On The Eve Before Ass Surgery

 

So. I’m thinking I might not be handling the entire ass surgery thingie very well. I didn’t sleep well last night or the night before, and I always sleep well. I have slept well ever since the time I got caught in this big lie as a kid.

Streaker Jones and I snuck into Gram’s potion closet out to the barn, and helped ourselves to a taste from a few of the small, dark-brown medicinal tincture bottles Gram uses to package her products. You know those bottles- like Whole Foods uses to bottle liquid herbs. With the squeezie dropper tops. I think we were drinking one of Gram’s Church Lady potions. You know, like she sells to religious types.

I remember that one of Gram’s best sellers was Spare the bacon and bring home the rod. The time we’re talking here was the middle of last century, before the invention of Viagra. I guess men have been having pecker problems for at least a few generations. I know it wasn’t long after this event that I experienced my first adolescent woody, so I’m thinking that Spare the bacon was one of the potions we snuck into.

And I know Streaker Jones and I should have sneaked, but we’re country boys, so we snuck.

Anyway, we overdid our sampling and got a touch wasted with magic mushroom juice. I guess our pupils dilated so completely as to disappear. I lied when caught and questioned, but Streaker Jones told the truth.

Gram thanked Streaker Jones for his honesty, and sent him home with some fresh baked cookies. Streaker Jones’ momma abandoned him and his daddy just after his birth, so Gram always tried to send him home with something home baked.

Me, I endured the application of redneck punishment- the razor strap, applied first by Gram, and then by Daddy when he came in from the fields.

I haven’t told an important lie since. And I also attempt to do what I think is right, because I believe to not do the right thing is the same as a lie. When you always do what you think is right, you have one of those clean consciences so vital to good sleep.

Not sleeping well dirties my conscience, and I have a mean conscience. Think about it. Normal folks have one or maybe two thoughts in their head at any given moment. What with my ADHD and associated obsessivenesses, once my conscience starts bothering me, it’s a major league bother.

Imagine feeling bad about fifteen thoughts all at once. And isn’t obsessivenesses a great word? Almost better than Mississippi. Might be better.

Not sleeping well disturbs me. It causes me to look for what it is that I have done that was unprincipled. I’d been racking my brain to figure the cause for my insomnia, and I could only conclude that it is not my recent actions. I have rethought everything I have done the last few days, and that took all night last night. I couldn’t think of a single do-over moment from the recent past.

Sleepy and disgruntled when I dragged my butt out of bed this morning, I have managed to grouch at every living thing I have encountered. It started when I opened my closet door to get some shorts and a shirt to wear, and Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry were still dozing away on the floor.

I toed Rushie in the ear with my bare foot and said, “Get your lazy ass out of the closet and go outside in the sunlight. You and that feather duster both.”

Now I towed the the pig in his ear again, and lightly thumped the ostrich on his butt with my foot. Then I finished by berating them for being lazy chicken shits for hiding in the closet in the first place. “Go outside and take your medicine like men!”

I must have yelled the last part, because Rush the pig starts crying and snivel-snotting, and the ostrich Rick Perry started eyeballing me with daggers. Scary sight when a 300-pound bird with eyes the size of billiard balls is staring daggers at you.

“Oh, for shitsakes don’t cry, Rushie. I’m sorry. I’m just a little out of sorts.”

Rush just kept sobbing, but my ostrich said something I need to get translated. I’ll ask the Squirt when I pick her up later, but I think he said he wanted to stake me to an ant hill.

By the time I finished my breakfast, I had insulted Gram, Mother, Aunt Hilda and Dubbie J all four. Then I got pissed at that tea bagger woman politician who was on the TV saying something stupid, and I tossed my English muffin. It stuck jelly side to the screen, so now I’m cursing marmalade as I clean the mess.

Guess I grouched at living things and inanimate objects as well.

So, I’m bitching and griping at everything in sight, and I guess my Gram had heard enough.

“Oh, fer shitsakes, Mooner. What’s done crawled up yer ass this morning? Yer act-tating like a cry baby.”

I apologized and explained about not sleeping and worrying about having done something wrong, and all of that shit. In unison, the three Johnson family elders looked at me like I was a moron. Gram says, “You wanna tell im Hilda?”

My sweet, demented Aunt Hilda, whose face always carries an angelic smile says to me, she says, “It’s the surgery, shithead. Dubbie J saw it right off.”

Dubbie J is a Nineteenth Century African shrunken head my crazy old aunt keeps in a velvet-lined mahogany box. He’s been Hilda’s constant companion ever since she and Gram were girls on a Baptist Mission to the Congo early in the last century.

“You mean I’m worried about my ass surgery?” I asked.

All I got was three old women giving me that look that says, “Well fucking duh!”

“Oh, God, you’re right. I’m frightened to have Dr. Ashworth cutting on my ass.”

Actually, I realized I’m petrified. I have been delusional about it, thinking that I’m only concerned because the cutting will take place on my beautiful bottom. But I’m just plain scared to have invasive surgery done on my body. Sissy boy scared- scared in the way I promised myself not to be.

I need to call my buddy Lloyd Lebow, or maybe contact George Takei and get some advice on how to take this like a man. Or maybe Colleen Lindsay. Maybe one of them can help me deal with this.

I have this terrible sense of dread that has crept into me.

Ugh.

Now I find out that Jenny Legun with CreateSpace Publishing is from, and still located in, the Charleston, S.C. area. Not New York City. So I got a terrible read on that, which also might explain why I did so badly at the poker game the other night. I guess worrying about my surgery is screwing up my people skills as well. Can I say, “Ugh,” again?

Ugh.

I need a Carta Blanca beer.

Manana, y’all. Or maybe it will be manana de la manana before I can get back to you if I’m slow to recover.

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