A Man For All Seasons, Sex Is The Reason; Mooner’s Miracle Cure

 

So. I’m sitting here Saturday morning reflecting back on a strange week. I had a great guest host story from Melanie, I had my first review made by a free book recipient, I got a little nookie, and I lost my temper with my mother and almost blew the house down.

I’m sitting here at the computer having sat with nothing to tell you. I first sat to check out what everybody else had written today, but nobody has done anything—all my favorite bloggie spots contain yesterday’s news—so I decided to write to you. I sat and stared at the screen for fifteen minutes, screen and mind sharing the same blankness.

I opened Spider Solitaire to ease a little pressure off my swollen and bruised brain, started playing, and thirty minutes later I had three blank spaces, two runs of new cards left to play at the bottom, the King-to-five of Spades were in the far left space, the King-to-seven of Diamonds were next to them, King-to ten of Hearts next then another set of Spades down to the nine. In the far right, in descending numbers to the bottom of the pile, were my finishing stacks of suited cards. Each of those stacks were in rows wherein the bottom cards were in ascending order right-to-left.

“I love when a plan comes together,” I said, proud and aloud, to myself and the animals, who were just starting to stir from sleep.

“Vos est los?” Squirt had left the bed and jumped into my lap. She stared at the computer screen and said, again, she said, “What in the hell are you doing, Bwana Mooner?”

I pointed at the screen. “See how I have things organized? Now, when I decide to finish the game I can make the books from right-to-left on the left side of the screen using the closing stacks from left-to-right as I move them from the right side of the screen.”

My little puppy stared at the screen for another long moment. “Huh?” she said, “run that shit by me once more.”

I did.

She stared at the screen again, looked at me a long moment, then back to the computer screen. “OK, shitbrain, show me what the fuck you’re doing.”

“OK,” said proudly. “Watch this.”

I played the first run of new cards and set each up correctly according to my formula. “See how I’ve kept the integrity of my stacks?”

“No,” Squirt told me, “but don’t let that stop you. Go on.”

I clicked the final new card stack and began my closing moves. The suited stacks closed with their animated sound effects. When I play correctly, I can click the closings where they clear the board in syncopation.

“Ha, would you look at that!” I exclaimed. “Per-fucking-fecto!!!”

The Squirt seemed not to be sharing my elation—she just kept moving her glassy stare from the screen to my face. After maybe a dozen passes between face and computer, Squirt locked her eyes onto mine. “Mooner, you are seriously fucked up. I think we need an intervention.”

I shooed her off and opened a game of Free Cell. I always go from Spider to Free Cell. It’s an easier game and since I’m usually worn out getting a proper win on Spider, my Free Cell game has fewer self-imposed rules. For this game I check the initial layout to see which of the outer four stacks has the lowest card on its bottom. That stack is my “flipper stack” and the one I use to end the game.

I then arrange all of the Kings-ascending stacks into the middle four slots leaving two slots on either side to be open in the end. When I end the game, it has to be by making that last move from the flipper stack. Shazam, animated sound effects with the lowest possible card the last card played!!!

When I finished the Free Cell game off with another perfect synchronization, I sat back, satisfied. The sun was peeking through my bedroom window and giving my computer screen a mirror finish. I tilted my head to bring the image of my face into view. I first caught the shit-eating grin plastered to my face and then the manic look raging in my eyes.

“Oh, god. I really am fucked up. I can’t even play a stupid computer card game without complications. Ugh.” My mood went from card shark elation to loony man blue.

Ugh, ugh, ugga-fucking-ugh. How crazy am I? How crazy is it possible to be? Is crazy a quantitative measure or is it like pregnant—you either are are are not, and all or nothing? Once it’s a clinical diagnosis reading “He’s crazy” does anything else really matter?

Or can you be crazy by degrees? Like was Hitler more crazy than Salvador Dali, is Lindsey Lohan more nutso than Charlie Sheen? Am I a bigger wacko than Newbt Gangreenich or Pricky Rick Santoria?

Ugh.

I sat, as I said earlier, reflecting on my week and likewise on my lunacies. After careful consideration of all the aspects of my crazinesses, I have reached a conclusion. I think I have a clear picture of what the root cause of my afflictions is. The realization was stunning, the simplicity of my problems amazing.

More sex. I need more sex!

Manana, y’all.

 

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4 Responses to “A Man For All Seasons, Sex Is The Reason; Mooner’s Miracle Cure”

  1. squatlo says:

    I’ve posted, Mooner, just to keep you from driving your pets crazy with Spider Solitare. My sister is addicted to that game, so I know the problem first hand.

    Want you to go on over and check out the post about the banker who insists on leaving 1% tips for servers at restaurants, ’cause he’s a prick and we all need to focus on pricks like that these days. I’m a little sensitive about servers and the shitty tips they receive, but even by my 20% minimum (!!!) tip policy this guy is a real tool. Hope you’ll have a fitting comment, maybe a cross post about that story.

    In the meantime, breathe deeply. It’s a glorious day to be alive, surrounded by enough distractions to keep us busy.

    Life’s good.

  2. Granny Ook says:

    Well, Mooner, more sex might not cure you, but what the hell, it couldn’t hurt. Take a look at http://demeur.blogspot.com – might give you a little chuckle.

  3. Squat. Please keep updated on the asshole banker dealie. Mother fucker! My day Sunday was capped off with the F-bombs and Jennifer Lopez’s teeny-tiny nip shot at the Oscar show. I was so fascinated with Jenn’s tittie shot that I dreampt about it last night. More to follow.

    Granny. OK, so sex might not be the cure, but its placebo effect is stunning in nature. I clicked to the website, and I like your buddy Demeur. Stupis is as stupid does.

  4. Demeur says:

    Crazy? Why no, what ya got there is a simple case of OCD. And beware there is stupid all around us. You don’t need a shrink to tell you otherwise.

    And a hat tip to Granny Ook for the mention.

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