Tomato Trials Tres-deaux

 

So. I’m finally getting to the point with this last installment of my Barnes and Nobles story. Reading this again reminded me of how angry I am at my state legislature for cutting, make that slashing the budget for mental health care.

Our silly fucking politicians think that mental illness problems get better when you ignore them. They stick their heads up their asses and pretend everything will be all right if programs to provide medications and treatment are eliminated.

I have never thought that I actually hate anyone. Seriously. I somehow feel sorry for the man who raped me when I was a kid, and I even forgive the crazy man that murdered my other grandmother. My nice, grandmotherly grandma was brutally stabbed and bludgeoned to death by a crazy man and I forgive him completely.

He knew not what he did.

But the so-called Christian legislators are committing unforgivable sins in my eyes and I think I am starting to feel the ugly tendrils of hate creeping into my consciousness. They should know better. Looks like I’ve got a new story line for therapy.

Anyway, please enjoy this final installment of the B&N caper. From June 2010, I present”

“Will Rush Limbaugh (The Pig) Come Out Of The Closet?”

It’s Friday folks and time to clean-up a few loose ends. I’ll start by finishing the part about when I was over to the Barnes and Nobles and this one woman started a big scene. I know I broke my promise to finish yesterday but you just need to get over that. I’m doing the best I can with limited time and resources.

Besides, I’m not charging you yet and I think I have the right to disappoint you until you’re paying customers. If you are a Republican or a Baptist and that’s not acceptable to you, go fuck yourself.

As you recall, I was researching for Dixie in the kids section and the kids all started misbehaving and this one severely obsessive/compulsive woman had this book with the mug shots and criminal histories of all child molesters reported to be living in the area.

I think the woman is bi-polar, like Bi-polar Bob over to Shoal Creek loony bin. It’s all ups and downs with Bob and I was sensing some of the same from this lady. Mental health professionals call the two extremes Manic, the upsies part, and Depressive, which is definitely the downers. These extreme mood swings typically last days and longer as the pendulum swings back and forth.

Not for this lady though, no siree Bob. This gal could go from sweet neighbor lady to the Devil’s right hand man in what seemed to me to be two seconds. Maybe less.

When she comes up to Bert Massey, he’s the head of security for the Arboretum, and holds a picture of Clovis Williams up to my face, the lady was all triumphant smiles and confidence. However, when Bert points out that said Clovis is nearly a foot shorter than me, and that I show no evidence of ever having a Popeye tattoo on my forearm, she went ballistic.

“He only looks six feet four inches tall,” she yells angrily. “It says right on the bulletin that Clovis Williams uses disguises.” Then she starts stabbing at me with the pen she’s holding. “Gotta be body putty or something stretching him out.”

Body putty?

After maybe a dozen pokes I took the pen away from her.

“Don’t you dare touch me mister. I know your not you, you’re Clovis Williams.” Now spittle is flying from her mouth so I know she’s off her medications. Bi-polar medications give you the dry mouth something fierce.

It would take seventeen properly medicated bi-polar patients to lick a stamp.

This I know to be a fact from this one time when I was locked up over to Shoal Creek. But, my ADHD is digressing us. Let me just say this about that. The new no-lick sticky stamps are one of those, “Why didn’t I think of that?” kind of dealies.

So. She’s being restrained by mall cops now and she starts staring at my shoes with her just arrived crazy eyes almost spinning in circles. If you know a bi-polar person you know those eyes. She says, “Check his shoes for elevators,” and then she starts snapping with her teeth and kicking and writhing around trying to get at me.

Now, let me take a breath here and explain something to you. I’m not that crazy, like this lady, but I am crazy. Having spent many months locked away to the loony bin myself, I have a unique and experienced perspective on crazy folks. I always try to err to the side of compassion anytime I encounter one of what Dr. Sam I. Am calls, “Your people, Mooner.”

So I tell Bert, I say, “It’s OK Bert. You can let her go. She just wants you to listen to her. Crazy people don’t often feel well heard. I can handle this.” This is something I am sure about.

“OK Mooner, if you’re sure about this.”

I said, “I’m sure,” and he said, “OK,” and his guys let her loose.

She just stood there crazy-eying me for a minute, looking me up and down at the same time. It was like she had lizard eyes– you know where they kind of pop out and can move independently? Then both eyes latch on to the hemp tote bag that serves as my portable tomato kitchen and she says, “What’s in the bag buster?”

“Just my stuff,” I told her. “Not your business.”

I mean really, this was not her business.

Her eyes started that lizard dealie again, and then she says, “Make him open that tote bag Sheriff. He’s got kiddie porn inside.”

Now with her eyes doing that independent action she was looking at Bert and me at the same time, he and I answer at the same time. “I’ve/he’s got no warrant,” the I’ve from Bert and the he’s from me.

And then, again together, “And I’m/he’s not the Sheriff.”

“I don’t care whose who’s or what’s your problem, I’m looking inside that tote bag.” And with that, she grabs my tote by a strap and gives it a yank.

She was stronger than she looked so as I defended myself and the integrity of my private property, I yanked back and maybe just a little too hard. I pulled her clean off her feet, her still latched to my bag, and she smashed into me with my tomato-filled tote between us. I felt my precious reds get squished from the impact and felt a few squirt as vine ripened tomatoes will do when exposed to significant pressure.

When the lady pulled away from me still trying to steal my tote, her pretty white blouse was covered in deep red goo. Blood colored goo because of the mini plum bias to the varieties I was carrying that day.

The woman felt the wet through her blouse and when she wiped her hand across her chest and looked at the gatherings on her fingers, she screamed and said, “He stabbed me, somebody call 911!” and promptly fainted like an empty flour sack to the carpeted floor.

I opened my mouth to say, “It’s OK, it’s just tomato goo,” but all I got out was the “It’s.”

ZZZZZZZZZZZZAAAAAAAPPPP!!!

I love the smell of ozone and fried synapses in the morning.

One of the silly mall cops got excited and blasted me with his tazer. I came to in the back office area of the store with Bert looking over me as I lay on the floor with my head in the lady’s lap. Bert’s just shaking his head as I open my eyes and says, “Can you focus Mooner?”

“Oh wow, oh wow, oh wow,” is all I can muster. “Oh wow,” is all I can ever muster when I first come to after getting tazed. “Take my cell phone and hit #1 on the speed dial. Tell the woman who answers that I’ve been hit with a stun gun and I’ll meet her at the La Quinta near her office in thirty minutes.” That would be the SAC Ellen. She won’t pass on this opportunity.

Now the crazy lady speaks up. “I’m so sorry Mr. Johnson, I had no idea it was you.” Then she eyed the boner that is the major attraction in the aftermath of all of my stunnings. “Would you like me to take you home and fix you a drink?” And then she whispered in my ear, “I’m not wearing any underwear– want a little peak?”

What a nice offer. “That is a very nice offer, Miss, but I’m spoken for.”

The crazy eyes came back and she started getting surly again when the manager walked in.

He surveyed the scene for a bit and then said, “OK Bert. I’ll take this nice lady out the front way and you take Mooner out the back and put him directly into his car. You, Mooner, will drive away and stay away.”

He helped the lady to her feet and as he walked her out he said to me, he says, “You are one disruptive asshole Mooner Johnson. Please stay away from my store.” And then after a beat he pleaded, “Please.”

“Stop whimpering Stanley, I got what I need for now. Just call me when my Jeff Hwang poker book comes in.”

“Someone will meet you at Sprouts to deliver it to you. I’ll let Harry know when it gets here.”

Harry is the manager over to Sprouts and my buddy. And I just checked the word counter and we’re at 1,600-plus words.

Fuckballs.

The 400-word limit is basically one double-spaced page with 12 point type. I guess I do four or more pages with each posting so I’m giving you an entire week’s worth of postings for the price of one.

What a bargain. But I do need to get back to the ranch and spend some time with Rush Limbaugh the pig. He’s been in the closet and I’m trying to talk him into coming out. Hiding in the closet is never a good idea especially when everyone knows that you are in there and why.

I asked Dixie to translate for me and she says that Rushie said, “Tell Mooner that Gram will kill me if I come out of the closet. Gram just doesn’t understand me.” Dixie speaks pig.

Actually, Dixie speaks the Southern United States Porcine dialect, which is our version of the original Chinese piggy speak. But like Gram says, she’ll say, “Who gives a shit Mooner. I’m gonna Louie Louie that fuckin pig if he furts my ass agin.”

I hope Gram means she’ll Hawaiian luau Rush Limbaugh if he sticks his snout up her butt– you know, roast him in a hot rock BBQ pit.

I told Dixie to tell Rush that Gram will be hurt and maybe angry at first but she will eventually get over it. Then I said to her, I said, “Dixie, tell him I’ll gather a support group and grill some ribs and sausage and make it a coming out of the closet party for him.” That hog does love his pork ribs and links.

Streaker Jones said he’ll come and SAC Ellen has said that she’ll introduce him and make a nice speech in support of his decision to come out of the closet.

It is a terrible waste of your life to live it cowering in the closet. I just hope that Rush Limbaugh can muster the strength to come all the way out.

I just hit 1,750 words for shitsakes. I need a Carta Blanca beer.

Manana, y’all.

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One Response to “Tomato Trials Tres-deaux”

  1. Squatlo says:

    I’ve been trying to get over to see your latest, but it keeps showing me shit I’ve already read… unless of course, you’ve just gotten around to adding new stuff to your bloggie. Love this story, especially the stunner boner. I’ve heard that’s a real phenomenon among the addled… I wouldn’t know, the closest I’ve come to receiving a shot from a police officer was when one with peach fuzz on his little cheeks damn near popped a cap in my face the night I wrecked my 280Z at Haywood Lane off of I24. That fucker was batshit crazy, and too young to carry a gun that fucking big. Ever noticed how red that little dot on the top of a gun sight is? Especially under streetlights in the middle of the night when you’re shitfaced drunk and trying to be funny?

    Guess you had to be there… good story, Mooner!

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