Mooner’s Xmas Arrives Early; Things Go Swimmingly


So. As I’ve said on these pages many times before, Sunday morning breakfast is the grandest of the week’s breakfasts here to Chez Johnson. Every occupant of the house—whether live-in or visiting—is required to be at least partially clothed and sitting at the table at 8 am for breakfast. We convene at eight so that we can get our breakfasting completed in time for Mother and Gram to make it to church for the start of Sunday School.

Baptists, practicing Baptists, are big on Sunday School. Indoctrinate early and often is the backbone of Baptist dogma.

In attendance at today’s Sunday breakfast were only live-ins, plus one. The plus-one is Gram’s date, a spindly old fucker she corralled at Whole Foods Friday afternoon when she went there to shop for me. I gave her a list of an even-dozen items I needed to make the buttermilk cake that Melanie is teaching me how to bake. I’m getting ready to put Melanie over there to the Bloggie Roller, but I figure I’d better see how this cake turns out before doing so. Just in case.

Anyway Dave, Dave is his name, had gone over to the Whole Foods to find a natural or herbal remedy to cure the limp pecker that has recently turned him from being known as Big Dick Dave, the rest home Lothario, to Limp Dick Dave, the old fucker with bad breath up to room 314. Seems the broads at Wortham’s Sanctuary for the Aged get pretty cranky when they don’t get their sexing as regularly scheduled.

Dave’s standing there in the “medical” section of Whole Foods looking like, as Gram tells it, “He looked like he’d just lost his dog and didn’t know what ta do. Had lumps an bumps an scratches all over his noggin.” It also seems that the old broads whacked Dave with their canes when he couldn’t deliver.

Gram said, “I’m there lookin fer yer contrafectcha-ornary sugar, Mooner, and there he was. At first I though he had a wine bottle in his drawers. I said to him, I say, ‘Looks ta me like yer packing some serious meat in them drawers, mister. You like buttermilk cake?’”

“Then ole Dave says ta me, ‘Well, miss, I was looking for an older gentleman to assist me with something to cure my impotency, but these workers are all young women. I’m not about to discuss my flaccid penis with a young woman.’”

That’s when I got a call from Gram asking me to plan for one more plate at Friday’s supper. “Ya need ta fix a extra pork chop, Mooner. Ole Dave here’s got him a man-sized pecker that done broke down on him, an’ I got some nursin’ ta do.”

Breakfast this morning was, at Gram’s request, a carb-filled setting. I’m guessing that between her medicine cabinet filled with chemical enhancements, a closet full of toys, and what I can only describe as my grandmothers endless capacity to get sexually satiated, Gram got Dave back in the wood. Otherwise, Dave would have been taxied home long before eight this morning.

I’ve been in a somewhat festive mood recently. I’ve met some interesting people, had some good meetings and worked on book stuff. When I say “book stuff” I’m speaking, of course, about stuff I’m required to do as the author of a four-of-five stars Clarion reviewed book. Said book, Full Rising Mooner, is available by clicking to the linksters over there ====}}}} on my Bloggie Roller.

Said book stuff is going nicely. The book launch party Evite invitation went out and folks are already RSVP responding to come. The fine folks at Badgerdog Literary Publishing haven’t pulled out on me as recipients of all the profits from book sales at the launch party, and all of the other plans are going swimmingly.

Which reminds me. Why, in the fuck, do we say “things are going swimmingly” when things are moving along nicely? There’s something intrinsically wrong with that.

Anyway. I’m sitting with family and friend at breakfast this am feeling pretty good about stuff. “Well, everybody,” I started, “since I’ve got everything I want for Xmas, how about you each say what you want. Let’s start with Aunt Hilda and Dubbie-J.”

For those of you new to the giant cauldron of content swill that is Moonerville, Dubbie-J is a shrunken head in a mahogany box, and Aunt Hilda’s constant companion. The full background story is contained in the pages of the afore-mentioned four-of-five stars Clarion reviewed book, Full Rising Mooner.

“Well,” Aunt Hilda said. “Dubbie-J wants a soft wool turtleneck sweater to keep the chill off his neck. And me, I want a man. Why does Gram get all the men?”

Why, indeed.

“Oh don’t worry, Hilda, I’ll go back to tha store this afternoon an’ find you a fella. Gotta git Dave some vitamins anyhows, might as well git you a fella while I’m there. What kind ya want?”

I could tell this conversations was wearing on my mother, so I broke in. “How about you, Mother?” This, asked by me with an internal shudder.

“Well you know I’ve always prayed for world peace, Mooner, and you…”

Oh crap, I know what’s coming next. “How about you, Gnat?” I broke my mother off before she could go on. “What heads your list this year?” I asked my able assistant.

“Butcher Einstein Johnson!” Mother almost yelled. “How dare you interrupt your mother when she is speaking. I raised you far better than to do that. Why God burdened me with you I’ll never know. I pray every night for God to tell me what it is I did to deserve you for a son. Why I, I…”

“Oh fer shitsakes, Mother, will you shut yer whiny-ass yapper? God gave ya Mooner to see if’fn he could git that stick out yer ass. Now pass me them buckwheat wafflies. Dave here needs ’em ta reconsterbate tha cellulite in his pecker.”

“Oh, sweet Jesus, save me from all of these Johnsons.” This prayer I call “Mother’s martyred Lament”[.]

“Well, Mrs. Johnson,” Dave began, “with your mother-in-law’s assistance I’ve managed to get my penis fully operational again. I’d be happy to visit your room later and make you feel better.” With this, old Dave pulled the leg of his sweat pants tight to give my mother a look at the outline of his pecker.

Now me, if ever I saw a sign from God, this might have been it. My father died many years ago and to my best knowledge, Mother has been chaste ever since. Hell, to hear Daddy talk, Mother has been chaste for the last thirty years. When my mother glanced down at the outline in Dave’s crotch, she placed her hand over her heart and said, “Oh my.” And then she just sat there with her mouth open.

“Ain’t gonna be no sharin’ Dave around here til I’m finished with him. You can have ‘im manana iffn he can still walk.”

Sometimes presents come your way from the strangest places. My mother said not one more word at breakfast and she even stuck around to help clean up. I noticed her sneaking peeks at old Dave, and coyly so. When she and Gram were leaving for church, Mother came into my office. She was in a frilly dress and heels, and was wearing eye shadow. I haven’t seen my mother in eye shadow since daddy died.

“Now Mooner, you take good care of Mr. Dave while we’re gone. Don’t make him do anything too strenuous—he’s been ill, you know.” Saying that, she turned to walk out of the room. But she whipped around quickly and added, “And keep your Aunt Hilda away from him. He’s not all the way healed quite yet.”

Take good care of him? I’m buying the man a back brace and heading to the seafood distributor for a sack of oysters.

I’m going to need some extra psycho therapy this week. Been sitting here hoping that my grandmother shares her man with my mother. Like that swimmingly dealie, I think there is something intrinsically wrong with that.

Manana, y’all.

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6 Responses to “Mooner’s Xmas Arrives Early; Things Go Swimmingly”

  1. Q says:

    LOL! I’m not sure what to say about this one. The most inappropriate man in the world has gotten even more inappropriate. LOL!

  2. mel says:

    That is all kinds of awesome. Except now I am all nervous to hear how the cake went. That is a lot of pressure, I will have you know! Glad you dug Frosty. That particular pose of him seemed appropriate. You might like the butter cookies I just posted. Make sure you stop by.

    On a side note, Tom Brady and The New England Patriots are my new heroes. How awesome was that? The last time I saw a game that great was when my Detroit Lions showed Tebow who Jesus really loves. And did you see the commercial that douche bag is in? I don’t know what it is for because I had to leave the room and get sick.

  3. admin says:

    Q. I call ’em as they happen. BTW, I’ve been trying to get you on your place, but keep getting sent to Neverland.

    Mel. I did see some of the game and rooted for the Patriots. Then I intentionally forced myself to watch Timmy’s post game interview. He didn’t blame God for anything nor did he mention unanswered prayers. I headed to your place now.

  4. mel says:

    Well shit. Now I am going to be nervous all week about the cake.

    As soon as the game was over it was time for animation domination. Missed the interview. Excuse while I wipe away this tear…

  5. admin says:

    Mel. Fret not for I am a great cook so long as I needn’t follow any written instructions and as long as ingredients can be approximated. Maybe now they’ll remove Timmy from our sight.

  6. mel says:

    I will drink to that!

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