Nice Rack…Slap; Mooner’s Still Nuts

 

So. If I ever, and I mean EVER say that I think I’m getting better, I want someone to kick me in the balls. If I ever try to tell you that I’ve discovered that I’m not quite as crazy as I thought—I want you to ask me to, “Wait right here,” and then I want you to put on your steel-toed work boots and return to kick my balls.

Maybe then I’ll get it. Maybe then, I’ll look before I leap. Or whateverthefuck the metaphor would be. Or the analogy, or, again, whateverthefuck.

At dinner last night, I was feeling pretty good about myself. I found a possible home to play I-net poker, and as I was washing my hands—after peeing in the sink—I realized that I had made it through the first twelve hours of the day without a single fuck up. OK, except for when the young woman slapped me in the produce department over to Whole Foods, but that was a simple matter of miscommunication.

She thought I said, “Those will make a nice rack, Miss,” meaning the adorable pair of creamy-white titties that were half-hanging out of her halter top as she leaned into the refrigerated meat case. I, of course, was speaking of the lamb she was looking at in the butcher case and thinking, Frenched rack of lamb.

Either way, I got slapped and invited to the assistant manager’s office, a cozy room with which I have familiarity.

As I was saying, I was feeling pretty good about myself and thinking that my psycho therapy was working and that I was starting to mature. I bragged about my day to the table full of Johnsons and gathered boy toys, and each agreed that maybe I was improving. Even the twin Texas A&M engineering students my Gram picked up in College Station over the weekend.

“They was already all drunked-up when I caught ’em, Mooner, so don’t start on all a that Mann Action on me.”

More than once I’ve found it necessary to explain the Mann Act to my grandmother.

Anyfuckingway, I felt good at dinner, after dinner and then again as I rose from slumber this morning. I’m not saying I felt sane mind you, but I felt that I’m getting better. So after breakfast, I sat down to write about the big story here about how the Governor’s cronies at our environmental department were acting like shitheads. Again.

I had 400 or so words out and I had a small brain fritz and decided to check on the members of my Bloggie Roller. So first I clicked on Squatlo Rant over there =} and discovered that he had already posted the story, and waaaayyyy better than I could ever do it. Asshole.

I was pissed that he beat me to the punch, but glad someone as smart as him (he?) thought it important enough to write about.

So I decided to play just one game of Spider Solitaire to relax my brain so I could think about what else I could tell you. On game 46, when I had a fifteen-percent win record for the session, I was at that place with two more stacks of cards to distribute and I knew I could win the game. I’m a clever card player and reach this point in about half of the Free Cell games I play.

I leaned back in my chair to evaluate the spread of the cards and said to myself, out loud yet I was the only one there, I said, “Fuck me running. I’ll never make spades the first suit I close out. Moth…er…fuck…er!”

So, I farted around attempting to discover a way to close a set of spades first and gave up.

“Oh, my God, Mooner. You are even more obsessive-compulsive than I thought. Other than the spade fixation, what other extra rules do you have for that game?”

That’s when I discovered that I wasn’t alone. It was evil Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, my first ex-wife and still psycho therapist. “Oh hey, brain killer, what’s up?” I asked her.

“Looks like what’s up are your extra therapy sessions, big boy. You’re a mess.”

“I didn’t even tell you about how the first set, spades, has to close from the far left space and then hearts from the far right one. Or any of the other stuff. You’re jumping conclusions on me.”

“Nope,” she said. “I could tell by the look on your face that you, my dear ex-husband, are a raving lunatic.”

“Bitch,” the best I had.

“Yes, I am, and you need to call Sherry and make a couple extra appointments for the week.”

She kissed the top of my head and left. I sometimes still miss marriage to Dr. Sam, but not right then. Bitch.

I started to wonder about my obsessions and compulsions. “I don’t have that many, do I,” I thought to myself, so I listed them.

OK, I count stuff like cell phone towers on a road trip. I tap my toes in the blank spaces between the white stripes in the road. I have to clap even numbers of claps for the Longhorn football and basketball teams or I bring them bad luck. I also have to say, “Come on D,” when the defense needs a big stop. Can’t say defense, or use any other words, just, “Come on D.”

I have to get out of the bed a particular way every morning and then follow my “72-steps for starting each day” routine. I miss, or misplace, a step and my whole day is fucked up.

Oh, my god, when I cook I’m a total fucking mess. Everything has a procedure and a place and a method. And I am crazy about cleanliness.

I, dear friends, am a crazy fucking lunatic. So fuck it. I’m having a Carta Blanca beer and I’mma toast to all the crazy lunatic fuckballs in the world.

“Cheers, you crazy mothers!”

Manana. Y’all.

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2 Responses to “Nice Rack…Slap; Mooner’s Still Nuts”

  1. Squatlo says:

    How ’bout I just forfeit all Texas and Rick Perry Stories to Mooner Johnson Dot com for the first 24 hours, and after that just assume you didn’t have anything to say on the subject? Would that help? I’m all about helping…

    Secondly, unless Gram is dragging drunken minors across state lines, I don’t think the Mann Act applies to her boy toy collection. Not sure, but doesn’t it involve state lines? I’ll ask next time I’m charged with it…

  2. Squat. OK, first, I’d much rather you provide the prose on the rotten prick, Rick Perry. You are smarter and much more on point. Like how about you write an essay on the prickster’s “Jobs Plan”[.]

    Perry’s solution for new jobs is to start drilling holes in the ground in hopes of finding oil. Damn the environment, oh yea, and have I told you that the little fucker’s financial support is teeming with oil men? Rotten evil cow-dick sucking right-wing Christian fuckball.

    Second, that you would question my grandmother’s propensities to haul her boys across state lines is clear evidence that I have not carefully explained Gram’s propensities. Like a lioness with a fresh kill, Gram will drag her meat to wherever she feels like having her supper. And that old bag can burn up some miles in her little red hotrod.

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