Contemplations On The Dark Side; Godsmack For Dummies


So. As if there didn’t already exist enough evidence that we have too many of the wrong guns in America, a child of fifteen years murdered his entire family over the weekend in another gruesome assault rifle massacre. As this kid’s father was a dedicated Christian chaplain, my first thoughts upon hearing a few details were, “This is a child abuse scenario.”

Upon sleeping on it and with additional information, my thoughts this early am are that, “This is a child abuse scenario, and maybe this incident will help stimulate actions to better control gun violence in America.”

Then again, I can just hear the Fox fucking News commentators:

“Well, Bill, if only those little girls had had their own AK-47’s locked and loaded in their bedrooms, the dead headcount would have been reduced.”

Asswipe right-wing conservative gun-promoting goat fucking shitheads.

Which reminds me of the dream I had last night. The Squirt has had loose bowels since her visit to the vet Saturday morning. This visit was to check for a bladder infection and they gave her an enema to clear the obstructions for a clean pic of her innards, but her system didn’t take well to the glycerin they pumped up her ass. The little puppy’s constant need to go outside last night somehow disturbated my normal sleep patterns, causing me to have one of those in-and-out dreams—you know, the ones wherein you pick up where you left off each time you get back to sleep.

This dream was a real corker. It was a sex dream, nekid dream, and God dream all balled-up into one convoluted pot of peasant stew. In this dream, God showed Himself in several formats: As one of my former fathers-in-laws, an alligator, the hood ornament on a Mini Cooper, and at last as Allie McGraw.

OK, stop. Is it “fathers-in-laws” or “father-in-laws” or “fathers-in-laws” when you have ten of them? OK, and what if one of them is a retired cop and one an attorney? This particular father of an ex-wife was a fine man and the Chairman of the Austin Public School Board when I graduated High School. My diploma was signed by this quite good man. I might have learned something from him if I’d paid attention. Then again, paying attention is not one of my attributes.

I’m a good watcher but I can’t pay attention for shit.

Anyway, this dream started with me as an employee of this giant company filled with coworkers from my actual life. My boss was God in the form of the ex-father-in-law, I was still married to first wife Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, and in my section of the interesting dream business office were numerous assholes I’ve known over the years, the most pivotal, dream wise, was Pastor, the Dishonorable Dr. Browningwell.

Dr. Shithead Browningwell is Mother’s Baptist preacher back to Austin, or at least he was her asswipe pastor before she enrolled and entered the retirement home there to San Antonio. I think Mother only watches him on TV and speaks to him on the phone these days, yet that limited contact seems to keep my mother’s venom sacks filled with angry poisons.

God Boss wanted me to move to Vicksburg, Mississippi, to work with a branch of the company that made movies and did event coordinating. “Look, Mooner,” God told me, “I need somebody I can trust to go over there and run things. The guy I have there now is a liar.”

“Look, God” I answered, “I love singing the Mississippi song and living there would provide me many opportunities to do just that, but I don’t know shit about movies or event planning, plus you know that I can’t follow instructions.”

God morphed into an alligator—one of those alligators from the old movie Fantasia. Man do I love that movie. There was this time way back in the early 1970’s when they showed Fantasia at the Alabama Theater in the Montrose section of Houston, Texas. It was their Saturday Night Matinée dealio and a bunch of us dropped some acid and went to watch it. Fucking alligators scared the shit out of Patrick and he almost peed his pants.

“Dumbass is way far better than liar as Branch Manager, Mooner. At least I can turn my back on you.”

God was right up in my face as He said this and His breath was something awful. “Your alligator breath smells like rotten potatoes and iguana shit, Sir. Can’t you back off just a touch?”

“No problemo, son, now get dressed and go pack your bags,” God said, and He disappeared.

OK, wait. I have forgotten to tell you the other times when the Squirt awakened me during this dream. The next time was just after I realized that I was dreaming life as an actual employee of a company. See, except for when I was a kid throwing papers or doing dishes over to the Wishbone Fried Chicken Restaurant, I’ve always been my own boss.

First time I fell in love with a black woman was when I washed dishes there to the Wishbone. I was twelve and working the 3:00-to-11:00 pm shift that summer, and the head cook was a woman named Ruby. Ruby was an onyx black woman who always wore a black-and-white checkered apron over her dress, and she tied the apron in back with a perfect bow. The apron’s bow ends always dangled over the curve of her round butt, and often one, or both, of the strings would nestle into the dress’ light crease at her butt crack.

As I was twelve and Ruby was a woman, and I’d never been up close and personal to a black woman’s quite tight and rounded ass—what with the neatly-tied apron strings marking targets for my eyes—Ruby’s ass was a major source of excitement for me. Before my second day of work, I rummaged through the cupboard at home to find our last bar of Ivory soap to take to work with me. Since I had already learned the dangers of unexpectedly stiff peckers this one time at school, I wanted to do what I could to work-off my teen angst while on breaks from the steamy dish machine and Ruby’s steaminess.

“What c’hall doin’ in there, Mooner boy? They’re runnin’ outta spoons in the dinin’ room,” Ruby said to me that day as she banged on the kitchen’s bathroom door .

I hurried my business with the Ivory soap, rinsed myself and went back to washing spoons. Ruby made the world’s best banana pudding and we were always running out of spoons. I guess my face was flushed and I likewise had some stiff pecker residue bulging the front of my shorts, and I also guess that Ruby both saw and analyzed the situation accurately.

“Well looka there, Mildred, looks like Mr. Mooner Johnson has got him a thing for the dark meat.” Mildred and Ruby looked at me askance and started laughing.

“Mmm-mm-mmm,” Mildred said. “I’ve never crossed the fence myself, but if that one wasn’t so skinny… We need ta get him filled-out—put some meat on his bones. Fix that boy a plate a chicken, Ruby.”

OK, wait just a second. This was early 1960’s Texas, where racism was still the prevalent weather, so these women’s words need to be read in that temperament. The fact that they would banter with a white boy was a sign that they were strong women and comfortable bantering with me. For my part, I thought they were making fun of my pecker size until I got home and told the story at dinner.

After listening to me recount the event, Gram said to me, she said, “Ah, Hells-bells, Mooner, they wasn’t talkin’ ’bout yer little pecker, son. They want ya to get some muscle on yer skinny ass. They don’t wanna hurt ya.”

Then the entire table laughed at humor I failed to see. It wasn’t until years later that I understood what Gram meant and, luckily, I’d filled-out.

So, I was getting dressed in my dream and wearing a clown outfit that was way too small for me. Dr. Sam was acting as my valet and trying to get the funny pants buttoned. She was pushing at my pecker through the flimsy clown material in attempts to move it away from the buttons. This is another time when the Squirt awoke me to go take a crapper. “Wake up, shithead, time to head out.”

After washing her adorable furry, brown backsides, I went fast asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow. The dream started once more and I found myself standing at the rear of one of those 4-door Mini Cooper cars where Sammie was attempting to stow my giant clown suitcase. The case was brown leather with fat leather straps to hold its bulging sides shut, and the leather was blackened with hundreds of shuttings and stowings before.

There were tattered stickers and stamps from many ports of call plastered all over it, one of which stood out to me. I peered at it around the fat, bulbous and red clown nose glued to my face. “Catch-22 and then Catch Some More,” it read. It was written in Russian Cyrillic script, but I somehow knew its meanings.

“But looka here, Sammie,” I told my ex-wife and psycho therapist valet, “God knows that Slaughterhouse Five is my favorite movie. Catch-22 is several slots down the totem pole.”

“Not about your favorite movie, Mooner, it’s about my favorite movie.” It was God, again, and His voice was coming from the front of the car. I quickly realized He spoke from the hood of the little car in the form of a Jaguar hood ornament—a visage misplaced on the Mini.

“Jaguar’s the wrong image here, sir. You might try for something more fitting,” I said. “Oh, wait. Maybe I should have said you should look for something fitting more.”

I guess that even in my dreams I make marked attempts to be grammatically accurate.

“OK, big boy, how do you like this look instead?” And with that, God transformed into Allie McGraw draped upside down—feet on the roof, long legs draping the windscreen, and torso lying sideways on the hood. Allie-God’s head was resting on Her hand and Her nails were painted red talons at the end of slender fingers. She wore a filmy gauze gown that provided us a view of her spectacular stuff.

“Holy shit, God,” Dr, Sam I. Am-Johnson exclaimed in my dream. “I think I might be a dream lesbian.”

That remark would mark the moment I was reawakened by the lump of brown fur and loose bowels I call Squirt. She was on my chest and in my face, pressing her nose into mine. “Wake up asshole, I think I’m gonna explode!”

“And I might spend too much time in contemplation of sex and my pecker.”

As I took too long to get dressed and take her outside, the poor little puppy had to stop in the hallway to cut loose. “My fault, little lady, don’t worry,” I told her, “let me clean the carpet and then I’ll get to you.”

“Forget your silly rug, asshole. My bottom is on fire. Hose me off and do it now!”

I met some new people Saturday night and one of them asked me what it’s like to have the ADHD. Maybe this helps.

Manana, y’all.

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6 Responses to “Contemplations On The Dark Side; Godsmack For Dummies”

  1. Squatlo says:

    I’ve stopped reading to laugh three times reading this shit, so I’m either way drunk or just happy to see your post.

    I think it might be lot of both. Been a strange couple of days. My lovely (and dangerous) wife has been getting up every fifteen minutes to pee at night, and I can’t decide if she should see a doctor or if we need to see a marriage counsellor for this passive/aggressive pop-goes-the-bladder behavior. I think I’m becoming psychotic from lack of sleep…

    The difference is my dreams haven’t been pleasant or nookie-related at all, unlike your Ivory soapy fantasies. Instead, I’m having conflicts with big, nasty looking bastards who need a visit from a mafia hit man or a special forces brute instead of a political argument with Dream Me, a puny, physically inferior speciman who’s better suited for making omelets than war. Funny thing is, Dream Me a probably a better fighter than Real Me, so it’s depressing the way Dream Me gets scared off by all the Dream Heavies.

    None of this would be evident if I could sleep more than an hour at a time any given night.

    I’m pretty sure this will pass. But if it doesn’t, I might want to borrow a dog for a day or two, just as an excuse to wander around the yard at night. Better to be half-crazy from walking a dog all night than to be tormented by a thimble-bladdered woman and some Dream BadGuys who won’t let me sleep.

    Does your Psycho-Therapist do group? We could take turns whining.

  2. Mooner Johnson needs sexing says:

    Squat. Let me mail you a handful of the pills our vet gave me for the Squirt’s problems with “frequent urination”. Just don’t give the One Most Dangerous an ennema. Even if she asks for it.

    On the dream scene, as a man with great dreams, I have sympathies for those less fortunate and I find that bad dreamers are a special breed of the Needy. There is literally nothing I, a dream-rich billionaire, can do–there’s no donation, no fund raiser or bake sale I can front that will make a difference in your plight.

    All I can do to help you is speak to you of mine in hopes that your dream self will take a fucking hint and get with the program. As for borrowing the dogs to creatate nite wanders, first try dumping the contents of your vacuum cleaner on two heating pads. Sleep with one pad stuck to your scrotum and the other on your neck. If that helps I’ll contact UPS for delivery to you over to the Boro.

    As for my psycho therapist, I can’t get her to do me, much less a group.

  3. Squatlo says:

    I normally have brilliant, happy dreams, which is why I’m usually eager to call it a night and go to bed. It’s just the snoozus interruptus that’s got my REM cycles all screwed up. That and the Honey Jack Daniels, a product designed by the Hooey Gods in an effort to get me to kill my own liver, I’m convinced.

    That stuff is too good to be bad for me… If you haven’t tried it, go buy a bottle. You can thank me later. It’s Jack Daniels blended with a honey liqueur (and I don’t even like Jack all that much).

  4. Cynthianne says:


    Do ADHD types have more vivid, weirder dreams than the average mortal? Or just crazy ADHD types? What does your psycho therapist think?

    Your blog is funny as well as weird. It’s also fascinating, because you deal with your problems by flaunting and exaggerating them, and seem to be doing a fairly good job of it. (Which is why I called you “SuperMooner” once.)

    Contrarywise, I have always tried my damnedest to pretend to be normal. Do a good job of it too- actually managed to convince Squatlo that I was a sweet little old lady, until I gobsmacked him with a short scenario from my morbid history. Kinda funny… but at least I AM fairly little (and fairly old). Fifty percent isn’t bad on the internets.

    Your way of coping looks like a lot more fun.

    Sending you an off-topic e-mail at You can find it (if interested) among the other spam under SeverinLattier.

  5. Mooner Johnson needs sexing says:

    C’Anne. As for what my psycho therapist thinks, I think my Gram says it best when she says, “Who really gives a shit, Mooner, now shut yer yapper an don’t put too much perrer onna pork.”

    I have always had great dreams except for the years right after my having been raped by my Boy Scout Leader. I long ago learned(in spite of the extensive, expensive mental health professionalist’s interventions) that honesty is always the best policy. Since I promised full disclosures when I started this silly shit…

    And as for your “morbid history”, now you have tweaked my interests. Might you be willing to Guest Host here to the pages of Loonyland? Have you something to get off your mind? I welcome your inputs.

    I also hope to free myself to participate with you up to the State Capitol on the manana. As always, I believe that:

    “A woman’s right to choose is sacred!!!”

  6. Squatlo says:

    This is too cool… a couple of my favorite internetters just might hook up to protest a protest.

    Like they say, “If you don’t like abortion, don’t have one.”

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