Frack This, Motherfrackers; Bend Over For Some Driller’s Mud

 

So. Please allow me to begin today’s missive with a hearty “Thank You” to all the readers who offered their empathies to me over Mother’s memory losses. I want to thank all of you who thought empathic thoughts and I especially want to thank those of you who wrote me. Living with a loved one or a family member who suffers from any form of dementia is a mixed bag of tricks. One minute you’re angry at them and the next you’re sad for them, and the entire time you feel emotional losses that match each of their mental slippages.

The costs of administering care for the physical and mental health of dementia patients are astounding. Thank goodness I have always provided the best health insurance I have been able to afford for all my family and extendeds. I have no earthly idea how people without health insurance survive it from the financial perspectives. The cost of medications alone would bankrupt a small country.

But to quote the general masses of conservative right-wing shitballs currently running our country into the ground, “Who gives a shit about them poor folks? I don’t have time to worry about indigents, I got me some fracking to do.”

Motherfuckers are fracking the foundations of our entire society if you ask me. If you don’t ask me, fuck you too. They speak to their “conservatism” constantly yet they are using up our air and water and scarring the beauty out of everything. The truth is, the average conservative wants to conserve what he thinks is his own property and rights and he wants the rest of us to pay him for it. These assholes don’t care about the future, they only want theirs and want it right damn now!

Wake the fuck up, folks. Fracking for oil pumps millions of gallons of chemical swill through a little hole in the earth and forces it miles underground. The claim is that this toxic stew is “chambered”–locked in place with a cement casing along the length of the drilled hole. The claim continues by telling you that when they finish their work and pour cement inside to plug the drilled entry wound, Mother Earth will hold that chambered mess in place.

Right.

This is the same lie as men have used for a million years in their efforts to get some nookie from a naive young woman. That lie goes like this, “I’mma gonna put in everything but the head.”

Conservative assholes are using that same logic and lie to ruin our public school systems, our Medicare/Medicade systems, our public safety sectors and our infrastructure. Every important social system, the systems that have long distinguished America as the best country ever, are getting fracked into oblivion.

I’d like to frack back. I’d start by removing all not-for-profit benefits from religion. I’d run drill pipe deep into the treasuries of churches and first suck them dry and then fill ’em up with driller’s mud made from the earth of ground truth wetted with the tears of the religiously abused.

Anyway, I’m in a pretty good mood today because I’m getting the papers to finalize the purchase of our new hacienda over to Santa Fe. I’m headed over there end of next week to do some stuff to make it ready for occupancy, and I intended to take Mother with me. Not gonna happen. In a moment of lucidity, Mother informed me that Santa Fe is, and here I might give you an exact quote as she said Santa Fe is, “… filled with homo-sex-u-als and hedonistic heretics,” and further that, “You will promise me, Butcher Einstein Johnson, that you WILL NOT take me there, EVER.”

Have I ever told you that my born and given name is Butcher Einstein Johnson? To save us both time, go over there to my Bloggie Roller and buy my silly fucking book, Full RisingMooner. You’ll find the story therein.

Wait, let me attempt to undangle my mangled modifications. Therein, the story is to be found.

I explained carefully to my mother that she had just managed to summarize the whys of my home purchase in Santa Fe, what with all the gays and heathens I would feel more at home than here to home. Then I told her, I said to her, “And guess what—no such promise. I’m taking you over there the first minute you forget that you hate Santa Fe and me. You’ll be all happy and shit one day and you’ll snap to and remember that you’re a bigoted old shitball, and there you’ll be—stuck in a city full of me.”

She cried, I cried and apologized without taking it back, and then we had a debate on the Mittster’s tax returns and that whole Bain Capital dealie. Every time Mother would make a stupid-ass remark about the issues, I would simply say, “Santa Fe.”

She said, “We don’t need to see his tax returns because they are his private business,” and I said, “Santa Fe.”

“He said he wasn’t involved with Bain after 1999,” and I said, “Santa Fe.”

Then, she said, “Well, Mr. Romney is a Christian and Obama is a Muslim!” and I said, “You really are a bigoted old bag, Mother, and I’m packing your bags for a trip over to Santa Fe.”

Maybe I should feel badly for calling my mother a bigoted old bag. Maybe I should have tried living with women a few months before wedding them. That said, I attempt to have honest relationships with everyone I love, even the bigoted old bags.

Which reminds me. I had an epiphany, or whateverthefuck those things are, and I decided to build a Kiva oven in the back yard to the new house. That’s the Native American oven used for centuries to cook and especially to bake bread. Maybe it’s the one thirty-second’s worth of Native blood mixed in with the rest of my hemoglobin that epiphed me. But like Gram always says, “Who gives a shit, Mooner. Build yer fuckin’ oven and make me a peetzer.”

Gram loves thin, crusty crusted pizza with fresh tomatoes, pork sausage, basil, garlic and what she calls “moots yer fella” cheese. Last time I made pizzas out back on the big grill, Gram came out of the kitchen with a giant stainless steel tray with all of the fixings. Her ropey, muscled arms were shaking with the effort required to carry the heavy tray and she tottered to set it on the work table at my side.

“Yer mother’s being a downright cranky bitch, Mooner. Don’t put no moots yer fella on her peetzer. If’fn she bitches, I’ll tell her she told me not to put no cheesies on it.” Gram giggled and added, “I’ll tell her she done forgot.”

I laughed and Gram snickered like a schoolgirl. She said, “Mother’s gittin’ battier than a fuckin’ fruitcake, sonny boy, an’ we’re gonna have us some fun with her.”

Anyway, now my ADHD has taken over Mission Control, and among other things, I’m wondering what the Native American population of New Mexico want to be called. I’m guessing that they would want to be called Navajo or Arapaho or like me, Blackfoot. You know, distinguish them by tribal connections as opposed as to a group. Like Native American.

Then again. That would really screw up my mess kit because I don’t have that good an eye. Then again, again, who really gives a shit? Manana, y’all.

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7 Responses to “Frack This, Motherfrackers; Bend Over For Some Driller’s Mud”

  1. Cynthianne says:

    Mooner, As far as I know, Santa Fe doesn’t have a particularly high concentration of the dreaded triple H’s (homos, heretics and hedonists). If it did, I’d consider moving there myself. Maybe your Mom is confusing it with San Francisco?

    Dementia is a confusing and frustrating condition to deal with for those of us who don’t have it (yet). Best just to go with the flow as best you can and watch out for terminal prepositions (or propositions, as the case may be).

  2. Sherry says:

    Mooner, The thing with dementia is that if you remove the sufferer from familiar surroundings they can lose it entirely. Hell, they can lose it entirely in their own homes like my Mom-in-law did. Went to the hospital following a fall. From there she went to a rehab facility. Took her home to the house she lived in for 52 years. She sat in the living room, looked at me and said “You have a lovely home, but I’d like you to call my Daddy to come pick me up and take me home.”

    My sister-in-law decided she couldn’t live at home by herself. Took her to live with her. A week or so later while she was napping, MIL decided she was going home. Fortunately a neighbor saw her and called my SIL. She was walking up the street in November with no coat and nothing on her feet except slippers. We took her home and hired daytime care and took turns spending nights there with her to keep her safe. What happens gets tricky and requires major patience and planning.

  3. Cynthianne says:

    Mooner,

    What Sherry said. In spades.

    Dementia sufferers who are still ambulatory can be a real handful, so you have to take care. Make sure someone’s around to watch her during the day, and that she can’t get out at night.

    It’s probably best not to take your mother anywhere unfamiliar. Even advanced dementia patients can cope surprisingly well in familiar surroundings with a set routine. Getting out of their “groove” is disorienting and frightening for them, and can damage what little tenuous grasp on reality they still have. Even taking your Mom for routine doctor visits could be bad for her mental state.

    As my mother lost it, she grew more and more frightened of going out, and I found “House Calls of New Mexico,” a group of gerontologists who make house calls to invalid patients. Yes, doctors who make house calls, believe it or not! I’m sure Austin has something similar. Look into it.

    Medicare covered a lot of the costs of the home visits, and my mother had supplementary insurance through my father’s federal pension- otherwise she and I would have been broke long before she died…

    I am gloomily watching the Republican’s efforts to “frack” our society into a dog-eat-dog mess, and rejoicing that I am probably too old to see them succeed. Maybe we can reverse course before it is too late. An old lady can dream, can’t she?

  4. squatlo says:

    A friend of mine told me his grandmother suffered from dementia the last years of her life, but was able to stay in her own home because it was next door to her son’s and grandson’s. They pretty much just stayed with her, taking turns. One Sunday the family wanted to go out to dinner, so the old woman’s son (my friend’s dad) volunteered to stay at the house with his mom while they went out to eat. He turned the television to an NFL game and settled back on the couch. A few minutes later he heard a shotgun rack a slug into the chamber, turned around and saw his mom pointing a 12 guage at his face, crying. She didn’t know who the man in her house was, and came very close to blowing his head off before he could convince her they were related.

    That was the day the guns were removed from the house…

    Watch your ass, Mooner…

  5. Parttime Texan, Mooner Johnson says:

    One, and all. Thanks so much for the info. This is such a mixed bag of emotional chips for me. I can now will political debates with Mother but they are hollow victories. I found myself reminding her that she is a bigot when she told me she wanted to watch the Ellen Degeneres TV show.

    But I’ve solved the “Be on the lookout for an old broad in housecoat and slippers” Lost in Space dealie. I’m having my vet plant one of those ID/GPS chips in her neck. Then I’m taking her to the tattoo parlor to get her return address tattooed on her wrist.

    I’ve been trying to lose this old woman for years and now I’m worried she’ll do just that.

    Ugh. At least it isn’t Gram getting all forgetful and shit. That, dear friends, would be a problem.

  6. squatlo says:

    Pyrrhic victories count, too, Mooner. After all the years of political incorrectness, you’re entitled to have a victory lap or two around the empty stadium. Arms raised, “Eye of the Tiger” blaring from the loudspeakers.

    You need to get Gram to share the secrets of her herbal and fungal remedies just in case she decides to catch the Geezer Express, too. You’d miss those ‘shroom potions, I imagine. Tell her it’s for an oral history of the family.

  7. squatlo says:

    And I forgot to comment on the fracking politicians… If we were pumping millions of gallons of toxic slurry into the ground under their gated estates, they wouldn’t mind a bit. Their water is coming from Culligans or some other purification conglomerate. But let something happen to the source of their water supply, and by god the lawyers from hell would drop from the heavens like winged monkeys or harpies upon the heads of those responsible.
    It’s an instance of “not in my backyard” run amok. They KNOW ( they mother fucking know) what they’re doing is wrong. Wrong for the environment. Wrong for the water supply of a fragile population. Wrong on every ethical level. But… there’s so much money!!!

    Think of the money, Mooner!

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