Rick Perry Doomed; Pompous Ass Can’t Give Tickets Away

 

So. The pompous fuckball known as Texas governor Rick Perry had his big come-to-Jesus meeting yesterday down to Houston. The logic(?) behind this gathering was to get a critical mass of Jesusites—mostly Texas-bred Baptists, whose combined Christianess would get God’s attention and fix what’s wrong with America.

This critical mass of dumbass was to do the infamous Christian “group prayers” and bowl-over the big guy—oops, Big Guy with the power of their combined voices. The pomp and circumstance of today’s Christian right reminds me of the old Catholic church, except with more radical ideals and less-well thought-out mantras. Modern Christians are just plain fucking stupid.

I was raised and raped Baptist so I think I have both authorizations to be critical and to cast a most jaundiced eye into their behaviors. Mother and Gram still populate their Baptist church weekly and they dragged my ass with them every Sunday and Wednesday until I drew a line in the sand when I was fourteen.

I was a true believer for all of those church years until the last, my fourteenth. After my Baptist Boy Scout leader raped me as I lay comatose in my sleeping blanket on a camping trip when I was thirteen, my final year of church attendance was part of a year of turmoil in my life. I was too afraid to tell anyone about the rape, so I went through all of the guilt and anger and recriminations rape victims endure.

I couldn’t look anyone in the eyes. I started fights for no reason beyond my unreasoned shame. My grades in school went downhill as I talked back to teachers and made brash pronouncements. My best friend, Streaker Jones, stood by me even though I didn’t tell him what was wrong with me. When, at age thirty-five, I told him what happened that made me as I was, he said to me, he said, “I always figgered it was sumthin’ like that.”

I stopped attending church the day I found myself sitting on the aisle in the very back pew, my hand gripping my daddy’s serrated fish boning knife in the pocket of my corduroy jacket. I had spent every Sunday since getting molested sitting in my pew in stunned silence as my rapist, a church deacon, would perform his deacon’s duties. He was in charge of the offerings, so he would supervise the other deacons’ passing of the collection plates. He stood in front as the other deacons passed the plates across the aisles from back-to-front.

When all the plates had made it to the first pew, that bastard would stack them up and haul them to the back, and out of the chapel to the counting room. I had hatched my plan over several months as I endured church services. This haughty asshole would actually smile at me—sometimes demurely, as he performed his duties. He smiled at me and two other boys from the Scout troop who attended the church.

One of those boys committed suicide after he left home for college. The other ended up in jail before graduating. I ended up with ten ex-wives.

I had a plan on the final Sunday in May of my fourteenth year. My plan was to stab the serrated blade of Daddy’s knife in that fucker’s belly and sink it to the hilt. This was the third Sunday that I had secreted the knife from my father’s tackle box and hidden it in my favorite jacket. The jacket was a present for my receiving the rank of Life Scout with seventeen merit badges before reaching age twelve.

My family was so proud that I had accomplished such a rare feat. Little did they know that my honors were purchased with my innocence.

On this Sunday I was certain that I would do it—slice the rotten fucker’s liver to shreds as he exited by way of the church’s center isle, carrying the stack of collection plates in both hands. The two weeks before I had practiced my actions and imagined the actions I would take as I took from him what I felt he had taken from me.

My hand gripped that knife so hard that my entire arm was cramped. I was jittery and shaking as I sat through the first thirty minutes of the service. The prayer of tithing was silly, as always, as poor people were asked to give ever more of their money to the church. As the deacon made his way up the aisle towards me I was ready to kill him. I had done the deed a hundred times in my mind.

But I didn’t. I simply didn’t. I wish I could tell you some incredible story of how I managed to reason and logic a happy ending to this sordid story, but I can’t. I didn’t chicken out, I didn’t have an epiphany. I simply didn’t stick the knife in his rotten ass.

That was the last time I was in a church for any reason not a wedding or funeral.

I have felt both good and bad about myself in the years that have passed since that day. I have often wondered if I would have saved other boys from his evil had I slay him. I often revel in my freedom as well. I feel I am both lesser and greater for not acting.

Rick Perry didn’t rape me, but Rick Fucking Perry is an asshole, and the Christian right are evil. They are worse than Muslim terrorists in my eyes because they claim moral superiority. Same claims of god-granted righteousness. Same insistences of divinity.

Rick Perry isn’t the Baptist deacon who raped me. Rick Perry is, however, the Baptist fuckball who has led the ruination of my great state, and he wants to ruin my country.

Fuck Rick Perry before he fucks America.

Manana, y’all.

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6 Responses to “Rick Perry Doomed; Pompous Ass Can’t Give Tickets Away”

  1. Squatlo says:

    Mooner, I haven’t been over here in the past two days, and now I feel like shit under a jackbooted goosestepper for not paying attention…
    Man, you have done so well to have lived with so much for so long. (sounds almost Church-hillian, doesn’t it? “Never have so few given so much for so many…”)
    Seriously, I’m glad you didn’t gut that bastard. Not that he didn’t have it coming, and not that your “sin” wouldn’t have been forgiven by anyone aware of the truth, but because it would have crippled your life.
    As it is, you have an insight so few of us can claim, and have the wisdom of knowing you resisted the temptation to lash out in a fatal manner when it was justifiably reasonable for you to do so.
    I’m glad to count you among my friends. Seriously.
    You’ve earned the right to rant and rave any mother fucking way you feel like letting loose, but you choose to use humor and good natured sarcasm to make your points.

    Life isn’t fair. How we deal with adversity is what defines us. You’re “finest kind”, man.

  2. admin says:

    Squat. Now you’ve got tears dripping from my eyes. One of life’s great questions–act in honor and save others from possible harm versus vigilante action. Sounds like it would make a good western. I’d have John Wayne play the Mooner Johnson part.

  3. Squatlo says:

    I don’t know about John Wayne playing your part… might work, but I’d go with Jimmy Stewart. I’m thinking of their respective characters in the movie “The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance” (my favorite western)… Ransom Stoddard (Stewart) railing against the big money boys, urging the common folk to stand together and vote for statehood, despite death threats from the hired gun (Lee Marvin as Liberty Valance, who ***spoiler alert*** gets his ass shot, then does one of the most melodramatic, drawn out spiraling death scenes in movie history, right before Strother Martin and Lee Van Cleef run out into the street and insist Jimmy Stewart be lynched for killing such a fine specimen as their former boss)

    Anyway, lemme know when you start casting the movie. I’m for letting Rick Perry star as the Struther Martin weasel character. Bill O’Reilly can be Lee Marvin, Glenn Beck can be Lee Van Cleef, and Rush Limbaugh (your pig) can be the big boss man behind the scenes…

  4. Geez Louise, I’m trying to get all caught up on my blogger reading…and I’m going backwards in your posts. This is some heavy shit, Mooner. You don’t need to kill your abuser in real life…doing it in your mind a thousand times can be just as cathartic – I’ve done it a thousand times myself. But, the point is – karma is a bitch, and she does her j-o-b. Forgiveness is also part of that karma. Forgiveness isn’t for the other person – it’s for you. It allows you to let go of the shit and move forward (which, of course, I’m sure Dr. Sam I Am has already “enlightened” you about). Resentments and hatred are like taking poison and waiting for the other person to die. Contraindicated. Deep shit, Mooner…awesome post.

  5. Squat. I was thinking something along the lines of Rio Bravo or maybe El Dorado. Who but the Duke could make the exact same movie with different casts and make both memorable? You could play the Ricky Nelson part, and I still sometimes have sex dreams about Angie Dickinson.

    Reck. Hola, baby–where you been? Yea, I know about the forgiveness dealie but I’m still not all the way there. I did kill the bastard in my mind, and many times. Recovery is a long road.

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