Rethinker Program Flawed; Squirt Writes A Song

 

So. The weather is scheduled to warm today and re-thaw central Texas. Hopefully there will be a re-thawing of my sweetie’s frozen heart to accompany the warmer weather. Somehow, I have managed to mangle my relationship eight ways from Sunday.

That wasn’t a rhetorical statement, I mean that since Sunday, I’ve fucked up eight times.

I don’t get it. I work very hard to do the right things, say the correct things and think correctly. But somehow, I just seem to blunder into trouble. Like yesterday morning.

OK, hold on, what happened yesterday morning isn’t on my Postie Notes outline for today’s posting to my bloggie. One of the things I’ve decided to do to help myself stay out of trouble is to stick to my sticky notes while bloggifying a posting. In an effort to be more precise, I’m spending extra time organizing, in advance, to be more accurate with my reporting, reduce just a touch of the verbosity from my writings and also I want to digress fewer times per hundred words in print. Call that (those?) my bloggie goal(s) for February.

To accomplish my goal(s), and also to assist in my work to regain sexual fidelity in the scratched record that is my relationship with SAC Ellen, I had a really good idea. I decided to hire a rethinker.

Wait. Now I feel the need to elucidate the scratchy record analogy for my younger readers, many of whom have never seen, much less heard, the sounds to which I allude. Maybe that was said unwell. Do you elucidate the analogy or would you provide elucidation as to the analogy?

I had this original Beatles record, the 45 RPM jobbie with I Wanna Hold Your Hand on it. I was near-dating Gloria Muckleroy– junior high school cheerleader and apple of Walley Smalley’s eye. They later married and I later killed Walley, accidentally, out to Mooners Compost Plant. The tools of Walley’s demise were a new hammer and a used chainsaw. (must stop here due to inclusion of the forewarned story in my soon-to-be published book)

So, I had the idea to hire a rethinker. You know, a guy who I could talk to and tell my thoughts before I spoke (or acted) on my own thoughts. This would be a smart and appropriate person who would act as my filter(s) for the random, crazy and inappropriate shit that swills inside my skull.

Brilliant idea, right?

OK, brilliant on paper. Smart as all hell on a pad of purple extra-sticky Postie Notes.

So, I had Streaker Jones and Dixie write ads and place them in appropriate media to solicit interviewees for Squirt and me to vet. Actually, Dixie pre-vetted them. My dog is a great vet. Squirt and I were scheduled to re-vet the applicants already pre-vetted by the Dixter.

Applicant number one, let’s call her “Mrs. Margaret”, is a retired school teacher, a moderate Presbyterian who hasn’t been to church in forty years, anti-war and pro-gay marriage person. She looks like a retired school teacher. Everything about her said, “I’m a retired school teacher. I am a calm, mature woman. Stupid shit doesn’t phase me, I win all staring contests, and I can raise a welt on your forearm with one flick of a number two pencil.”

She loved the Squirt and felt she could tolerate me. She said in our initial interview, “Mr. Johnson, I averaged thirty students per each of my thirty-five years of teaching. I know what it is to deal with an unruly Attention Deficit student.”

“OK,” I told her. “Wanna take a test drive?”

“Only if you start my pay clock,” she answered.

I liked her answer. Smart and a keen business sense as well. So we all bundled up and headed to the garage and loaded into my 1967 Pontiac GTO. I didn’t know it at that instant, but my choice of transportation would the undoing of Margaret.

When I opened her door for her, she stood stock still just looking at the interior of my car. She sniffled once and then seated herself. I shut her door and walked around to seat myself. I started the car and let it run a minute to warm up. I looked across to say something to my maybe-new rethinker, and I saw that she hard a tear streaking down her cheek. She might have had tears streaking down her cheeks, but I had only her profile to view.

“Are you OK? Do you want to do this another time?” I asked her.

“No, no I’m alright. It’s just that my Harry had a GTO when I first met him. First date, first kiss and first… well you know how it was back in the 1960’s. Many firsts happened in that car.” She was blushing. “This GTO brings back happy memories for me.”

Now me, I think one of my therapy lessons is getting a grip on my actions (thoughts). As Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson puts it, “Mooner, some people cry when they’re happy too.” My reaction to these tears was to take Mrs. Margaret at her word. I assumed my hot rod GTO was nothing more than a memory tweaker.

Anyway, I back us out of the big barn/garage that houses all of our vehicles, and off we go. “Anyplace you’d like to go?” I asked Mrs. Margaret.

“Well,” she answered with that old-fashioned teacher’s “thinking” look, “I need to go by the Half-Priced Books on Anderson Mill Road. They’re holding a first edition copy of Catch-22 that they located for me.”

We drove out RR 620 to US 183 and hung a right towards Anderson Mill. We discussed Catch-22, one of my favorites, on the twenty-minute drive. I ran the GTO through it’s paces over the last mile and Mrs. Margaret seemed thrilled. “I’d love to drive your car, Mr. Johnson.” This was a sweet sentiment, sweetly made.

“OK,” from me. “I’ll give you the cockpit after you get your book.”

Squirt and I took a walk for a pee while Mrs. Margaret shopped. When she came back to the car, I tossed her the keys and said, “What motor did your Harry’s GTO have?”

“The same 389 cubic inches with Tri-power as this one.” She was pleased to think she knew the answer.

“OK, that’s almost right. I won’t bore you with all the modifications I’ve made under the hood, but this car has almost 250 more horsies than what Harry’s had. Take it easy.”

Have I ever told you guys about my GTO? This one, I mean because I have two. The other is an original car and exactly like Harry’s. But this car lacks a single power train element from its original build sheet. This car has a tricked-up big block Chevy motor cranking out 600 horse power and something like 560 foot pounds of torque. I had to put a big, beefy automatic trannie in it so I could get more than 300 miles on a set of tires.

To put it plainer, this little GTO is fast.

The first couple miles with Mrs. Margaret at the wheel was OK enough. As we drove the access road on US 183, she tinkered with the brakes and steering, and she goosed the motor a few times to get a good feel of things. “You were right, Mr. Johnson, Harry’s GTO was a pussycat. This baby is a tiger.”

Whenever I drive with Squirt in the car, she sits in a puppy carrier that I strap in the back seat. When the car stops at the light at Oak Knoll, the almost-my puppy says to me, “Tengo un muy mal feeling, Mooner.”

The speedometer on a 1967 GTO pegs out at 140 MPH. The radar guns in Travis County Sheriff Woozie Wozniac’s patrol cars lack that limiting feature. As Deputy Wendell “Call Me When Dale” Martz strutted up to the driver’s window, he was talking before he got there.

“I’ll be goddamn if I didn’t catch me a Mooner Fucking Johnson… what’s this?” Deputy Wendell did a double-take when he saw the school teacher, and not me, at the wheel. “Lady, do you know how fast you were goin’?”

“”I would guess something a little over 140.” Now this was said so sweetly that I thought someone had put syrup in my shorts.

Wendell got this funny look on his face and peered across at me. He started to stick his head into my GTO to say something, but his hat popped off into Mrs. Margaret’s lap. The nice lady turned her head to me and mouthed the words, “Hang on, Mr. Johnson.”

She handed Wendell his hat, and when he straightened himself to put it on, Mrs. Margaret burned a thousand miles off my tires as we raced off in a cloud of smoke.

After the Sheriff heard Mrs. Margaret’s confession, he released Squirt and me from our cell. We were there for three hours and all we had to entertain ourselves with was the grafitti on the walls and peeing in the sink. Squirt wrote a peeing in the sink song that we sang to the tune of that stupid song Pants On The Ground from last year. “Pee in tha sink, pee in tha sink. Everybody watch while I pee in the sink.”

They impounded my GTO so Gram came and got us. After taking a 157 MPH joy ride with a retired teacher, the trip home with my Gram at the wheel of her red Ferrari was almost calming.

Squirt and I drank Carta Blanca beers as soon as we got home. Then we started getting ready for our big date with SAC Ellen.

Manana, y’all.

PS– Fuck Rick Perry!

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2 Responses to “Rethinker Program Flawed; Squirt Writes A Song”

  1. Squatlo says:

    Mooner, I just got over to this one after a weekend of acting like I have to work for a living, and this was one of your best ever!
    Can’t believe no one’s commented on this post!!!!!!!!!!!!

    I’m not gonna guess at how much of this is true, but you DID say a day or two ago that you damn near got arrested, so I’m assuming this was part of the problem. Love your car, BTW.

    I played with Mustangs, myself, but nothing on the scale of your modifications.

    “Pee in tha sink…” stuck in my head, now. Way to go…

  2. admin says:

    Squat. Man I had Mustangs as a kid too. I love muscle cars. Sing the pee in tha sink song five times and it’s jammed on the 24-hour repeater station in your brain. Squirt’s a genious.

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