Did Liberace Turn Elvis?, And Other Sticky Wickets

 

So. It’s a beautiful Friday here to the Land of Enchantment and all I can think to do for entertainment is walk and play daddy to the dogs. All of my friends are busy, I haven’t met anybody new to drive crazy, and the dogs are already on my nerves. The dog problem started at precisely 2:26 am, when the goat dog had a bad dream and started barking and growling as he tried to trench his way through my pillow, the bed and anything else between here and fucking Beijing.

“Phooph, pharph, phooph… Phooph, pharpf, phooph… Errrrrrrh!” would be my best efforts to spell the cut-vocal cord mania erupting from Yoda’s yapper as he shredded my pillowcase with maniacal, frantic front paw digging.

I made a reach for him but was cut short by the Squirt. “Don’t wake him up asshole. Don’t you know it’s dangerous to awaken a sleep walker?”

“He’s not sleep walking, little lady, he’s shredding the last remnant of my marriage to Dr. Sam I. Am. That pillowcase is all I have left of our stuff. Aunt Hilda gave us a set of embroidered bed linen for our wedding, and I stole Sammie’s pillowcase as she was moving out. I love that ratty old thing, sweetie, so get him off it.”

I do love that tattered old 600-count Egyptian cotton rag. Sometimes I still think I can conjure my first wife back into my bed by breathing through the tattered fabric.

“Wake his ass up and ask him what’s got him trying to dig to China.”

I didn’t hear the answer because my house phone rang and I got up to answer it. It was then 2:29 am, a factoid known to be fact as I looked at the big wall clock in my office as I said, “Hello, Mother, are you OK?”

“Where are you, Mooner?”

“Not in my bed dreaming of sexing it up with Allie McGraw, Mother. I’m sitting at my desk wondering why you called at 2:30 am.”

“Don’t you dare smart mouth me, Butcher Einstein Johnson. I can still bend you over the table and whip your ass with a belt.”

That was my family’s measure for corporate punishment for my sister and me. Fuck up, and you’d be bent over the end of the kitchen table where all the family members could take a crack at you. There was this one time when Streaker Jones—or was it Tony Butts—dared me to give Mrs. Browningwell a Wet Willie. It was right after lunch and I’d bought a Valomilk Cup that I ate walking back to class. It seems that my right index finger had some thick Vallomilk marshmallow residue left from my dessert and the Wet Willie delivered to Mrs. Browningwell’s right ear should have been renamed a “Wet and Sticky Willy”.

Maybe that sort of ear jelly should be called a “Sticky Wicket”.

I had trouble sitting for several days after. Never will forget my Daddy—laughing in my ear before taking his shots. “That might be the funniest thing you’ll ever do son. You remember this day.”

And then he slapped the thin, black leather belt across the tops of my thighs.

“Mother,” I told her, “you just come on up to Santa Fe anytime you want and take a crack at my ass. I dare you.” I figured telling her to come to Santa Fe to spank me would clue her to the simple fact that I’m in Santa Fe.

“Stop back-talking me, Mooner, and tell me where you are.”

OK, maybe not. “I’m in Santa Fe, Mother. I haven’t left Santa Fe since I got back after Christmas and I certainly haven’t left since four hours ago when we last spoke and you asked me ten times where I am.”

“Why are you in Santa Fe? Don’t you know that Santa Fe is run by the homo-sex-u-als? You’re not smart enough to evade one of those crafty homo-sex-u-als, Mooner. You never were all that bright, if you ask me.”

Bitch. Right-wing Christian asshole Republican demented old bitch.

“I think you might be right, Mother. I was just having this dream where I was trying to find Liberace so I could suck his dick. I was getting dream frustrated from not finding him, so I was about ready to suck any old dick that happened by. I guess I need to thank you for waking me up and saving my dream self from burning in Hell.”

Mother believes that all gay folks will burn in Hell. Me, I think gays are all due for a Heaven’s stay, as we straights manage to make their lives here a living Hell.

“Liberace wasn’t a homo-sex-u-al, Mooner. That’s just one more cog in the homo-sex-u-al propaganda machine. Liberace was a man’s man, and a great entertainer.”

I’ve always wondered about when Liberace helped turn Elvis from a singer into an entertainer back in the day. I’ve always wondered if old “I’ll Be Seeing You In All The Old Familiar Places” didn’t likewise turn Mr. swivel hips in other ways as well.

“Mooner, you stop talking like that and tell me where you are RIGHT NOW!!!” My mother seemed annoyed that I would impugn the sexual integrities of her beloved Liberace.

“Jesus, Mother, I’m still in fucking Santa Fe.”

“Well, you watch out for all of those homosexuals…” and the next think I heard was her fumble the buttons of her phone and then the disconnect.

The Squirt jumped into my lap and put her front feet on my chest and her face right up into mine. “OK, first of all, you need to stop antagonizing your mother. She’s old and fragile and she can’t remember shit. Let her go off on you and then just say good bye. Second, you need to spend some quality time with Yoda and me. Silly goat dog is having trust issues again and he’s been dreaming he gets locked up back at the puppy mill. All that digging is him trying escape.”

Then she slurped my face with a rough tongue covered with day-old fish slime. “I love you too, Squirty-Poo,” I told her. “Grab your leashes and let’s take a walk under the stars.”

It’s now noon and we’re on our way down to Albuquerque to take a ride on the Sandia Peak tram and then dinner at the top. Another day in paradise with me at the helm. Manana, y’all.

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6 Responses to “Did Liberace Turn Elvis?, And Other Sticky Wickets”

  1. Squatlo says:

    Man, just bringing up “I’ll be Seeing You” reminds me of this clip from Gary Larson’s Far Side Television Special:
    http://squatlo-rant.blogspot.com/2012/07/tales-from-far-side-clip-from-gary.html

    I know it’s not cool to link to one’s own blobber on someone else’s comment thread, but I’ve not found this clip on youtubby and hope you can at least see it on my site. Best rendition of the song EVER, complete with a lonely wolf watching home movies of his long lost love… (funniest shit you’ll see today, promise!)

    You might want to consider dig-proof mittens for the tunneler in your bed… And just so’s you knows… I had one of YOUR fucking dreams last night. My dreams are normall vivid, but relatively sane affairs. Last night I dreamed I was in an antique store and heard from a fellow customer that if I went through a certain door I’d be given a real “treat”… Well, the treat was that if you went through this old dusty door you’d be swept up, flown to New York, and once there you would have your navel licked out by Ellen Degeneres. No shit. It was a special treat only for the special people brave enough to enter that room. Apparently, it was a big secret that Ellen Degeneres is a world-class navel licker who has antique shops around the country rounding up perfect candidates for her special services.
    Now I’ve got a crush on Ellen Degeneres, and woke up with a wet navel.
    Cindy says she doesn’t know what I’m talking about.

    And I don’t have a dog to blame it on.

    This is all your fucking fault.

  2. Squatlo says:

    Don’t bother to take the link, youtube has pulled the Larson video because of licensing concerns or something. Dammit.

    I’ve got an old VHS tape of that television special here somewhere, and ought to get it converted to digital…

  3. Mooner Johnson needs sexing says:

    Squat. OK, first, I saw that special and the lone wolf scene is a fucking classic. Please post it somehow. As for your dream sequence:

    1. Ellen D. is but one of the many lesbians I adore because of who they are, and therefore, dream of sexing.
    2. What color was the door you were required to walk through to get your navel licking? If red, we’ve had the same specific dream. If blue with horizontal pink pinstripes, then that was the nightmarish passageway to the conjugal bed of Michele and Dr. Marcus Bachmann. Howsomever, should you have pulled the twisted brass handle on an old weather-worn wooden door with rusted iron hinges and cracked wooden spike construction, then you, my befuddled friend, have had dream sex with the devine Ms. Oprah Winfrey.
    3. Get a dog.
    4. Stop blaming others for your own sins.
    4. Fuck Walmart and the Catholics too!

  4. Squatlo says:

    Not having been through any type of psycho-therapy, I don’t take my dream sequences (or dream sequins, for that matter) apart for examination. I couldn’t tell you what color the door was that led to Ellen’s nimble tongue, but I CAN tell you she was wearing a crotchless leather dominatrix outfit with breasts exposed through a criss-cross leather and metal strap configuration. See how it works in my dreams? I don’t remember much of anything about the architecture or the wallpaper or the china patterns in my dreams, but I can pretty much nail the attire worn by a seductress to a tee.

    And Tennessee isn’t by god Texas-Squared. I don’t know who posted that shit on my blobber comment thread, but just to be clear about it: If you squared Texas, you’d get a proportional increase in both geographic land mass AND certifiable loons, cranks, religious zealots, and outnumbered progressives. But on the bright side, if you “squared” Texas, it would a lot easier to draw on a map. Who the fuck cut out the borders for that state, some kid with Tourette’s and an Etch-A-Sketch?
    Our state map was designed to look like a parallelogram, not that anyone in Tennessee can spell that word without a dictionary or active spell-check. The reason we designed it in that shape was to symbolize a pointy finger. We’re pointing at North Carolina.
    No one knows why.

    About your response:
    1) I too lust over unattainable lesbian women. I once had an opportunity to spend a weekend in Cahokia Illinois with a friend and her girlfriend, and while there I made an earnest pitch to be privvy to a ringside seat in the bedroom, just for the purposes of journalistic observation. They declined my meager attempts to watch nubile young women in Sapphic bliss. Later that night I got the audio portion of the evening’s activities from an adjacent living room couch, as the sound of C-cell battery driven devices filled the air. Throb alert, times ten.

    2) Don’t keep track of door colors, like I said. Only one I really remember was in the movie “Behind the Green Door” and I only remember THAT because it’s in the title.

    3) We can’t get a dog because we don’t have a fenced in backyard. Have you heard what happens to people who try to adopt rescue pets around here? They come to your house, investigate your criminal and financial histories, check out your landscaping, and review past vet records to see if you kept your other pets innoculated and groomed properly. You can get a kid from Guatamala with less trouble than you can adopt a homeless kitten in Tennessee, ’cause they’d rather euthanize a dog or cat than give it to an unworthy prospect.

    4) I’ll stop blaming others for my own mistakes just as soon as they stop making them for me.

    5) Fuck Walmart and the Catholic Church is a redundant request. I can find little difference between the two entities. They both move into a country, county, or city, run off other like-minded businesses, confiscate huge parcels of land for their nefarious aims, and subject their employees and “customers” to unmentionable atrocities. I’d just as soon spend money at one as I would the other, so I avoid both. Like herpes.

  5. Mooner Johnson needs sexing says:

    Squat. OK, first, I would be the “Texas Squared” asshole, and when it comes to the quantities of Dumass generated from your state these days, I might should have said “Texas Stupid Cubed”. Inverse quantum mechanics aside, tell me that Tennessee’s state Legislators are far less dumb than those in Tejas, and I’ll reconsider.

    Maybe.

    Perhaps I can help you with the harborment of a pet. Maybe a Great Western Horned Toad or what about a porcipine? My pet matching instincts lead me to more of the prickly pet than the soft and cuddly for you. I’s suggest a rattlesnake but wouldn’t want any trouble geting over your border without unwarranted confiscation.

  6. Squatlo says:

    Yeah, our State Troopers tend to err on the side of caution when it comes to carloads of poisonous vipers. The TWRA is pretty quick to snatch ’em and take back to the woods if they catch you haulin’ ’em around, too.

    But I digress… seems as if you’re taking shots here about our pet worthiness. Listen, I can be as welcoming as anyone else when it comes to warm and fuzzy furry guys, and want you to know I’ve probably owned more dogs in my lifetime than you and any three of your friends combined. I just happen to be in a domicile at the moment that is definitely pet-unfriendly. We have no yard to speak of, and you’ve seen that yourself. If I had my way, we’d be up to our titties in romping Labs and other water dogs.
    I’m thinking we might have to break this pet-free barrier with a cat, just to warm up to the idea of keeping pets. If Cindy’s niece ends up living with us, I want her to have the joy of owning and caring for an animal. And I don’t think a toad or a porcupine would do the trick.

    As for our state legislature, I don’t have anything to say. They are a sad group of ignorant shitheads of the lowest order, pulled around by the NRA and the liquor lobby, preached to by intolerance fundie ministers, and beholden to all of the wrong interests. If a merchant of evil needs a place to call home, he’d be hard pressed to find one more welcoming that Tennessee with our current crop of legislators. Population-wise, we might be home to a higher percentage of ignorant fools than Texas. Hard to believe, and even harder to say.

    I may have to join you and Cynthianne in the Land of Enchantment if this keeps up. Y’all get UT sports over there? And I’m talking about the original and far superior UT… with the real orange and not that burnt Dorito on the dashboard shit outta Austin.

    Go Vols. And Fuck Walmart.

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