So. Every time I think I have my life together to the point where I can relax with said life, somebody shits in my mess kit. It seems this has been a staple of my existence since that moment in time between my exit from my mother’s womb, and my first breath. If you’ll click over there ====}}}} to the Bloggie Roller and check out the many options for my book, Full Rising Mooner, you can see how to buy the silly fucking book wherein you’ll find the story as to what happened in those first few seconds of life that set the stage.
Buy the book and flip to Chapter Five for the story. From there you can see how life manages to stay interesting here to Loony Land. There are many other chapters and each is full of interesting things. In fact, when asked what they think after reading my book, most readers report, “Hmmm. Interesting.”
By way of background, many pestering things have been resolved over the last few years, things that put considerable tension into my life. The major issues were: I had the lower-peritoneal ass infection that turned into a systemic malady that nearly put me down, resolved with three ass operations; Dixie asked for early retirement as my translator and we found the Squirt to replace her; I was required to find a cat who would adopt me and Honor the fucking cat filled that bill; and I had a little legal issue not related to jail that is complete, no facts of which shall appear herein.
Oh yea, then there was that entire thingie where I was arrested for murder and jailed in the Loony Bin over to Shoal Creek Mental. That story is the backbone of Full Rising Mooner and I’ll say nothing more except to say that since I’m talking to you now, I obviously wasn’t fried in the electric chair.
Current problems on my plate include: The pending nuptials of Rick Perry and Rush Limbaugh; the lack of sexing caused by the continued absence of SAC Ellen; and the simple fact that my mother is a right-wing christian religious republican shitball living under my roof and spouting her bullshit with regularity.
I’m dealing with these current items with integrity, pure thought and aplomb. The wedding is scheduled and on schedule thanks to Dixie—our newly-hired wedding planner—and in no large part because I’ve banished Rush Limbaugh to the neighbor’s pig farm. Ever since I brought Rick Perry home with his new titties, the giant hog won’t stay off him long enough to size the ostrich’s wedding dress. So I sent him next door for most of a month until the rehearsal dinner. The neighbor owes me a huge favor, an almost even trade.
Dixie is a pissy old bitch, but her organizational skills are a marvel, and she loves my lame brained ostrich. “Stay out of this, Mooner, and let me do my job,” my adorable Golden Retriever told me. “If you start fucking with it I’ll leave you at the alter.” Then she laughed, a sound not a distant cousin to a whinny.
As for my sexual needs, please allow me to say two words: Ivory Soap.
My Mother being an asshole is a thorny issue, but thorny issues are my middle name. I’ve been getting extra therapy to learn better ways to deal with my maternal unit and it seems to be helping. Instead of the usual thirty times per day, I only want to choke the life from her maybe twenty-two or three times. That’s real progress by any measure.
However, it was in a psycho therapy session that the most recent serving of shit hit my plate. I was laying on the leather couch in Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson’s office spilling my guts about how much pleasure I think would be derived with the actual choking of Mother with my bare hands. The couch is a big grape-colored jobbie with that soft tanning that isn’t suede but is just as soft. I think they call it “butter” tanning. I’ll check the receipt from when I bought it and let you know exactly what it’s called. I like to get comfy on my back with one foot hanging on the floor and the other draped over the back cushion. The leather makes a different sound than regular, stiff leather when you fidget around. Instead of “creaking” like typical stiff leather does, this couch almost moans.
This couch has induced numerous boners during therapeutic sessions.
“I don’t even know a way to tell you how good it is in my imagination to be squeezing Mother’s neck and watching her beady eyes start to pop out,” I was saying in that last session. “I was envisioning a giant zit that needed to be popped. It’s like I can feel her neck bones and tendons and shit oozing between my fingers as I apply more pressure.”
“Uh, Mooner, I’ve got something to tell you,” was the good doctor’s response to my confession. “Sit up and look at me because you won’t like this.”
I scrambled to my feet and jumped across the room to loom over her at her desk. I have never liked anything said to me that starts with, “Uh, Mooner, I’ve got something to tell you.” Never, no way has anything resembling good news followed those words.
I pointed my finger her direction and said to her, I said, “I will not go back to that fucking Loony Bin. I’m not planning Mother’s murder, just thinking how I’d do it. Planning would require me to write a date on the calendar, not just decide on a season. ‘Sometime this winter’ is not a plan.”
“Oh, sit down, dumbass, this is something different.” When I didn’t sit on command, she said, “If you don’t sit I will send you to Shoal Creek. Now sit!”
I sat, thinking again what a comfortable piece of furniture it was. “I remember when I had to buy this couch for you,” I told her. “It was that time when I left the cooler of fish for you in your office and didn’t know you’d left town for a week.”
“No, Mooner, it was the time you brought Rush Limbaugh in for a session and he freaked out when I asked about his childhood. Your pig destroyed the furniture you bought after the fish incident and you bought the leather after that. Now shut up and listen to me.”
Here Dr. Sam fussed with her hair and adjusted the bracelet our children gave her. Anytime I see her mess with the thick gold rope she wears on her left wrist I know it’s something about her and not about me.
“Are you OK? Oh, god, you have cancer.” I try to not jump my conclusions but sometimes…
“Oh, I’m fine. It’s just that… I ah, well… Unh… Oh for shitsakes, Mooner, I’ve started dating a man and I wanted you to hear it from me and not on the street.”
“Huh?” my best response.
“Yes, and I need you to stay totally and completely out of it.”
I picked my chin off the floor and said, “Who is he? I’ll get Streaker Jones and Dixie to vet him. Is he a local boy or imported? You know Dixie has friends at INTERPOL.”
“Dammit, Mooner, listen!” Sammie almost yelled. “I want you to leave this alone. It’s been ten years since I even wanted to date a man and you remember what happened the last time, don’t you?”
When I didn’t answer, she asked again, “Well, don’t you?”
“Yea,” from me like I was a kid made by his mother to tell his father how he broke the house while daddy was at work. “I did some digging around and thought I found out that he was a serial killer and then you had me locked up over to the Loony Bin.”
“Yes, I locked you up at Shoal Creek to prevent him from pressing charges. And I can’t have you kidnapping any more men I might date. I need you to let this alone, Mooner. Com-pletely.”
That was this morning, that therapy session. I’ve already got my private investigator following her so I’ll have a name soon. Once I know who he is I can get to work.
I really don’t have time for this now but it’s my job to keep Sammie safe, and my first ex-wife needs my assistance. I just wish she’d wait until after the wedding to do this to me. My responsibility plate is already got shit falling off the sides.
Which reminds me. I’ve heard much of the stuff from the Presidential Roast, and I’m proud of my President. No corncob up his ass.