Sink… Sank… Sunk; Dreams And Other Misfortunes


So. OK, let’s get this shit out of the way so we can move on with life. If the debate was an acting contest, Mitt Romney “won” this week’s debate. He won it clearly and concisely. If attitude and aggression are your most preferred Presidential qualities, Mitt’s your boy.

But let me ask one question before we talk about fun stuff.

“What does it mean when the main reason you state for the President losing this debate is that he failed to aggressively shout down his opponent for telling egregiousness and stupid lies?”

When I hear that silly shit said by talking heads on both sides of politics, I’m forced to shake my head. The worse thing President Obama did was allow Mitt Romney to lie? Really? That’s like saying Sharon Tate lost her “life debate” with Charlie Manson’s crew.

OK, that might be a terrible analogy, but maybe I made a point.

Anyway, I’ve been having incredible dreams since occupying Santa Fe, and I want to share a few with you starting with last night’s.

A cold front blew through about 1:00 am and awoke me. I had been dreaming about walking nekid on the dunes of a desert when the icy wind blew in through the open window above our bed. I was lying on my side, with the Squirt all scrunched-up in the crook of my bent knees—tail running up through the crack of my ass—and Yoda the goat dog was on my neck like a muffler.

One minute in the dream I was panting and laboring across the intemperate sands in what must have been a hot dog breath and smelly-furred sweat, and the next minute I found myself back in high school—nekid in front of the blackboard attempting to explain the Pythagorean Theorem while removing a wad of toilet paper from my ass.

Once fully awakened by the chilly wind, I realized that it was dog tail packing my crack and that I had to pee something fierce. Since I don’t have a finished vanity and vanity sink in the master bath, I was forced to use the commode. Regular readers know this, but I prefer to pee in the sink so as to make efficiencies in both water savings and physical motions. I sat on the throne, leaned head in hands with elbows on knees, took a deep cleansing breath, and promptly fell back asleep.

Which reminds me. Why don’t most people believe me when I tell them that I pee in the sink? Any sink. My sink, public sinks.

Your sink.

I started dreaming as soon as I shut my eyes, and I found myself back in the days when I was married to Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson. I was sitting in her waiting room, all dressed-up in a suit—the suit worn when she and I wed—and I had to pee. I walked over to the receptionist and asked her where I might find the closest sink. She said to me, she pointed at her desk and said, “It’s right there on my desk, Mr. Johnson. You’re more than welcome to use it.”

When I looked down, she pushed a large sink-shaped ashtray towards me. It was a white porcelain Kohler—model number QF-1572-A—and it was filled with some sort of absorbent the consistency of large-grained sand. Without hesitation, I flipped my necktie over my shoulder, unzipped my suit pants, tucked the tails of my white dress shirt in the waistband of my white cotton undies, maneuvered my pecker through the peeky-poo hole in those same undies, and peed into the gritty absorbent.

I guess the QF part on the ashtray model number was for “quiet flush”. Wait, maybe it was for “quick flush”. Fuck it, maybe Q is for the year 2012 and F is for February, the year and month it was made.

How’s that ADHD ass taste, everybody?

It was a lengthy pee, and after a moment the receptionist reached her hand down and touched—ever so gently—the thumb and forefinger of my peeing hand. She then took her finger and touched the peeing pecker.

I started to think about her actions and suddenly another woman’s hand entered the frame. This one had long, slender fingers with bright red-painted fingernails. She ran a manicured nail tip across my stuff and then another woman came along and reached for me. I looked up into the three women’s faces as they were crowded together to get hands on me. I saw Katy from over to the Lesbian Soup Site as the receptionist, Sarah Palin as the red-nailed woman and it was Dr. Sammie coming in last.

My psycho therapist, and first wife of ten, had a terrible scowl plastered all over her face. “Get your crazy ass into my office and right now, buster. It’s been almost a month since your last session and you are way out of control.”

I answered, “And it’s been longer than that since I had myself any third-party sex.”

“What do you mean third-party sex, Mooner?” she asked me. “I told you that multiple sex partners is bad for you.”

“Calm down, psycho babble babe, I mean a third party not me or my lonely pecker.”

That’s when I awoke, slumped on the pot and numb from the waist down, with my nighty-night erection ready to explode with pressure from my way-too fucking full bladder. I somehow managed to pee and then crawled back to bed with ten-thousand needles sticking my useless legs and ass.

“Where have you been, asshole?” the small brown puppy asked when I managed to pull myself back into bed. “I’m freezing my tushie off, and Yoda wants to snuggle with me. Have you smelled that shithead’s breath?”

“He smells like a goat’s butt, what do you expect?” I told Squirt.

My adorable puppy resettled herself, this time on groin and crotch as I lay on my back, and the goat dog snuggled into my arm pit. I guess my smelly pit has an appeal to a goat. I remember thinking, “Why did I dream Katy was interested in me, why was Sarah Palin in this dream and why, inthefuck, haven’t I gotten a sink installed in the master bathroom yet?”


Katy has recently become single and I have a history with lesbian women, and I am forced to admit that I would sex it up with Palin. Maybe that’s it. Then again, maybe Yoda isn’t the only man in our house who acts like a goat. And maybe I need a therapy session and some sex.

Ugh, once more. So much to do. Manana, y’all.


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8 Responses to “Sink… Sank… Sunk; Dreams And Other Misfortunes”

  1. bj says:

    That “YOUR SINK” comment has me preparing yet another bucket with boiling water and Pine Sol, putting on my Playtex gloves … and heading back to your bathroom, for yet another cleaning session with that sink and vanity I highly approve of your Sarah Palin and a goat sexual romp, as well …. orrrr … did I read that wrong?

  2. Parttime Texan, Mooner Johnson says:

    Beej. Last I read it, urine evaporates at the same approximate rates as any other water-based contaminate. Your real worry will come if I ever perfect my ecological theories on shitting in the freezer.

    More to follow.

    As for Mrz. Palin, is there such a thing as “goat style”?

  3. bj says:

    (gone to check all three freezers ……)

  4. Parttime Texan, Mooner Johnson says:

    Beej. Not to worry. My “frozen rope” program is a recent near invention and not yet placed into practice.

  5. Squatlo says:

    Where you be, Mooner? I just read about a crazy sumbitch in your neck of the woods who got into a fight with a stop sign, then resisted arrest and fought with the police… They said he was under the influence of dangerous drugs.

    Need bail money, amigo?

  6. Squatlo says:

    Wait… you shit in freezers, too?

    I’m sending my lovely (and dangerous) wife out to look for Kielbasa-looking deposits in the garage freezers. God help your ass (and mine) if she finds any…

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