Separating The Psycho From His Therapy; Funny Joke Or Disrespect?


So. I had an early morning psycho therapy session with the good doctor this am, but rather than sit/lay on the expensive leather couch in her office, Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson had me bring the dogs to her house for my fifty-minute appointment. The couch is one of a five-piece set of leather covered sitting things purchased, as certainly as my name is Mooner Einstein Johnson, with my cash. There’s the couch, three mid-rise side chairs and her highness’ big chair.

Sam is a short thing—cute as a fucking button mind you, but short—and her big leather chair is throne-like. She uses it to gain physical stature in therapy. This fucking chair has more hydrolics than one of those “63 Chevy Lowriders. Makes this “shisssshhh” sound as she raises and lowers it for effects during therapy sessions.

I don’t know why she needs a chair like this to gain stature. She looks ten feet tall when she stands atop my bruised and battered ego.

“Come to my house for your morning session, Mooner, and bring the dogs,” she told me. “I need to assess the status of your parenting skills and there’s quite a bit of yard work to be done.”

I wasn’t surprised that she wanted me to come over to work in her yard. We’ve been having our Spring this Winter in Austin, Texas and shit is growing on trees.

OK, stop the presses. Try this. The weather has been so nice that the trees and other shit are growing and, subsequently, require my attentions. Doing Sammie’s yard work is the premium I pay to retain her psychiatric services. Yard work plus $195/hour for a regular session.

I actually like the yard work. Everything out to the ranch is done with tractors or other riding machines and I enjoy pushing a lawn mower. My first job was mowing yards and it has stuck with me. There was this one house over to west Austin—lady’s husband was an airline pilot and she was a retired flight attendant—and the husband was gone quite often. I was something like eleven, maybe twelve, and since I hadn’t yet been raped by my Baptist Deacon Boy Scout Leader, I was still all starry-eyed and happy and shit.

This nice lady always had a cold Fresca and a sandwich waiting for me when I finished mowing her yard. The sandwich might change from ham to roast beef or chicken salad, but the beverage was always Fresca. Fresca was a weird drink to me—not quite grapefruit and just a hint of that icky artificial sweetener taste—and I asked her once, I asked, “Why Fresca?”

In answer, she kissed the top of my sweaty head and said, “Covers the smell of vodka. Want some?”

For shit sakes, Mooner, get your ass back on track. Nobody wants to hear about the first proposition you got from an adult woman.

So, I asked the Squirt to tell Honor the fucking cat to behave herself and loaded Squirt and Yoda into the GTO for the trip to Sam’s place. Squirt was reliving the story about that one time where the landscape crew worker in Sam’s neighborhood started some shit and she clamped her mouthful of very sharp teeth to the man’s crotch. We giggled and laughed about the story until we got over to near the Planned Parenthood offices near Sammie’s house.

“Let’s do a drive-by on Catholic Anti-Abortion Lady, Bwana Mooner.” Squirt was dancing around in the limited space allowed by her driving harness.

“Je vais prendre le volant, Mssr., y el flash de su culo!” my adorable little puppy was now bouncing like a jumping jack.

“I can’t give you the wheel on that busy street, Sweetie, you can barely stay out of the ditches out in the country with no traffic. I can’t take a chance of you wrecking my GTO. How about we park across the street and you can blow the horn to get her attention?”

That satisfied her. We mooned the Catholic lady, stopped at the neighborhood donut place for a dozen glazed, and drove the last mile to Sam’s. She was standing at the open garage door as we got there, hands on hips—curvy, tight hips—and the look that says “Why me?” was already screwed onto her face.

I parked the Goat and we disembarked. “Hi ya, Sammie baby, how’s it hanging?”

“I’m about ready to hang your name on a door of the Close Watch Unit at Shoal Creek Mental Hospital, moron,” she answered. “Why me, dear god, why me?”

I tried to ignore this semi-tirade as I searched my brain for what is was that had already set her off. There’s no way that she could know that I’m teaching the Squirt how to drive and Yoda how to moon, and I haven’t been arrested for months.

“Planned Parenthood just called me.. again… and have asked that I get you under control. They think you make matters worse when you agitate their regular protesters.”

“I’m just trying to help. And how did they know to call you?”

“Can’t say, Sweetie. And while I’m up your dumb ass, stop saying psychotherapy as two words. I know you think it’s funny but the humor left that joke twenty years ago. I’m really tired of explaining it to my cohorts.”

I didn’t say, “Too fucking bad, it’s still hilarious,” out loud, but I thought it.

“You might think it’s fucking hilarious, you crazy redneck fuckball, but my colleagues are starting to question my ability to effect change in severely damaged patients.” Here she gave me the dead-eye. Dr. Sam I. Am learned it from Gram. “And if they stop referring to me I’ll simply have to raise your rates by another 25% to offset the losses.”

And I simply have to stop thinking out loud. I noticed how sexy Sammie was when angry and I started to think about how much fun make-up sex was back when we were together.

“Don’t even think about it, Mooner Einstein Johnson. I wouldn’t have sex with you using Snooki’s vagina.” She laughed at her own lame joke and said, “Come on, let’s take a walk before you do your chores.”

I leashed the puppies into their harness with mild trepidations. While I’ve spent hundreds of hours teaching the dogs important shit, like how to burp and fart the National Anthem and mooning and fishing and driving, I’ve not spent much time on leash training. As I slipped the walking harness on Squirt’s back I said to her, I whispered in her ear, “Look, Squirtie, you tell Yoda to follow your lead and then you follow mine, I’ll let you drive home once we get off of Ranch Road 620.”

“Well… I get to drive and you have to feed me lettuce leaves like I’m a queen while I watch The Bachelor tonight.” Squirt fixed me with an unwavering gaze. “Deal?”

Another of the things I’ve found time to teach Squirt is how to negotiate a personal services contract. “Deal,” I told her, and we shook on it.

OK, now let’s stop here and reflect for a moment. I just typed the 1,200th word of this posting and I can’t even remember my point for starting. A look at the first paragraph tells me it had something to do with this morning’s psycho therapy session over to Sammie’s house, but for the life of me I cannot remember the moral to this stupid fucking story.


How about I tell you this. I hate The Bachelor TV show, and Squirt knows it. That’s why she chose it, to get my goat and have some fun at my expense. What she doesn’t know is that I know she doesn’t like it either. I’m planning to wash three heads of Romaine lettuce—big, fat heads from our winter garden—and I’ll sit at her feet and spend the entire hour feeding it to her, and that reminds me of what I wanted to tell you.

It’s only March 7th and my cool weather garden is browning out! I’ve already planted summer veggies and the lettuces are all petering out and everything else looks tepid at best. I wanted to tell you that the next time I hear some fucking asshole politician tell me that there is no global warming, I’m going to give them a chunk of my ass. I’m sick of this shit.

Oh, and by the way, did you notice that the Republicans are keeping the Transportation Bill from passing by trying to add their tacky fucking amendments onto it, just like they keep doing?

November is coming, you right-wing Republican Christian conservative smog loving fuckballs.

Beware the Ides (minus 9) of November! Manana, y’all.

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3 Responses to “Separating The Psycho From His Therapy; Funny Joke Or Disrespect?”

  1. squatlo says:

    It’s barely March and you’ve planted your summer veggies? ‘Round here that’ll get you laughed out of the neighborhood Co-op. We don’t even bother tillin’ for another few weeks, ’cause the Hooey Gods take that kind of blind optimism as a taunt, and when you taunt the Hooey Gods they tend to respond with snow and ice and tornadoes, none of which are conducive to gardening.

    So we wait, not wanting to be the first idiot to plant in the spring (’cause that causes a freeze) and not wanting tomatoes to come in after everyone else is canning them all around us, either. Delicate balance.

    And Psycho Therapy is exactly how you should word it.

  2. mel says:

    All I have to say is that I love (for some reason) that Planned Parenthood knows to call her. Not that I oppose what you are doing, mind you, I just get a kick out of it.

  3. Squat. Yeppers, tomatoes, peppers and eggplants are in the ground! If they freeze I’ll replant after. But I’m not losing the entire year to heat and drought like last year.

    Mel. I’m thinking it’s one of those Six-degrees-of-agitation dealies. Seems everyone in town knows somebody I have managed to irritate.

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