99and44one-hundreths-percent Pure; Mooner’s Guilty Conscience

 

So. Sometimes I wish that I had the capabilities required to be a liar. Sometimes I wish I could sleep at night after misleading someone with my prevarications. Telling lies makes me feel terrible about myself and brings the guilt out in waves of tsunamic gut wrenching, sleepless nights. Tsunamiatic gut wrenching?

Telling a lie will bring out more guilt in me than if I were to commit murder. This is not a hypothetical imagining but, rather, a experiential observation. I don’t mean experiential from the perspective of like a scientific experiment designed to provide baseline evidence for future evaluations. I’m speaking more from the perspective of a “been-there, done-that” dealie.

OK, I’m starting to confuse myself so why don’t I give you examples of what I’m talking about. When I was five years old, I took some cookies from the platter sitting on the table in our old kitchen out to the ranch. This was years ago and before I had remodeled the entire house after I inherited it at my grandfather’s death. I won’t go into the story as to why I was bequeathed the big ranch rather than Gram or my still-living father, just know that I obtained the title honestly.

Mother and Gram had baked the cookies for some silly Baptist church lady dealie, and the number of cookies produced was the result of careful calculations. Each woman was to receive two cookies each, three for Pastor Browningwell and then an even dozen for the poor folks who were the church’s charges.

So, I grabbed two cookies on my first stealthy attack and then three on a second pass. The cookies were chunky chocolate oatmeal and made from a Johnson family recipe– big chunks of semi-sweet chocolate and not-too sweet oatmeal cake. Messy to eat when eaten hastily by a sneaky five year old child.

But I caught the evidence of cookie theft on my hands and washed them and my face before the theft was discovered. When Gram found the cookies were missing she headed straight to where I sat in front of the old black-and-white TV. I was watching Howdy Doody with the dog and I was shivering in my boots. When Gram asked about the missing cookies, I held up my hands and said, “I didn’t do it.”

Gram cast the evil eye my way and said, “Well, if you didn’t do it, who done it?”

Quick as a rabbit, the lie escaped my lips. “Trixie did it Gram. I saw her.”

Trixie was Dixie’s grandmother and a Golden Retriever that didn’t talk to me, at least that I heard. Trixie was always getting me into trouble so I was lying to get some payback. Gram scolded the dog and took an angry swipe at her with her foot, and chased the poor thing out of the house.

The only sleep I got for the next two weeks was nightmare-filled sweats. When I finally confessed to the crime, I got my ass whipped with a willow switch that I was required to cut from the big tree by the old stock pond. Then I stood for an hour with a bar of lye soap in my mouth and I went to bed without any supper.

My entire life I have had trouble with the spellings of lie and lye. I guess having spent so much time with a bar of lye soap in my mouth any time I told a lie mixed shit up in my head. A lye soap mouthwash was always part of my punishments if my indiscretions involved the use of my mouth. Tell a lie, curse out of anger or otherwise, talk back, or use the Lord’s name in vain were the most common stimuli to provoke a lye sucking.

I can still taste that shit. That’s why Ivory Soap is all I’ll ever use. Besides, Ivory soap is , as they used to say, “Ivory Soap is ninety-nine-and-forty-four-one-hundredths-percent pure.” I buy Ivory Soap by the multiple-case order and I have stockpiles everywhere. I even have it in the safety box out to our fishing dock. I keep it every fucking where. After getting stuck without it several times as a teenager, I never leave home without it.

I love it smell and feel and the way it looks. I love that, except for the size and shape of the bars, it hasn’t changed a bit since I was a kid. They did fuck with the scent of it a few years back, but consumer backlash righted that ship.

First time I ever masturbated was in the shower with a fresh bar of Ivory Soap. Somehow the symbolism of doing the dirty with a bar of soap helped cleanse my conscience of its Baptist-infused guilt. Beating off with Ivory Soap was my first rebellion against the Baptist church and a satisfying act at that.

Holy shit, I forgot what I was going to tell you. I can’t remember what it was that spurred this shit out of the far reaches of my skull. But now I’m wondering what you guys used the first time you masturbated. If you’re not too chicken to say, tell me.

If you are too chicken, drink a couple Carta Blanca beers to screw-up your courage and then tell us about it. Maybe I’ll remember why I called this meeting manana, y’all.

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2 Responses to “99and44one-hundreths-percent Pure; Mooner’s Guilty Conscience”

  1. Squatlo says:

    Mooner, that was a good one. Stolen cookies, blamed the dog, whacking off with Ivory Soap… gotta be a country song in there somewhere.

  2. admin says:

    Squat. Roger Miller already did it. He called it “Do-whacka-do” and it’s a personal favorite.

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