Shooting The Shit With God; A Chicken Joke

 

So. When we left off yesterday, and actually I should say that when we petered out yesterday, Mr. Dave had made his first visit to the State of Altered Consciousnesses and I had enjoyed a visit and quite pleasant chat with god—each event the byproduct of the world’s foremost cultivator of spoors.

My best buddy Streaker Jones is THE authority on all things psilocybe and he recently supplied Gram with a bushel of Gymnopilus luteofolius, a variety he and Dixie found down to Argentina when they took a visit last winter. OK, actually they left here on a winter’s bleak afternoon and arrived down to Buenos Aires less than 24-hours later on a hot summer day. That flip-flopped seasons thingie is one of Nature’s neatest dealios. That and the International Dateline were two difficult concepts for me to grasp as a kid in geography class.

Then again, when kids suffer from infestations of the ADHD as serious as mine, you need to celebrate when they actually learn any fucking thing. Trust me when I tell you that it’s a difficult task to learn what the fuck a standard deviation is when those facts are competing with running brain tracts featuring football, dinner, Susie Ashburn’s pig tails, if you’re getting whupped for breaking Mother’s douche bag, and of course, your pecker. I’m always running a series of thoughts about my pecker.

Anyway, before I crash this jet plane with all aboard, go over to my Bloggie Roller over there ====}}} and consider buying my stupid fucking book, Full Rising Mooner. It will serve as a primer to elucidate the uninitiated mind in the lore of Streaker Jones and why he is considered the go-to man on all things spore. Which reminds me that I like to use the word spoor rather than the actual spore just to get under his skin.

And that reminds me that the objective herein was to tell you about my latest visit from god. This time, god came in the form of a shape shifter, a visage designed to prove the point he intended to be proved during his visit. At first sighting, he appeared as a giant cockroach with Edie Adams’ head and he spoke with Truman Capote’s voice. As I mentioned before, I was dosed on some delightful mushroom juice and had retired to my room to contemplate life when god appeared.

To be brutally honest, it wasn’t the first time I have seen a giant cockroach with a pretty woman’s head and a famous author’s voice. One of the best side effects of the juice are the silly visuals. But Eddie Adams was special and meaningful and so was Truman Capote. Ernie Kovacs was Granddaddy’s favorite comedian and I couldn’t take my eyes off his bombshell wife when we watched their TV show. Did you know that Ernie Kovacs was the first to employ psychedelic visual effects on TV?

So, I’m sitting in my big leather chair, feet propped on the foot stool and a warming bottle of Carta Blanca beer hanging from the fingers of my right hand as it draped off the arm rest. I was sitting somewhat sideways on the chair and the bottle was almost touching the floor. My eyes were closed and I was thinking about the empathy video Mr. Dave and I had watched over to Squatlo’s place. I was wondering to myself how it is that today’s modern American christians seem to lack empathic genes.

“For shitsakes, Mooner, you’re gonna drop that beer and make a mess.” The words were my mother’s but spoken by Truman Capote. I recognized his voice right away. He had spoken at UT when I was there and after his presentation he took us all over to the Dobie Theater to watch his new favorite movie, Where’s Poppa.

I opened my eyes to take in my visitor and wondered if it was my imagination or were Truman’s words coming from Edie’s lips while two of the roach legs twitched like roach legs tend to do.

“Not your imagination,” Truman Capote told me. “It’s me, god, and I need a little of your time.”

“Oh wow, man, have I pissed you off by not capitalizing your name and pronouns and shit? I’ve been a little uneasy about that one since taking a hard line.”

“Nope, I think that’s kind of funny, sonny boy, same as when you say the pope and Queen Elizabeth are twins separated at birth.” Here god chuckled. I remembered hearing Capote chuckle in the theater when we watched the movie—a most honest human sound.

I saw that a Carta Blanca beer bottle had simply appeared in god’s calw—bottle shimmering with cold sweat. He took a long drag from the bottle, burped what sounded like a satisfying beer belch, and said, “Mooner my man, you have no idea just how close to the truth you are on that one. I’m surprised nobody’s demanded DNA tests. Now watch me carefully because I’m going to demonstrate the point I came to make with you.”

Remember in 2001, A Space Odyssey when whathisname did the transformation sequence in the end and speed dialed from before his conception and all of that shit? You know, it was like he did a million years of evelution in just a few minutes? God did that except he was changing his shapes and forms from different combinations of things and faces and voices and stuff. Most of the forms were things I could identify, like baby seals and Marylin Monroe and Adolph Hitler’s voice. Some were the visages of gods—buddha and krishna or jesus. A few were fantastical and too weird to even start to describe.

God shifted and changed appearances and all the while spoke to me in different voices. The speech was a narrative telling me that he could be anything he choose to be. He said it over and over. When he stopped the transformations and settled on a look, he was in the form of a teenage girl speaking Valley Girl with William F. Buckley’s voice. The voice unsettled me at first.

“We-ell, have you like gotten the message yet?” god asked me.

“Aaaaaah, you’re teaching me the trick Jim Carey used in The Mask?” I’ve always wondered about that.

“No, silly,” god said, and shifted to sophisticated Willy Buckley, “I’m showing you that I can be anything I want to be. As you would say it, I can be any fucking thing I want to be.”

God gave me a minute to absorb this, then he continued. “But I said anything I want to be. I did not say that I can be anything you want me to be. Now, are you too stoned to grasp this concept or do I need to go try to speak with Pat Robertson again. That old fart hasn’t gotten a single thing I’ve told him right yet. That boy is so fucked up he’s liable to say anything and blame it on me.”

This I thought was rather funny and I started to laugh. God laughed with me, an odd sound.

“OK, god, let me see if I’m catching your drift. What you are telling me is that while you are the omnipotent one and can do or be whateverthefuck it is you want, you don’t bend to the silly will of we humans.” I looked to him for a response and realized that he now looked like Elizabeth Taylor during the time she was married to that Governor and choked on a chicken bone.

“You got the premise right, boy, now get to the punchline.”

I gave this some more thought and said to god, I said, “OK, first, was that voice Alfred Hitchcock as a young boy or was it Sir Winston Churchill sitting on the pot and straining while he spoke?”

“Neither, and you wouldn’t know the guy. I just like that sound. Now go on, answer my question.”

Elizabeth Taylor’s beautiful blue eyes watched my face as if I were the only man alive. I felt virile and strong and smart in their gaze. “Well, I guess you’re telling me that when somebody says that you are a particular something, or that you demand us to do things that don’t make any sense, that it’s bull shit. And if that’s the case, then most of the time when somebody says they talked to you, they are either lying or misstating your words.”

“Bingo, dude, you win the Cupie doll,” and indeed I had because god now looked like one of those silly plastic dolls.

“Look, Mooner, the only advice I ever have or ever will give you guys will be to take care of each other and your planet, or live happy lives and enjoy yourselves, or to be careful when assholes—like asshole politicians—tell you what to do. I don’t let you spend enough time here to spend it killing and ignoring each other.”

God took a huge bite from half a fried chicken that materialized in her fist and choked on it. I must have had a look of terror on my face at god’s choking and she burst out laughing. “I love that one, Mooner. It gets you guys every single time.”

“That wasn’t really funny, Ma’am. But what about the afterlife, god?” I asked him, “and would you change into something else, please, you’re creeping me out.”

God turned into my Gram, and with Gram’s voice, god said, “Well, ya little shitbird, ya handled that Heaven dealio tha other day with yer death penalty question.”

Huh?

“Oh, right,” I said. “So you liked that one?”

“Look, son. If you want to get to Heaven you just pretend I’m standing by the pearly gates with the automatic door opener in one hand and the elevator button in the other. You get one chance to answer a question right and the questions are all yes-or-no answers. I get to ask the question and I pick the question based upon how you lived your life. Get it right, come on in. Get it wrong and you burn in Hell.”

And she was gone. All that was left was a chill in the air and the perfume of cast iron skillet cooked Southern fried chicken. Can you imagine the thought of giving god the Heimlich Maneuver? That little stunt scared me shitless. But it was pretty funny now that I can reflect backwards on it.

I should have a moral to this story for you and I do. I’m simply not going to tell you my final thoughts. You figure out what god meant for yourself. I think that’s what god would want. Manana, y’all.

 

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3 Responses to “Shooting The Shit With God; A Chicken Joke”

  1. Squatlo says:

    I do believe you took a trip to put all that down in a blog… God choking on a chicken bone would freak me out, too, though.

    Maybe she put assholes like Pat Robertson down here to entertain us on boring days?

  2. Granny Ook says:

    Nope, Mooner, couldn’t have been god you were talking to- he didn’t tell you to run for president.

  3. Father-of-the-Year Nominee, Mooner Johnson says:

    Squat. I’ve had two visits from the big person(?) and have grown to appreciate his/her/its sense of humor. I’m also starting to think that our attempts to humanize him are pretty fucking stupid. We are egomaniacal to presume god is just like us only smarter.

    Next time I see god, I’m asking why not use reverse psychology on old Patty R.

    Granny. I see that as proof it was god. Or at least a god.

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