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.
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.