Crazy Is As Crazy Does; I Need Help


So. Have I told you that I’m crazy? Have I said it enough times for you to understand the full widths and breadths of my lunacies?

The people who maintain close proximity to me in my life all know just how crazy I am. As Gram says it, she’ll say, “Mooner, yur nuttier than a fruit basket.”

I’m nuttier than a fruit cake as well. The last time I was serving some time over to the Shoal Creek Loony Bin Hospital, a visiting intern pulled my chart from the box thingie that sits on the wall outside patients doors, and was reading as she walked into my room. They had just admitted me, and I’m found wrapped in a straight jacket tighter than the frijole paste in a sweet bean tamale, and shackled to the bed at my ankles. I was still half dazed and confused and had a granite-hard woodie poking at the fabric of my “personal confinement apparel”.

The straight jacket, dazed look and manly erection were remnants of a significant zapping by the professional-strength taser wielded by SAC Ellen. The zapping occurred upon my very first meeting with Special Agent in Charge, United States Department of Homeland Security, Ms. Ellen McClellan. You know her as SAC Ellen, or the SACster.

So, this shitwad intern walks into my room reading my chart in the distracted asshole way that medical professionals use to establish pecking order with the patient. They ignore you with great precision as they walk in, attempting to look too busy to be polite. This chart-reading shithead walks in my room reading the chart and holds out her best “one minute please” finger before I can utter a sound. I hate that fucking finger motion. Makes me want to break it off and shove it up their ass.

I think they teach that kind of move in some class at all medical schools. Likely has a name like, “Aloof 101”, or “Shitball Snotty-nosed Doctor Moves” or maybe, “101 Ways to Make Patients More Concerned and Uncomfortable and Want to Choke the Fucking Life Out of You”. That’s where they learn this chart-reading move and learn to say, “you will feel a slight pinch,” and get the lesson on how to snap a pair of rubber gloves as they prepare for a rectal exam.

Fucking assholes.

Anyway, this young woman enters my room reading my chart. She gets maybe seven steps inside the padded walled-and-floored “solitary confinement space” where I’m being warehoused, and she starts laughing. Most people don’t know this, but a padded room has padded floors as well as walls. Sounds are muffled in these rooms so conversations sound like you are having them in a snow covered meadow. She walks in and starts laughing and I ask her, I say, “What’s so funny?”

She pushes the already-pointed “one minute please” finger further towards my face, and keeps laughing. She stops laughing and continues reading, motioning with the finger every few seconds as if to emphasize the importance of what she’s doing, and to remind me of my lack of importance to her work. When she finally finishes reading, she chuckles again and looks at me (at last) and says, “Good morning, Mister ahhhh …” She consults the chart, again, and goes on, “ah, Mister Johnson.”

Then she looks me over and notices my woodie. “My, my, but it is true.”

“What were you finding so funny as you were reading my chart, little lady?” I’m used to getting laughed at, but it’s good to know why. Sometimes I like to adjust my behaviors in the face of ridicule.

“Oh, sir, it would be inappropriate for me to comment on that,” she says. “But I have to ask you, Mister Johnson. Does that thing work?”

Huh? “Wait a fucking minute,” I respond. “It’s OK for you to come into my room laughing your ass of while reading my chart, but you won’t tell me what it is that you find so fucking funny?”

“Don’t curse, Mr. Johnson, I’m only here to help you. But really, is that erection for show purposes only, or can you put it to a better use?”

Wait a minute, and hold on. I have not only digressed the shit out of us, I was also starting to tell you a story that comes from the storyline of my soon to be published book. I can’t tell you the story but I can get to my point. Among other things, the young lady intern was laughing at one of my many diagnoses. She said, this was later after we discussed the taser-induced woodie phenomenon, she said to me, “Well, one of your diagnosis is “He’s a totally crazy and inappropriate fucking redneck’”

“That’s my ex-wife and therapist trying to be funny, young lady.” What else could I say. Sometimes the truth is the only solution.

OK, my ADHD has got my head swimming. I wanted to remind you that I am crazy before I tell you what I did. The thing that ended with me in jail. With the cat and dog. Zapped. The cat and I both got zapped.

Ever seen a cat that’s been hit with a jolt of direct current?

Honor, the zapped cat, is still pissed at me. Squirt, who is acting more like my dog every day, is proud of now having an arrest record. When Jeff, my attorney, sprung us from jail, the Squirt was bouncing around wanting to chest bump everybody. She was trying to do gang signs the guys in the cell next to us taught her, but without opposing thumbs, gang signs are garbled communication.

Me, I blame the cat, but I blame myself for putting the cat in the position to flay the flesh off Catholic Anti-Abortion Protest Lady’s arms. But the sharp-clawed little shit is like me with a tub of cream brulee when it comes to shredding the arms of an attacker. I love cream brulee, and neither of us can stop once started.

I’m so fucking crazy. I know better than to go to Planned Parenthood with my anti-anti-abortion protest signs. It isn’t like this was the first time I’ve been arrested over there.

Thinking on it, maybe I better read up on cat scratch fever. I caught some shredding of my own when I released Honor from the lady’s arm.

Ugh, need Carta Blanca beer. Manana, y’all.

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2 Responses to “Crazy Is As Crazy Does; I Need Help”

  1. Squatlo says:

    She zapped your pussy and you got a woodie? Hey, take pictures and Tweet them to someone famous! You could get your name in the paper, and they’ll call it Moonergate!

    Hope you get out of your shackles before your ‘maters go bad on the vine…

  2. Squatlo says:

    Capcha wrote and said my comment was BLOCKED because it contained the word “pussy”, then it posted my pussy-filled comment! What the fuck, Mooner… you have the thought police censoring your comments, now? Jeez… it never ends!

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