So. I’m feeling pretty frisky today as I have reached the conclusion that my mother is who I thought she was and I’m not who she wants me to be. I took the time to reread my last several months of postings and discovered that I have been pissing and moaning about Mother more than is healthy for me. It seems as if I didn’t bitch about my mother I had nothing much to say.
I have finally and completely realized that my mother is not going to be persuaded to be, in actuality, the fine christian woman she claims to be. Instead, she’ll be the kind of right-wing christian, bigoted intolerant follower she has been trained to be. Mother is no more likely to become loving and accepting of the rest of us any more than the fucking catholic church is likely to accept full accountability for the sexual perversions they have fostered and protected for centuries.
I just saw where this head priest for one of the catholic’s most respected religious orders, a giant flaming asshole who has been been known to be a child rapist for fucking decades—what polite society calls a pedophile—has now been announced by the church to have fathered at least one child. Yeppers, the right reverend Thomas Williams, chief pedophile of the legion of christ order, has been admitted to be the holder of the catholic priest trifecta—rapist, child molester and noted TV personality. Sadly, it’s way easier to find a catholic priest who holds that trifecta ticket than it is to win a trifecta at the track.
This fucking guy was actually one of the holy roman catholic church’s most respected lecturers on ethics and morality. This guy traveled all over to represent the catholic church on moral issues for decades and all the while he’s fucking everything he can find that’s old enough to fuck. Oh, and many not old enough as well.
And self righteous christians call me cynical.
Before breakfast this morning, I decided that Mother wasn’t to be the first to have control of the morning newspaper. As I walked the long length of gravel driveway from the house up to the Ranch Road to gather said paper, I thought of accepting my mother for who she is—a right-wing conservative baptist bigot. Having opened that line of thought I then decided to take more control of what happens in my house… Ah, let me say that one more once, my fucking house, as in owned by me in it’s locks, stocks and barrels.
Every other occupant of this place is here at my will and my sense of family, honor. It is only by my approval does anyone not named me get to reside here. “Fuck it,” I said aloud to myself as I walked back with the paper, “I’m reading the paper first today, and I’ll be the one to make comments thereupon.”
So I rolled the paper into a log and stuffed it into the back of my shorts and under the waistband of my undies. Our paper is now delivered in a plastic sack every day, a waste of resources that pisses me off. By the time I walked back to the house after a way trip to check on the garden, the plastic wrapper was coated with ass sweat and stuck to my right butt cheek.
Which reminds me. I was over to Squattie’s place the other day, and through a comment posted there I somehow managed to stumble my way to a tea bagger bloggie site. Her name is Lisa, her place is called Saucy American In NZ and she says she is an American ex patriot living down to New Zealand. She posted a story about how the tea party, she says T.E.A. Party, and in my typical way I made a comment that maybe she could lure the rest of the tea baggers down there to the bottom of the world and, as is also my way, I had a typo and what I felt was a smart quip about tea bags.
In response, Lisa went directly to the “Call-all-liberals-homosexual-and-stupid” tactic too often employed by her contemporaries. If you go over there you need to look at her Bloggie Roller and check out that Hit Parade. Then you’ll also notice that Lisa seems to be devoid of free thought and can only regurgitate the right-wing homeboys she follows.
Anyway, when I finally got back into the kitchen, I pulled the paper from my pants and walked by the table towards the counter. I took maybe three steps before Mother said to me, she said, “What took you so long to bring in my paper? Please hand it to me.”
“Your paper?” I asked back as I stopped one chair from hers. “Last time this subscription was renewed I do believe it was paid from my account.”
I held the plastic-wrapped log in front of her and unrolled it. It was slippery from ass sweat and I almost dropped it. Through the wrapper I could read a storyline, “Looka here, Mommy dearest, it says that that shithead who owns the Chicago Cubs is going to pay for a hate campaign against the President using the church he used to attend. I can’t wait to read it to everybody.”
I poked the paper towards Mother’s face in a tease. “Give me my newspaper!” Mother said and she grabbed the paper with both hands to yank it from my grasp. I tugged back, and then it slipped from my fingers. The paper recoiled, predictably, and slapped Mother right in the face—chin-to-nose-to-forehead.
“Splat!” went the word of excellent description of the wet kiss to my mother’s face.
She had this wild-eyed look of surprise to her face that quickly turned to a sneer of distaste. She licked her lip—what I personally find to be an auto response when something wet hits my face—spit like she’d tasted a rat’s ass, and then she grabbed her napkin and attempted a derm-abrasion. Her lips and cheeks were quickly chaffed and reddened and her eyes started to water.
“What was that, Mooner? Did you let that nasty dog of yours pee on the paper again?”
Yoda is a male dog, and as male dogs around the globe enjoy to do, he takes a piss on just about anything. OK, everything. He and I are not unalike in that matter.
“Nope, that’s just a little good old fashioned butt sweat,” Mother.
She spit and “I can’t believe’d” for a few minutes and then I just couldn’t help myself. I knew it was wrong then, wrong now, and I’m still debating with myself whether or not I want to take it back. I waited for just the right instant and I said to her, “How’s that ass taste, Mother?”
I got the ass-sweat sticked plastic-covered newspaper thrown sruare in my chest in answer, and a table full of laughing Johnson clan as a review. Gram cackled like a hen and said, “Tha boy finally give ya a chunk a his mind, Mother Johnson. That was some funny shit.”
I unwrapped the paper without wiping it off and sat to read it to the table. It was a strange feeling to reverse roles with Mother at this most important starting sequence of our day. Instead of her editing every story with a bias to the right, I provided a liberal, almost way-far left slant to each story. It was also fun. When I finished I said to the table, I said, “That concludes today’s mainstream media look at the news. If you desire alternative viewpoints, Mother will meet you out to the back porch to attempt to poison your minds.”
In psycho therapy later today my topical question will be, “Should I feel bad about slapping my mother with butt sweat?”