You Won’t Believe This One

 

So. Everything is starting to get clearer to me. The jumble of actions, reactions, brainwaves, good luck and bad that make the threads from which the fabric of my life is woven, are finally making sense. I’ve got it all figured out.

I think.

“Here’s tha dealie,” as my Gram likes to say. Over the last year:

  1. I’ve been arrested, and released, seven times.
  2. I’ve endured nine months of ass agony and the surgical procedures required to rid me of an infected lower peritoneal cavity.
  3. I’ve been celibate by reason of enforcement, not by reason of choice, for roughly 177 days, even though I’ going steady.
  4. I’ve become entangled with numerous nefarious, yet lovable, types here to the I-net, each of whom/which have brought both happifications and problamatics to my life. Squatlo and Wonderella are but a pair of said yin/yangers and the most recent examples.
  5. I’ve solved numerous big-picture world-issue problems and gotten nothing in return except for backtalk, nay saying and considerable grief. In evidence I offer my Chinese productivity mystery solution, my men-pee-in-sink-to-solve-water-shortage solution and my soon-to-be-announced hemp fabric diaper invention that serves as a personal compost plant/methane gas recovery system/propulsion system.
  6. I’ve endured numerous erosions of my quality of life caused by right-wing religious Republican fuckballs, and with the new even more highly Republicanized Texas State Legislature now in session, it’s going to get worse.
  7. I have reached numerous milestones in my psycho therapy, such as the number of court-required sessions in a year, number of issues obtaining enlightenment (lifetime achievement award), number of newly-discovered problematic issues, and my personal favorite– breaking the $2 million mark in personal therapy session charges.

I stopped at seven dealies, but that isn’t the half of them. I could go on, and on, and on. And on. I won’t because one of the aforementioned psycho therapy enlightenments, listed in Number 7., above, is that I sometimes have a tendency to use too many words to convey my thoughts, when fewer words might be more even more enlightening, and provide sharper images and understanding, than when I use more words.

Anyway, I had an epiphany last night. For once it wasn’t a celebrity camel toe dream or a sex dream or even a nightmare. This time my vision wasn’t fueled by hallucinogenic mushroom juice or peyote buttons or even a copious over-dosing of Carta Blanca beer. This moment of truth came to me in the dead of the night as I sat at the foot of my bed feeling sorry for myself.

Here’s what happened. I was awakened from one of my feel-sorry-for-Mooner dreams we all have. OK, what I mean to say is that each of us have dreams wherein we are continually being frustrated because we cannot accomplish any-fucking-thing we attempt in the dream.

In this dream, I was attempting to get my pecker out of my pants to have sex, but my zipper was snagged on my shirttail. The struggle to free myself for a much needed release had deteriorated into a dream fistfight and wrestling match between me and the zipper, and the zipper was winning.

I was awakened from my nightmare by the real-life fight between Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry taking place in the closet. It’s been frosty cold in Austin and the two gay boys were fighting over covers. It seems my giant pig was, as the ostrich Rick Perry screamed, “Hogging my fucking covers.”

Then I heard Rush scream back, “If your neck wasn’t ten feet long we’d have enough covers.”

I jumped out of bed and ripped open the closet door. “All right, boys, that’s enough.”

Obviously it wasn’t enough because Rick Perry bitch slapped Rush Limbaugh on his snout. The slap was more like a bare-knuckled punch since my ostrich fights with his granite-hard head. I’m certain that’s because birds lack hands, and ostrich beaks aren’t pointy. I’m sure that he would have pecked the pig on his snout if he had a sharp beak.

“Stop it, and stop it now!” I said as I waded into the middle of the fight.

I took a couple head shots to my shins from the giant bird, and a load of pig snot when the last bitch slap connected solidly. “Dammit, do you want me to go wake Gram?”

Instant calm.

I covered them equally-well with their king size comforter and told them, “Now shut up and go to sleep.”

I left them to peacefully slumber and latched the closet door. I sat at the foot of the bed and wiped pig snot off my arm with my tee shirt, then pitched the nasty shirt towards my dirty clothes hamper. I shut my eyes tightly and started feeling sorry for myself.

All the many aspects of why it’s so hard to be me started running through my head. With my version of ADHD, that means that fifteen-to-twenty problems were running through the gates of my synapses simultaneously. My head was spinning, and I felt the first pinprick of salty water start to ooze from the tear duct in my left eye.

I felt someone sit beside me on the bed. It was a heavy presence and smelled of spicy men’s aftershave. I almost freaked out– Gram had caught me hiding the boys in the closet. I was formulating my get-the-guys-out-of-harm’s-way story when a deep basso profundo voice speaks to me.

“Mooner Johnson, it’s time. Open your eyes and look at me.”

I opened my eyes and turned to my right. And there, sitting on the end of my bed, with his knees pressed tightly together, was God. I swear to God.

“Holy shit, God, are you you?”

“Indeed-e-do, Mooner. And it’s You, and You, for heaven’s sake. Please start capitalizing all of your references to Me.”

“OK,” I told him.

There was a sort of dead air time, but I was afraid to say anything. It’s when I say stuff that I get into most of my scrapes. Then He broke the silence with, “Are you Wonderella’ing why I’m here?”

We both laughed at that one, me nervously. “I guess that might be one of the several questions racing through my skull,” I told Him.

“Well here’s the deal. I’m preparing you for a special project, son. Your life so far has been a trial by fire, and I must tell you that I could not be more proud of how you have managed your life’s trials.”

“Thanks, God,” I said. Then I almost stammered, “Is it OK if I call you God, or would you prefer something else?”

“God’s OK by me,” God said. “But let me get to the point of this visit. You are one of the few sane men in America, and it is your job to spread your wisdom. I have aligned you with numerous like-minded, yet diverse people to assist you in my task. All I will tell you is that Streaker Jones and Squatlo share your duties as equal partners in My enterprise. I will not visit them, Mooner, and you are not to tell them of their roles.”

“Wha-what am I to do, Sir?” This, I thought, was a very good question.

“That’s a very good question,” God told me. “I only ask that you keep doing what you do, and make no apologies for it.”

“That’s it? Just keep fucking things up and drinking cold Carta Blanca beer?”

This got me a smile and a gentle hand on my shoulder. I felt a surge of goodness pass from The Hand into my body. It warmed me with a something feeling that I can’t even verbalize.

Then God leaned close and He whispered in my ear, “I’ll be back.”

I didn’t want him to go. “Please God, tell me something else before You go. Give me a word of wisdom to share with the world.”

A huge grin spread on God’s face and he said in that booming voice of his, “Fuck Rick Perry!” and He was gone.

I want to tell you more, but I’ve got God’s work to do. Manana, y’all.

Print Friendly

Tags:

2 Responses to “You Won’t Believe This One”

  1. squatlo says:

    Where to begin… first of all, congrats on getting to meet the Boss. I’m sure his appointment calendar is a bitch to catch an opening on, so you must have great connections. Secondly, to have the Boss pat you on the back and tell you to continue doing what you do naturally has to be some sort of incredible affirmation of your behavior.
    On the other (much larger and more serious) hand, the history of folks who have claimed to have spoken directly to the Big Guy is a little spotty. We tend to burn them at the stake (Noah’s wife, Joan), or nail them to a couple of wooden planks (the kid), or watch them march their little herds of followers down to Guyana (Jim Jones) for the kool-aid shooters, or bunker them inside the building with the arsenal after insulting the ATF (Karesh-nikov)…
    Even those who were on G-man’s A-list suffered mightily. Moses had to climb over burning bushes to drag a couple of stone tablets down off the mountaintop, only to get pissy and bust them up before anyone could make a charcoal etching, then he had to lead his tribe around in the desert for forty years before plopping them down in the most god-foresaken pisshole on the planet, the middle east!
    I’m trying to think of a happy ending with one of you folks who get to double date with God, and so far I’m drawing a blank. The asylums are full of you guys, bouncing off the padded walls yelling “you just wait!”… Pat Robertson is another one who’s still running around loose, but really SHOULDN’T be, if that helps.
    The fact that you were told that somehow I played a part in the grand scheme of things make me even more doubtful about your midnight visitor. Trust me, there aren’t too many atheists getting shout-outs from the Boss when he makes these appearances. Usually the news is bad when we’re mentioned at all.
    But I like the advice… keep chugging Carta Blancas and wait for instructions. I wish I could get my wife to issue orders as sweet as that one.
    “Wait right here and drink, honey? You sure?”

    You’ve got to increase your beddie-bye dosage to something a little more serious, Mooner. Either that, or put your farm animals out in the shed so that they don’t awaken your ass in the middle of the night.

    Try to keep me out of the picture when you finally figure out the “plan”… I’m not much of a joiner.

    Squatlo

  2. admin says:

    Squat. You act like I had a choice in this matter. Or that you have one either. It just dawned on me that I already broke the one rule I was given by letting you find out the plan. Maybe that should be The Plan.

    But fear not, fellow traveller. I’m not here to preach God’s word, oh no. I’m here to continue demonstrating that should my recent visit be an actual Visit, then the Big Guy isn’t pulling the wagon of hate and exclusionary government.

    I don’t figure He was here to tell me I’m a prophet. I just took His words as an “atta-boy, and keep a stiff upper lip”.

    So… Fuck Rick Perry!

Leave a Reply