Mooner To Seek Outside Help; Can Squatlo Fix Wonderella Problem?


So. I’m sitting here in Austin, Texas, freezing my ass off. A wet cold front blew in last night and I now suffer in the uncomfort of my own home because I’m a crazy asshole. Discomfort, maybe? Should be un rather than dis on that one.

I like things chilly and since I pay the utility bills, I take the last say on thermostat settings. I try to be accommodating, but when your anchor tenants are my Gram and her martyred daughter-in-law, Mother, my actual mother, it’s difficult to maintain thermostatic sanity.

We were at dinner, hours before the cold hit town, and Mother asked me to turn the heat up.”Son, you know how my old bones react to the cold and damp, don’t you?”

Me, I’m thinking to myself, How can I ever forget when you bitch and whine about it all the fucking time.

“Mooner Einstein Johnson! How dare you speak to your mother that way. I raised you better than that… I’ve suffered so many sleepless nights over you.” My sainted Mother takes one of those slow, deep breathes so favored by martyrs around the world, and continues, “It’s all your father’s fault, God rest his soul, for passing his ADHD along to you. I could have been a dancer on Broadway, you know I was that good. But your daddy had those bedroom eyes, and…,” Mother’s voice trailed off in another typically martyr-favored way.

I must have been thinking out loud. Again. Maybe I need my filters changed.

“Oh quit yer fuckin’ bitchin’ fer shitsakes,” my Gram tells Mother. “Go git a sweater an a ‘lectric blanket an shut yer yap.”

“Thanks, Gram.” I got up from my chair and walked around the table to plant a kiss on the top her her hard head. With my chin rested on her bony shoulder, I say, “Thanks for standing up for me.”

My Grandmother swatted me away with a liver-spotted hand, turned in her chair to look me in the eye. “I ain’t standin’ nowheres fer you, ya little shitbird, I’m jist sick a hearin’ yer mother’s snivel-snottin’. You go put on some heat afore I git my double-barrel and plant tha both of em in yer ass.”

In an act of defiance, I reset the thermostats in all but my master bedroom area in the house. Now, I’m in my thermal drawers and wrapped in a heavy blanket with the Squirt in my lap, and I still can’t feel my nuts. Not that I have any need for gonads that can sense any sensations at all. My sex life is nonexistent ever since Wonderella hit my town.

When news that this cold front was coming hit the airwaves, I got a call from my own dog, Dixie. Worthless fleabag says to me, she said, “Streaker Jones and I have decided to escape the weather and go down to Costa Rica and collect a mushroom strain he needs for his collection. We’ll be back after the weather clears.”

Then Dixie laughed, a sound I once found endearing. “Stay warm, you inappropriate man. And stay out of trouble– you’re pushing SAC Ellen too hard on this Wonderella deal. Why don’t you ask Squatlo for some woman advice. He seems stable, and smart.”

“Bitch,” I said into dead phone air. I seem to be collecting an inordinate number of dead phone air minutes. Maybe I can get a refund from the wireless guys.

Streaker Jones told me about this mushroom he’s after. It grows on the moist, rotting coffee beans that fall from trees in Central America. My hopes with this particular little spoor are that it picks up some of the rich coffee flavor from my favorite bean– the Costa Rican coffee bean.

If it does, then Streaker Jones can cross-pollinate it with the Great Texas Magic Mushroom, and sell their offspring to my Gram. Me, I’m thinking that Gram’s alternative medicine potions would be more palatable, and have more depth of flavor, if they had a rich coffee aftertaste of French roasted Costa Rican coffee.

Maybe I should talk to the Squatster and get some lady advice. But I’ll wait a day, or so. Wonderella’s new installment is due to hit newsstands.

I want a Carta Blanca beer, but I’m afraid to stick my hand inside the cooler to grab one. Manana, y’all.

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5 Responses to “Mooner To Seek Outside Help; Can Squatlo Fix Wonderella Problem?”

  1. squatlo says:

    If you’re looking for advice that will help you with women, obviously you need to talk to a priest, and not to me. They’re probably more familiar with listening to and sympathizing with women than I’ll ever be, and that’s a fact. I have this male “fix it” gene that kicks in whenever a woman tells me her problems, and it kicks in like a chest-plunged adrenaline injection when the woman is beautiful and crying as she confides in me. At that point, I’m ready to hunt down and kill for her, even if she’s just crying about losing a Mac-n-Cheese coupon in line ahead of me at Krogers.
    No, I’ve got a long, unwaveringly shitty history of taking the woman’s side in every discussion I’ve ever heard. Even when my own comments and arguments are recited back to me by a crying woman my response is always to capitulate, usually followed by an offer to throw myself from a bridge onto the rocks. I’m a sucker for a woman with problems. It’s taken me all of my 56 years to realize that few women actually want a man to help them solve any problem they discuss with him, they only want him to shut the fuck up and listen. Instead of heeding that unwritten and unsaid command (and truthfully, ladies, we’d be a lot better at this shut up and listen thing if you’d just announce at the start of the bitch session that THAT’S what you want us to do… lacking that, we go on our base instincts to FIX whatever it is you’re whining about, and God knows, if you wanted something fixed you never would have come to one of us!) I generally just start coming up with working strategies for making the problem go away.
    Hell, I’ve even gotten out a checkbook, back when I was allowed to touch one of those, and written checks for utility bills or moving expenses or medical procedures that had absolutely nothing to do with me, my pecker, or my love life. All it usually takes is a sobbing woman and I’m putty in her hands. Putty, as we all know, is pretty easy to mold and shape. So what’s left of me, after thirty some-odd true love-of-my-life experiences at this form of therapy is but a twisted, shallow, and all-too-weary shell of a man who can no longer even fake concern unless his own children or genitals are at risk.

    About the thermostat problem, here’s what my curmudgeon of a father did… true story, unlike most of my shit…
    My mom was cold-natured. My dad, on the other hand, would have lived on an ice floe if it were available in east Tennessee during my childhood. During the winter mom would shivver around the house from room to room wearing everything she owned in a futile effort to avoid hypothermia, while my sisters and I would huddle together and sing teeth chattering rounds. Dad would be in shorts, drinking a frosty draft beer from his basement keg, and sitting close to a drafty window watching the birds in the snow outside… oblivious, if not unconcerned, about my mom’s impending frostbite.
    She would walk past our thermostat, see that it was at about 69 or 70 and then bitch about how cold it was before sliding the lever over to make the heat kick in. My dad would invariably follow along behind her sliding it back, mainly because he was comfortable in a frozen tundra, but also because he had to pay the utility bills and worried more about them than mom or us kids.
    Finally, a stroke of genius solved this perpetual fight. Dad moved a tall table lamp and positioned it just below the thermostat that ran the entire house, then put a 150 watt bulb into that lamp and insisted that it burn 24/7. This was a man who would turn off lights you were reading by to save a nickel, and yet, for some unknown reason, he insisted this one lamp in the living room be left on at all times. Mom never figured out that the heat from that 150 watter was rising up to the thermostat, making the temp gauge read 76 or 78 degrees even though you could see your breath in the bathrooms. Mom would look at the thermometer on the thing and say, “I don’t care what this says, I’m cold!” and dad would just smile and say, “But dear, it’s seventy-seven degrees in here! Just look at the thermometer! Put on a sweater…”
    Our heat never came on after he figured this system out… and no one lost any toes or fingers.

    Wonderella’s your problem, Mooner. Have the significant other discuss it with a priest… they know a lot about decorative balls and imaginary lovers.

    Gotta go…

  2. admin says:

    Thanks, Squatlo. I think. Where do I start? First, the hallucinogenic potions administered to me since my birth have had numerous side effects. I mean other than the sweats and the thick layered callouses on the back of my head and shoulders rubbed by the bottom of the box springs of my childhood bed as I cowered from Trixie, grandmother of Dixie. To this day I remain unsure if it was the by-product of potions that scared me, or simply the temperment the old fleabag dog seemed to share with my Gram.

    One of those side effects is the inability to tell a lie without giving-off more tells than a Priest in a junior high locker room. Knowing this, I try to tell the truth. Telling the truth is my problem.

    But seriously, what do you think I should do? How did you help the macaroni lady? I tried to assist a nice lady up to the Whole Foods in the Arboretum this one time when she was having trouble deciding about cucumbers. My ears still ring from the slap. All I said was, “Well, Miss, there was this one time I fell into a prickly pear cactus and got a pecker full of stickers for the effort. The look of my pecker after sticker removal has caused me to purchase only those new bumpless jobbies from Europe.” When the nice lady asked me what I was talking about, I showed her.

    Please, I need help. As for the thermostatic dealie, I’ll try it when I get home. Thanks, somewhat, for what you have done so far.

  3. squatlo says:

    Actually, the macaroni lady was bitching to the frazzled Kroger’s clerk that she deserved the sale price even though her coupon had expired. The differnce was about a buck in the final price for a pile of little mac’n’cheese boxes… and I was trying to get a case of beer home to the football game before kickoff or before I pissed in my pants. I handed the clerk a dollar bill, told the crying woman that it was “on me”, and asked if we might move things along as I was about to piss myself… The crying woman suddenly looked all pissy as if I’d broken up her day’s entertainment, and the clerk looked happy to get the sobbing woman out of her hair. Win/Win… I thought.
    So here’s my advice. Buy your disgruntled woman (are they ever gruntled?) a box of mac’n’cheese, tell her you’re an idiot for whatever it is she’s currently in a snit about, then spend the next couple of weeks trying to smooth down ruffled feathers with a little less Moonerish behavior. That might require narcotics, either for her or yourself or both, but I’m sure you’re familiar with the process of self-medication for fun and profit.
    I was with a beautiful young woman at the same Krogers’ meat department one day, picking up some steaks she needed for a proper guest she was having at her house that evening. Not me, of course, she never cooked for me… but I was willing to take her to the store for the groceries, which I probably paid for, I don’t remember, although I do remember being on the hook for everything this woman owed for a year or two… like I say, Pussy Makes You Stupid…. but I digress…
    She wanted to know if they tenderized the steaks upon request, and rather than ask the butcher that question, she asked, “Do you beat your meat here?”

    Okay, I’m not good at stifling a snort or pretending to not have the shit-giggles in public, so I just walked away looking back over my shoulder at this kid behind the counter. He got red as a beet, cleared his throat and asked, “Ma’am???”
    By this time, my blonde friend realized what she had said, based upon my exit and the fact that I was now laughing uncontrollably in the produce section, plus the fact that the meat clerk looked like he wanted to take off his apron and run for his car… a crowd had gathered.
    Needless to say, she joined him in the beet red department, and she rephrased the question to a slightly less objectionable tone.

    No word on whether or not the kid actually beat his meat at Krogers. My guess is, probably not…

    yep, Diana was a trip… I helped her figure out a budget once when she was over her head underwater on a dozen credit cards, car payment, apartment rent, utilities, and a non-stop addiction to buying new clothes. I sat her down, balanced out what she brought home with what she owed, showed her she had to live on rice and beans or they were going to take her car and evict her from the apartment complex. She cried, I paid some of her bills, and at no time did I ever get any of the puss I was after. Pussy Makes you Stupid on so many levels, it’s like the most powerful drug on earth, capable of fucking you up before you even DO IT!
    anyway, I came home from work one day and got a call from my broke friend, inviting me over to hear her new stereo system. When I asked why she had sprung for a new stereo when we’d just figured out how bleak her financial situation was, she reasoned< "Well, I thought if I was going to have to stay home all the time now, I might as well have some good tunes to listen to here, right?"

    heavy sigh…

    Where was I going with this?
    Do I know you?

    Hey, I've got better things to do than sit here telling you about all the nookie I never got. Story of my life. Rated G, bring your gramma.

  4. admin says:

    Where do I even start on this one. First, I’m sorry I asked for help. You are either as totally confused as I re: the unfair sex, or you’re a master of avoidance. But like my Gram says, she’ll say, “Who gives a shit, Mooner. Tha boy ain’t got nuttin fer ya. Now fix yer own shit and shut tha fuck up.”

    Next time we’re in private, ask me to tell you the mac-n-cheese story.

    Who needs narcotics when I’ve got my Gram’s potions. I used to do crank to smooth the rough edges off some of the shit she administered to me from the rubber-topped dropper of a little brown tincture bottle. I was fucking fifteen years-old before I realized that Salvador Dali wasn’t a still life artist.

    I need Carta Blanca beer and guess what? Got maybe thirty cases. Cheers, Squat!

  5. Someways I lost this post. It’s a great read! ….

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