Mooner Saved From Wonderella; Still Fucked


So. Maybe there is a God. If there is a He, He’s a big guy with an incredible sense of humor, a keen sense of irony, and a mean streak.

I’m not an atheist, and for sure I’m not the good Baptist boy Mother and Gram spent incredible energies to craft from the raw, ADHD-infested flesh that was me as a child. Those attempts became vain effort on the occasion of my getting raped at Boy Scout aquatic camp by my Baptist deacon scout leader.

I want to think that I would be smart enough to shrug the moldy, smothering blanket of idiotic Southern Baptist ideology and dogma without that jump start. But maybe I should see that the silver lining yin to the rapist’s storm cloud yang, is my awakening to the fact that you must always question authority.

But I’m already digressing. My frequency of digressions always increases when I think of my rape. I think of getting raped when I get into trouble. I get into trouble when I do something really stupid. I started doing really stupid things after I got raped.

Some that great karmic circle-of-life dealie is major-league fucked.

Now, of course, a major theme in my thirty-years-plus of psycho therapy is how I need to forgive my rapist. I’ve been told that I will never be fully healed until I reach that emotionally healthy place.

Maybe I’ll never be fully healed.

Speaking of ADHD-infested flesh, you all know that I’ve been in this quagmire with Wonderella, and my buddy Squatlo refuses to help me get out. I don’t know why I expected him to act otherwise, because he is my friend.

My other friend, Streaker Jones, won’t help me either. Streaker Jones is the perfect best friend and the Squatster seems to be following Streaker Jones’ format. “Look, Mooner,” Squatlo told me. “I can’t help you with this, you need to do this on your own.”

Streaker Jones’ answer to the same question? “It’s yer’s ta fix.”

Why I’m surprised with this is the only surprise worth mentioning from the shitstorm that is my Wonderella crisis. Like with psycho therapy, the therapist doesn’t do a single fucking thing. The patient does all the work. So why is therapy so expensive?

Anyway, my version of a possible God showed up yesterday to help solve my Wonderella problem. Since I’ve had trouble getting the comic semi-super heroine off my dirty mind, God decided to have my editorator return my corrected manuscript of the book back to me.

If you don’t suffer from the ADHD, you’re thinking to yourself, “Wonderful, he got his book back so he can finish with it.” Then you would go on your merry way– happy, healthy and with a sound mind.

Me, I almost peed myself when I got the emailed package around noon yesterday. Since I opened it at noon-thirty, I have been glued to my computer screen trying to figure out how to work the editing program. After twenty hours of this frustration, allow me to say this:

Microsoft Vista operating systems suck!!!!!!!!! Fuck Microsoft.

But again, the God thing enters. When I was shaken from nearly full day of mad-clicking my mouse at a non-responsive computer screen by the awakening of my pet pig and ostrich, I realized that I had spent twenty hours concentrating on one thing, and that thing was not Wonderella.

Rick Perry and Rush Limbaugh exited the closet and sat at my feet as they do each morning if they are not in some silly lover’s spat. I don’t know that gay lovers have spats any sillier than straight lovers, but these two are silly squared.

Which brings up a point. My pig and ostrich are both males of their species. The pig’s sex/gender is an easy tell, as he has balls the size of oranges that sway like a pendulum from a wrinkled nut sack that reaches his back knees. Making the determination of the ostrich was different matter.

Have you ever tried to determine a bird’s sex? Like, a parakeet or a pigeon or a chicken? Remember how they fought the procedure?

Think about performing the task on a 350-pond walking bird that uses his thirty-pound head, attached to a four-foot neck, like a mace. Took three of us and almost a quart of one of my Gram’s potions to get ‘er done.

They do make a cute couple, Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry. It’s obvious they are in love, and you have to admire that. Regardless of how stupid they act.

Holy shit am I digressing.

My point is this. I’m afraid that even if there is a God, he doesn’t solve our problems in the classic sense that you pray to Him, and the problem goes away without any oily aftertaste. Nope, He solves one problem by showing you that the old problem is minor when compared to the new one.

Like the man who prays to God to have a pecker long enough to reach the ground, and his legs fall off.

I need a Carta Blanca beer. Manana, y’all.

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8 Responses to “Mooner Saved From Wonderella; Still Fucked”

  1. squatlo says:

    I’m not trying to follow Steaker dude’s lead in this, but I think we might both have the same (how do I put this?) uncertainty when it comes to you and your Wonderella fixation. If you were fixated on Pamela Anderson, for example, maybe I’d point out that other than the fake boobs, teeth, lips, hair, and personality, she’s a real woman in there somewhere. You probably couldn’t get to her actual flesh with anything duller than a chainsaw, but she’s in there… I’ve seen the Xrays. But this Wonderella thing, that’s all between your furry little ears, and apparently you need someone to give you a psychic bitch slap (like showing you photos of yourself having relations with a goat when you were twelve… all repressed memories for both you and the goat) But since I don’t have those photos or anything remotely cranium rattling with which to shake your addled sense of entitlement, all I can do is shrug and say, “You know, Mooner? Those Carta Blanca’s really oughta come with a warning label about the twist off tops they forgot to put on the fucking bottles…”
    I’m sure my hand will heal up before I need it for sex or a guitar solo, but dammit just the same, it’s like having Cialis or Viagra in your system and not having a safe place to unload the testosterone that’s sloshing around the system. You coulda warned me about the jagged edged tops, that’s all I’m saying.
    On the other hand (and if I COULD use the other hand, we wouldn’t be talking about this shit) any idiot born before 1980 ought to know better than to wrench away at a strange brew’s bottle top without checking to see if it had a twist off top. I still have a pop top tab lodged in my heel, I’m pretty sure of it, circa 1976 Daytona spring break. But do I whine about it? Do I write blog after blog about the asshole who tossed a beer pop top out into the Sunshine State sand? No, I go on with life, limping along like Igor from Young Frankenstein, doing what I have to do and making the best of the situation.
    So my advice must be to limp on, Mooner. Suck it up, resign yourself to the fact that you’ll never have a pen and ink lover who satisfies your every desire as closely as the flesh and blood ones you keep chasing away with this (quite frankly) odd obsession over a cartoon woman of dubious attraction.
    Put it this way: a real woman just gets sexier and hotter when wet. Your Wonderella chick will just run, and her ink will blur down into a puddle under your cereal bowl.

    Sorry about the camp experience, and for what it’s worth, I’m not at all sure that forgiveness and forgetfulness are the therapy options I’d take in this case. I’m afraid I’d be more inclined to hunt down the dude, his extended family, level the camp, and basically take a path of scorched earth payback-is-hell philosophy to the whole deal.
    which is probably the last thing I ought to say, which is why I’m outta here and denying I ever said a word.

    Not sure this will ever be published, I can’t make out the Greek captcha I’m supposed to type in to prove I’m not a computer spam program…

  2. admin says:

    Squat. Maybe I should ship you some of the limited edition Texas Aggie Carta Blanca bottles– the ones that have a label on the bottom that says, “Open other end.” I’m trying to restrain myself from enjoying my audience at the theater featuring your self-inflicted pain and suffering at the hands of the lifeless packaging of one of the planet’s premium beers. Really, I’m trying.

    But I can’t muster any more sympathy for you and your self-inflicted wounds than you seem to manage for me and mine. Establishing commonality of interests is the bedrock of any friendship, and I fear that Wonderella has now wedged herself between us. She has pushed her perfect bosom in our faces nipples first, and tight, diamond-hard nipples at that.

    But I can shake my fascination with Wonderella. I’ll do it for our friendship. I’ll do it for men everywhere. I’ll do it so I can get laid in real life once more.

    Thanks for talking sense to me. For some reason I’m proud to call you my buddy. And by the way, loved the Clockwork Orange blog-rant from today. But I haven’t got time for the old in-and-out now, I’m just here to read the meter.

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