started crying and sniffle-snotting. His answer sounded like the the background track for a slasher movie, and would have disturbed me if I wasn’t already used to his method of communication.

“What the hell did he just say?” I asked Squirt.

“Dijo, sie versprach kaufen baadhi yake Bwana Bubble. Nein Mister Bubble, senza bagno.”

“Oh, for the love of God, Squirt. I know I promised to buy him some Mister Bubble. But would you please try to stick to no more than three languages at a time?”

She waggled her tail and grinned up at me. “No difficotta, Senor Mooner. Ich werde se adhieren a the romantik jezykach en todo.”

I started to tell her that neither Czechoslovakian nor Swahili are romance languages, but why bother.

Then I’m talking to Gram about Dixie at the dinner table last night, and she says to me, she said, “Ya need ta call yer dog an tell her ya miss her, Mooner. She thinks ya done aband-molated her, and give her off ta Streaker Jones.”

“Oh for shit sakes, Gram,” I responded. “Can’t she tell I’m just letting her do what she wants? I thought she wanted to be with Streaker Jones.”

“Who gives a shit what you think, Mooner. You don’t know diddly-squat when it comes to a woman.”

Well fucking duh!

And to finish with the women in my life, I managed to piss off the Squirt and SAC Ellen both at the same time, with the same actions. Actions which I thought were thoughtful to each.

When I got back from Dallas last week, I picked the Squirt up from Sammie’s place on my way into town, and took her with me to get SAC Ellen for our date. That was convenient for me, helpful to Dr. Sam I. Am, and I thought what SAC Ellen would suggest.

Then, I brought Squirt with me to go on the date. I do this often and usually at the SACster’s request. But this time, I show to her door with the cute little dog, she grabs the dog and slams the door in my face.

I guess that SAC Ellen spent the entire evening bitching about me, and the Squirt didn’t have any fun. So now she’s pissed at me too.

Now, I have an appointment to have the specialist fix my tooth on Monday, and I’m scheduled for the ass surgery on Friday, first thing. With my luck, I’ll end up with a cross-hatching of stitches that will ruin my look back there, and a snaggle-toothed grin in the front.

Good thing I got my ass insured.

Then this morning I’m reviewing my bloggie stats and I get this e-mail from a reader. She wouldn’t do a comment so I can post it, she personalized it in an Email, and asked me not to use her name. What she did was bitch at me about, and here I’ll quote her, “… all of this Internet activity you are stirring up with your tasteless camel toe stories.”

So, as I’m thinking of possible pithy retorts, I checked my viewer stats and discovered that 75% of all my visitors first find me through some variety of camel toe search. Something less than ten percent of my postings are camel toe stories, yet three-quarters of my readers find me that way.

That’s not right.

I don’t want you to think that I rely on pocket poochie stories to garner readership. I must admit that I am an admirer of ladies who pack their meat in their pantie lunch pail, but I don’t think I have overdone it. Do you?

I don’t make any of that shit up just to snag another adolescent-thinking man in my webber of blogging. Which reminds me. I asked Sister and Anna what they thought about the entire camel toe dealie as an issue among the lesbian community. I don’t mind fist fighting with lesbians when they start the fights, but I do want them to respect me for my principles.

“What a silly question, Mooner,” answered my sister, Sister.

“Yea, Mooner. Straight ladies check out a man’s package. Why would you expect us to think any differently just because we’re lesbians?” This from my ex-wife, Anna, and now-wife of my sister, Sister.

Even still, I want to feel bad about liking camel toes. I just can’t.

And that leads me to wonder about my impulse control. It’s like not looking at a car wreck, or a five-hundred pound man in a Speedo. Except it isn’t disgusting. What’s so wrong with admiring a woman’s stuff when she stuffs it in your face?

Ugh! Maybe I need to take a lesson from Gram and say, “Who gives a shit?”

I need a cold Carta Blanca beer.

Manana, y’all.

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3 Responses to “ADHD is a Terrible Thing to Waste; Not a Camel Toe Story”

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