Boy Scouts Re-Screw The Pooch; Here Kitty-Kitty

 

So. I have long been a man who prides myself on my abilities to cope with what Life serves me. I bitch and whine and complain about whatever shit it is—maybe rant a bit and break a few things—and then I accept whatever it is, and move on. I imagine that if the people close to me were to describe my one good character trait it would be that, “Mooner can handle his shit.”

While I’m highly emotional and deeply involved with Life, I don’t allow myself to be controlled by Life’s misfortunes. In my entire life, I’ve only been out of control twice. The first was when I was thirteen and had been raped by my Boy Scout Leader. That incident controlled my mind and body for several years. I didn’t know I had ADHD back then, I only knew that I was “a disruptive little shit”, and I went through what I now know was a total mental blockage of the terrible events. I was a miserable human being before I found ways to deal with it, and move on.

The second time was of a far shorter duration back to college, when Streaker Jones imported his first Sweat Toad breeding pairs. Never one to research things too deeply, I gave each of the six toadies a big slurp. Yeppers, I licked each one like a Dream Sickle—bottom-to-top, front and back sides both.

Those amphibians are ugly fucking things that taste like a donkey’s ass. And one big sloppy slurp from a sexually active toad’s skin is an overdose, as a typical dose of toad sweat is a small flake of their dried ooze. I was a sick sumbitch for a week and hallucinated enough for a lifetime. Mind altering drugs are my life, but that week I was totally out of control.

Each of those two occurrences were more than forty years ago. In all of this time I have always been as in control as I can be. Until Saturday night. I was watching Kansas State dismantle my Texas Longhorns football team—and with twenty-something seconds left in the game—I lost it.

My ADHD has been in overdrive for a few days because I can’t sleep well. My shoulders and knees and elbows and back ache so much from house painting that I can’t get comfortable in any position. While the ADD part of my malady is always active, it’s when I’m physically inactive that it begins running through its gears to eventually reach warp speed.

Naturally-occurring chemical compounds are my best methods for controlling my spinning thoughts. My Gram’s magic mushroom potions work best. But I ran out and the new shipment didn’t arrive on Friday because I didn’t hear the UPS guy at the front door. We were painting in the back of the house so I didn’t hear the doorbell.

Anyway, my ADHD had my head spinning and my football team looked worse than Tennessee. I was watching the stupid game, as I languished on the sofa in an attempt to be comfortable while watching my football team blow another contest, when I heard my computer’s Email pinger announce that I had a new Email. Disgusted with the Longhorns, I got up and staggered to the office to find that Google News Finder, or whateverthefuck they call that informational search and announcement dealie, had a news article for me.

I clicked onto the link to discover that new evidence was released showing the Boy Scouts of America had intentionally not screened for sexual predators in the face of public and private pressures to do so, and that their cover up of the problems continued for decades. As I read the story, the room closed in on me concussively—like I was in a pressure chamber to shrink my head. My thoughts swirled for an instant and then fully focused on the Boy Scouts.

“Mother fucker,” I whispered at reading the last words.

“Mother fucker!” louder the second time, the anger starting to re expand my skull.

MOTHER FUCKER!!!” I screamed, and I lifted my computer desk and slammed it against the wall.

I was screaming “Motherfucker!” and slamming around the office like a madman. No, that’s not right. I was throwing a temper tantrum like a petulant child—ripping and breaking the office—and I was crying.

The Squirt came running into the room—eyes giant with her fright. “?Que pasa, Bwana Mooner? Es tu OK, big guy?”

The adorable brown puppy slinked to my side and faced my fury head-on. “Bad news, boss man?” she asked.

I ripped the handful of papers gripped in my fists and just dropped them, my anger spent. I plopped onto the floor to cry. I cried.

When I awoke in the middle of the night, I was lying on the hardwood floor with the Squirt sitting next to me and Yoda the goat dog had somehow managed to slip inside the hem of my XXX-sized UT Longhorn sweatshirt. It was Yoda’s dog breath venting through the sweat shirt’s collar that woke me up.

“You OK?” Squirt asked—her brown eyes full of love and concern.

I focused my eyes and surveyed the small patch of office floor in my limited sight line. “Looks like I was pretty pissed, huh?”

“Never seen you like that,” the diminutive miniature dog told me. “Never want to see it again.”

“Not a pretty sight, I guess. I think I need some psycho therapy.”

The dogs and I spent most of yesterday cleaning the office and looking for the fucking cat. Honor has been AWOL for almost a week this time, and post tantrum I was feeling morose about her absence.

“Fuck it, guys, I’ll spring for a whole salmon for dinner and we’ll set the carcass out back. That’ll bring her home if anything will.”

We went grocery shopping—me newly hobbled by an aching hip courtesy of a night spent sleeping on a hardwood floor—came home and filleted the five-pound fish we got. We took the complete head and salmon skeleton to the back yard where we ceremoniously laid it on Honor’s food rock. The fucking cat likes us to serve her dinners atop this big, flat river rock.

“Here, kitty-kitty, it’s your favorite salmon din-nie!” I called.

“Here, Kitty…” was all I got out when we heard a, “Meow!!!” from the little shed at the back of the property.

“Whatthefuck?” Squirt said, “is she locked in the shed?”

“Uh, ah… Oops.”

That was me. I had been out to the shed last Saturday to get some old papers and that fucking cat was bugging me for a fish. She was mewling and mawing and rubbing herself against my bare legs. The weather has been great and I was wearing shorts in the crisp, dry 60-degree air. Her hair was rubbing off and sticking to my legs with the static electricity. That pissed me off and I shooed her off as I twisted myself to get inside the file cabinet way to the back of the shed.

“I, uh, well, ah, I must have locked her into the shed,” I admitted.

Cat’s out, cat shit filled with mouse fur and bones cleaned up from the shed, and last I saw her Honor was hissing and spitting at a neighbor’s cat over her salmon bones.

“Interesting weekend, shithead,” the Squirt told me as we sat to watch Dexter last night.

“Yes it was, sweetie pie. Interesting, indeed.”

Manana, y’all.

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7 Responses to “Boy Scouts Re-Screw The Pooch; Here Kitty-Kitty”

  1. squatlo says:

    I hadn’t read the Scouts thing, but understand your reaction, given your history with that organization. Ah, shit, WTF, it’s just an office, and you probably didn’t do any permanent damage (unlike the Boy Scouts of America).

    Locking a cat in a tool shed for a few days ought to be required of all cat owners. They need a dose of humility and a reminder that unless we (the lords of their universe) pamper them with commercially prepared foods and a nice place to leave their poop, they have to forage for themselves and crap wherever they can find a warm spot. Cats seem to be under the impression that THEY control the universe, and sometimes a day or two locked up in a shed with some garden equipment is just the ticket for a back-to-earth moment.

    It should serve as a reminder that they lack thumbs.

    I’m still laughing about your toad licking perversions… Anything for a buzz, eh?

  2. Mooner Johnson needs sexing says:

    Squat. Reflecting back on that night’s events, I realized that the world’s large non-profit institutions are now not one penny’s-worth different from big business. The Catholic Church treats pedophile priests the same way as Big Pharma treats a killer drug. Deny and explain away, then doctor the records, then blame the victims and deny some more.

    As long as we treat them as untaxed charities, they will be inclined to think themselves above the law and common decency.

    As for cats, I’m a reluctant cat owner. But in a quite similar way to that guy with the small third arm growing from his hip who I met this one time, I feel the same way about the fucking cat. The man told me, “It’s useless, I have to care for it like a real arm and it gets in the way all the time. But it’s mine.”

    The toad dealio might have been a huge business enterprise for two young businessmen eager to bring an exotic new product to market. But with so many people deathly allergic, marketing was difficult.

  3. bj says:

    Y’know …. I had that “Mooner can handle his shit” figured out before we made it back to Johnsonville from Bob’s Barbeque that chilly November day last year. Everything you’ve accomplished in your life is testament to the fact that despite life’s assailments you, Sir, have got yer shit together. In spite of yer ADHD affliction, yer Momma, that rat bastard scout leader, and all of Grams potions …. “Mooner can handle his shit” is an understatement. Keep On Keepin’ On, Brother Man!
    ps: I always wanted to slicky lick one o’ them toads muh DAMN self!

  4. squatlo says:

    Hold on a damn minute, BJ… you’re listing Gram’s potions as if they’re one of Mooner’s afflictions! I’m thinkin’ Gram and her medicinals are the only thing that’s kept Mooner halfway lucid through all of the rest (and there should be a heavily accented “halfway” in that last sentence, but the blobber gods don’t allow emphasis in the comments section)

    Had it not been for that wise ol’ woman and her mushroomy concoctions, we might never have met Sir Mooner, learned of his Quest for Whirled Peas, or found out about any of the other rude and improbable things that have made him the office rearranging maniac his dogs count on today. Gram is the glue that holds Mooner’s World together, the absolute star of his show, the only absolutely certain thing he can count on to set him straight when he needs a good bitch slap or hug him tight when he’s in distress.

    God bless that cranky li’l woman and her home brewed remedies for what ails us!

    Now, if he’ll just patent that shit and send us a crate or two of it, we’ll start working on our own problems!

    Fuck the BSA, Walmart, Rick Perry, Rush Limbaugh, Mittens Romney, and the Pope hisself….

  5. squatlo says:

    The management of this theater would like to apologize for the previous statement by Squatlo. He’s under the influence of heavily dosed brownies, and has been imbibing in various alcoholic concoctions since rolling out of bed to find himself facing a responsibility free day home alone. Obviously, he needs adult supervision.

    Please return your trays to the upright position, and prepare for landing.

  6. Mooner Johnson needs sexing says:

    BBej. Thanks for the vote of confidence. But I did lose my shit Saturday night and it was a serious loss. As for Gram’s potions, they represent the one foot I keep firmly planted in terra firma. On the taodie front, that shit ain’t worth the troubles. Give me a bucket of mushrooms or Peyote buttons any day.

    Squat. You’re a funny sumbitch and a good buddy too. Please take a few deep breaths and turn the fucking thermostat up!!! I’m thinking you’ve got yourself a case of frosty brain.

  7. squatlo says:

    Rough morning… Somebody drank me too much yesterday.

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