Somebody Stop Me; Originality In Short Supplies


So. One of the recurring themes in my psycho therapy sessions is my inability to know when to stop. This weakness in my personality manifests itself in several aspects of stopping understandings. I think it’s all about my ADHD, but Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson tells me it’s as much about mu obsessive compulsivenesses as it is the AD and HD.

Like, say when I’m drinking Carta Blanca beer while I’m writing here to my bloggie and I wake up in the middle of the night face-down in a pool of sleepy drool at my desk. That’s a clear case of the ADHD keeping me writing until I pass out.

Then there is the aspect of not knowing when to stop that is closely aligned to today’s bloggie posting. That’s the inability to stop reprinting stuff from the past. This reprint will explain much to my new readers and it might bore longtime readers. I’m torn about reprinting today’s posting, but not enough to stop me.

If I wasn’t so well balanced from the mental perspectives, I’d be batshit crazy. But my coping skills make me more of a mellow crazy, and….

Who am I fucking kidding? I’m as loony as a sex-crazed ten-peckered Billy goat. So fuck it. Here, again from June 2010, is:

“Rush Limbaugh, the Pig, Comes Out of the Closet”

I’m waiting for the rain to stop so I can crank up the big grill and prepare the food for our big coming out party for Rush Limbaugh the pig. We have quite a crowd, what with all the immediate and extended family, an even half dozen of my ex-wives including Roshandra and her new beau, and Harry from over to Sprouts with his fiancée, Patty Pritchitt, and the Sheriff and his wife.

Roshandra brought this local politician as her date and I am reserving judgment until the end of the night. I can say in advance that I like his politics but I remain unsure as to his motive to date my ex. Patty is the camel toe lady out to Sprouts from awhile back and I really like her. She and Harry are a strange but fun couple what with him devout Catholic and her Wiccan.

Streaker Jones brought Sunny, the TV reporter and my ex-lover, who has the honorable distinction of being a person whose distinction I can’t distinguish for you. The reason I can’t tell you about what distinguishes Sunny from the rest of the women gathered here to the ranch is because my fancy pants Editorator, the one for my soon-to-be-published book, is also here.

When I told her I was going to bloggerate until the rain stopped she said to me, she says, “Look here Mooner Einstein Johnson. If you spoil one more secret from the book by writing in your blog I’m going to have Dr. Sam I. Am commit you again. You need to extinguish your distinguishments and establish some dignities.”

Then before I could snappily retort, she snapped, “Einstein my rosy red ass. Your Gram is right about that one. And establish some priorities as well. Nobody is reading your blog anyway, otherwise you would be getting more comments.”

“Bullshit,” my first snappy retort of the day. “I know with absolute certainty that I have many daily readers to the bloggie.” Then, when she looked at me like I’m crazy I gave her a sloppy raspberry, “Pfflluughhbbttt!” An appropriate second snappy retort to follow the first.

“Mooner,” she told me with not just a little scorn in her voice, “You are fucking clueless, you giant moronic shit-for-brains asshole.”

Now she’s got that “searching for words” look that intelligent people get when they are frustrated. I saw the opening and took it. “Ooo, listen to the fancy-assed professional word smith using all of those nasty words when there are so many better words to use for proper communication. How can you tell me to clean up my act with that trash-filled maw glued on your face.” Snappy retort number three, and one of my best.

She’s always telling me that I cuss too much in my writing and that curse words are the tools of lazy writers and only belong in quality prose strictly for emphasis. When she first told me this I said to her, I said, “No shit little Missy Edito-fucking-rator. I only fucking use fucking cuss words for fucking emphasis!”

Of course, later I realized that I also use cuss words to portray an act, like shitting, and as an endearment like when I say that Squirt is a cute little shitbird. Speaking of the Squirt, she is here with Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson and has offered to help Dixie interpolate for Rush Limbaugh the pig.

Squirt wiggled up to me and did this adorable thing she does whenever she first sees me. She comes right to my feet and then throws herself flat to the ground with her head resting on her front paws. Then she’ll watch me with expectant eyes, whipping her little tail in a happy wag. She won’t speak a word until I address her, but she literally vibrates with excitement until I do.

“Well if it isn’t my favorite little shitbird. Besides your entire carcass, what’s shaking Squirt?”

Taking her cue, Squirt sits up like a bunny rabbit onto her back haunches and almost exclaims, “Gooten morgan Senor Mooner. Ein essen here to assist Hier Limbaugh mitten der oink snurt snuffloosh die gruber from el closet.”

She is so fucking cute when she mixes her syntax and scrambles my synapses. “Thanks for coming Squirt. I know that the Rushster will appreciate your support. Just remember that he only speaks piggie and a limited dialect at that.”

Then I thought to add, “And be sure you blow your nose before speaking too much Porcine. That’s why pigs’ noses are always snotty.”

Did you guys know that’s why a pig always has a snotty nose? Their entire language is snorted and squealed through their noses. Makes me wonder about anteaters.

Patty and Gram are sitting to a corner of the kitchen talking about magic spells and stuff. Since Patty is a Wiccan and Gram’s an old witch, they seem to be getting along. Gram seems to think she can charge more for her potions if she can give them a little boost by casting a spell on each bottle.

I heard her tell Patty, Gram says, “How do I tell tha differnce a tween a good spell anna bad un?”

“Well Gram,” Patty patiently replied, “You know what the spell is used for when you learn the spell. Good spells may be used for evil purposes and bad spells might be used for a good reason.”

Uh oh, Houston we have a problem. Now me- I knew what my Gram was going to say back to Patty without even thinking, but Patty is just newly exposed to the 90-pound vial of nitroglycerin that is my Gram.

Gram says, “Who gives a shit Patty. Spells is as spells does. Now answer my fuckin question an spill tha beans.”

I’m just glad that Patty is kind of heart and long of fuse. The last person to put a hex on my Gram cast this spell that my Gram would have sex with all the criminals down to the jail. Actually the hex word was “rape” and not sex, but you get my drift.

The Sunday after this lady put the hex on Gram I got a call from Sheriff Wozniac. “Mooner get down here right now and I mean pronto. Your Gram has managed to lock herself into the west wing of my jail and she’s abducted a full dozen inmates and got then handcuffed to their cots.”

Then he said, “I’ve never heard so many grown men crying Mooner. And these are hard men.”

Maybe that’s what Patty meant about knowing your spells. Is it a bad spell if you hex some old gasbag into doing what she most wants to do?

Wait a minute. Did I tell you about the ostrich yet? You know how city-dwelling assholes like to drive to the country and dump their unwanted pets out the car. Well, some country-dwellers do the same except they drive from their place already out in the country to a country place in another county.

Because our ranch is located near to multiple intersections of various major county arterial roads, we get more than our share of dumped animals. We get dumped people as well, but that’s another whole can of worms.

Maybe I could have saved word count by simply saying the ranch is on a busy street. Bottom line is that somebody got tired of feeding and caring for their six-foot tall, 126-pound can’t fly, but can run like a greyhound, bird. Cute shitbird except for the beady eyes and maybe a too surly attitude.

Anyway, last week Gram is out to the big garden and encounters this ostrich and she named him/she/it Rick Perry on account that it hides its head from the truth and then uses the same thick skull like a mace, you know that studded metal ball on the end of a chain that knights swing to slug things. That’s how an ostrich attacks- with his thick, numbed skull. Swings it like a mace.

We learned about the thick skull macing bit when Gram tried to sex the ostrich. Wait now, I don’t mean Gram tried to have sex with it, but rather tried to determine if it was male or female.

“I was partin tha tail feathers on that rascal to see iffn it had any danglies and next thing I know I’m flat on my back and ol Rick Perry was swingin its head like one of them bozo dealies like them Lithuanian cowboys do down ta South America.”

Have to love my Gram, but I am digressing like a sumbitch. My ADHD has been a touch fritzie today so maybe I need a beer.

Oh look, it’s stopped raining so I better get along. But don’t start bitching at me because you’re still getting 1,530 words by the time I stop. That’s almost five quality bloggie postings.

Now, go crack your own frosty cold Carta Blanca beer and toast to Rush Limbaugh for coming out of the closet.

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