Reflections In A Dark Mirror; Mending Mooner’s Mind

 

So. I was out early this morning to finish my fishing and reflections to complete the task that was interrupted by SAC Ellen’s booty call yesterday. I’ve got a crick in my neck from having my head jammed against the door of the truck, I’ve got a bloody patch in my chest hairs where a little tuft was twisted out, and I’ve got a bruise on my hip that would be a perfect match for a “Hello Kitty” gear shift knob. Ever since I was adopted by the fucking cat, everybody thinks it’s funny to give me “Hello Kitty” shit. Who even thought that there would be a market for “Hello Kitty” gear shifter knobs?

It does have a nice feel in your hand though. But everything in the entire HK line is pink, for shitsakes. I don’t think I actually hate the color pink, but I can say with absolute certainty that I don’t care for the color pink.

I do like Pink, the singer, and Arrowsmith’s song is a favorite romance tune.

SAC Ellen likes to be on top when we’re in a hurry and I’m A-OK with that. What makes me uncomfortable is when we’re in a hurry and the only safe room for sexing is the truck. “Why couldn’t I drive the GTO?” I asked her when we’d finished the sexing and she was getting redressed to re-board the airplane and I was blotting the blood from my chest. “The seat lays back in the goat and I don’t hurt my neck.”

She had a 90-minute layover—layover an appropriate double entendre in this case—and our sex was fast and furious. She told me, “I’ve banged my head on the roof of that damned GTO so many times my skull looks like a horse apple, Sweetie. Thanks for taking one for the team.”

With that she kissed me, handed me the soiled moist towelettes she’d used to clean up, and said, she said to me, “Keep this one close to your mind, Mooner. I’m not sure when I’ll get back to town.”

“You’re lucky it was good,” I said to her back as she slammed the old truck’s door. I watched her disappear through the big opening in the airport parking garage as she ran to catch her flight, and marveled one more once at how nimble she is on medium-heeled shoes.

I guess I’ll try to keep that memory close to mind—damned if there isn’t room for it. I’ve had so many thought strings banging around in the ADHD swill I call a mind that I can’t keep them all straight. That’s why I wanted to reflect and spend some time by myself yesterday. So, I grabbed the cooler—still packed with icy-cold Carta Blanca beers from yesterday’s attempts at reflections—rolled a fat replacement dubie for the one not left over from yesterday, made some sausage sammies to replace the eaten BLT’s from yesterday, and headed to the dock.

I thought of BJ as I was making the stacked sausage-and-bread pies. I put a fat-yolked eggie one each in Beej’s honor. He made me pork and egg sammies when I left his house last November so I wouldn’t need to stop to eat on my way home. He stacked spicy pork sausage, bacon and ham with fried eggs and I must say, “Yum-fucking-my!”

I forgot fish bait, not really a problem, and parked my ass on the dock with my feet hanging over the water. I snagged a little ball of bread from one of the sams and stuck it to the end of my hook before flipping the hook and bobber lazily into the creek. I didn’t want to catch anything but genius and I figured the fish in our creek are so spoiled with the fat earthworms I normally use that they’d leave me to my thinking.

I set the top-spinner reel and rod on the dock, cracked a beer and lit the fat wonker for a hit. I met an Irish guy who called a joint a wonker and for some reason I thought about that. Then I drifted to the many words used for pot—like chronic and weed and bud—and drifted off to sleep. I was dreaming about the Kardashian sisters and their mother, and the four of them were fighting over me. Quincy wrote a dealie about Kimmy K yesterday and I guess that was somewhere lodged in my brain in the “Sex” section.

I had just told the K-Girls there was no need to fight because there is plenty of Mooner to go around, when I was jerked awake as the fishing pole started running off the deck on its own. I grabbed it by the last inch of its pistol grip handle, tugging as I sat up. The tug I got in response almost pulled me off the dock.

“What the hell is this all about?” I asked the air. “Can’t a man get any peace and fucking quiet around here. I was this close (see Mooner’s thumb and index finger a quarter-inch apart) from banging all four of the K women in a five-way.”

As I fought and reeled the fish, I started thinking if there really is enough Mooner Johnson for those four women. Hell, Kimmy has been through Reggie Bush, Miles Austin and that basketball player in just two years time, and Kloe looks like she could put a hurt on a man. But the mother, she’s the one that most fascinates me. That one looks crazy to me and you know how much fun crazy women can be.

Anyway, I’d hooked a giant fucking Asian carp. The carp were imported to eat the hydrilla that was imported from Asia and is clogging our lakes. These guys are prettier and cleaner than native carp so it was this fellow’s unluckiest of days. I smoke them with pecan wood after a day in the walk-in cooler covered with a dry rub. Use hot smoke to crispy-up the skin.

I could hardly wait to see how Honor the fucking cat would react to a fish this big. She’s seen three-pound bass but never a fifteen-pound anything. I packed my stuff with the fish in the cooler and headed back up to the house.

As I walked, I wondered why a carp is a fish—carp species includes Asian carp, goldfish and even Koi—and a carp is also a bitchy person. Like say………. my mother. How do pretty fish and quibbling complainers rate the same name? Again, I find myself continuously baffled by the Grammar Police.

I felt the tumblers of my muddled brain starting to fit into place and the thread of an answer to this question started forming. Just as I started puling on the thread, wrapping it around my mental spool, the back door burst open and the menagerie of animals I call pets stormed out.

The fucking cat raced to my feet and started circling and rubbing and purring at my socks. They all gathered and stared at the cooler. “Honor says she smells fish, Herr Mooner,” the Squirt informed me. “Was ist in der verdammten Kuhler, dude?”

“Well, ladies and gentlemen, this here cooler contains a big fucking Asian carp, and we’re giving the honors of gutting him to Honor. Now Squirt, you tell the her to keep her claws off the tenderloins, OK?”

Guys, you have never seen suck a mess or such a sight. I started to think that maybe my life isn’t so tough after all, and I guess I’ll need to finish reflecting manana, y’all.

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4 Responses to “Reflections In A Dark Mirror; Mending Mooner’s Mind”

  1. squatlo says:

    I had a guy tell me smoked carp was as good as it gets, but I’ve always released any I caught. Snaggin’ ’em on a fly rod with ultra light gear is a lot (!) of fun, but getting a swallowed nymph fly out of one of those nasty bastards is hardly worth the trouble.

    How can a fish that big have a blow hole so small?

    Makes you wonder about that Kardashian tribe, doesn’t it?

  2. admin says:

    Squat. The image you just planted in my skull is insidious. You, dear friend, are a bastard!

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  4. Q says:

    Wow. Squatlo did paint a pretty vivid picture there, huh? I’ve never tried fly fishing. Looks so complicated to me to sit there and go back and forth with that reel. I prefer to just throw it out there, sit back and relax. And you’re right, Mooner, crazy women are fun, but after the fun is over, like a male Black Widow spider, it’s best to run for your life afterwards.

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