So. It all started about a month ago. This unlikely chain of events that has created a wonderful mass of conflicting emotions never before experienced by me. It started, as many of my New Mexico unlikely chains of events do, with a conversation with the Squirt.
“Looka here, asshole,” the adorable bundle of brown fur and unfettered opinions told me this one Wednesday afternoon. She and the goat dog were playing in the back yard here to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe, and I was sitting on the red stone wall—drinking Carta Blanca beer and sucking on a doobie fat as a frankfurter—while commenting on the state of my love life.
Squirt had walked over to where I sat, jumped into my lap and stuck her nose in my face. “Listen to me, shithead. You need to find something to occupy your time before Yoda and I take out a contract on you. You’re driving us batshit crazy with your moping around, and Honor the cat knows a guy who knows a guy.”
Huh? Was she telling me they were tired of all my parenting and animal husbandry? “What the fuck are you talking about, little lady? I rededicated my life to being a better parent to all my pets, and since Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry are stuck in Austin and the fucking cat only visits on whole fish dinner days, you two puppies are the beneficiaries of all my love and affection.”
“You’re loving us to death, Bwana Mooner. Find something to do away from the house or I swear, we’ll have you snuffed out. We’ve saved all our allowances and we can cover the five-grand price tag.”
Maybe it was a bad idea to raise their allowances. Which brings up a point. How much allowance should parents give their kids? What should they do for that weekly stipend?
“Contracts for a hit are two-way streets, shitbird, but I guess I get your point. Maybe something will come up,” I told her.
And that reminds me. I was at the computer playing a game of Spider Solitaire. I had but one stack of cards to play and I hadn’t turned a single five card. Seriously, eight decks of cards in play and I’ve seen at least sixty cards and can’t turn a single fucking five. “Where are all the fucking fives?” I almost yelled at my computer screen as I jabbed the button to turn my last ten cards. And there, big as life, were eight fucking fives. Swear to God. All present and accounted for, and all with no place to go.
After first cussing and then staring in wonderment at the eight fives and attempting to calculate the odds of the event, I started surfing around somewhere on the great I-net. I came across a video on Antimatter—you know, that stuff that is the other dimensional mirror image of actual real-life matter shit that famous physicist, Paul Diroc, discovered back to the 1920’s sometime. Story goes that the Big Bang should have produced antimatter in equal amounts to actual matter, but there’s this huge shortage of antimatter. One theory says that there’s this entire second antimatter universe that suffers a shortage of matter, but I have a second theory that holds as much water as that one.
See me, I am firmly convinced that science hasn’t quantified all the antimatter assimilated into the hearts and minds of America’s right-wing Christian conservative fuckballs. Physicists say that one milligram of antimatter is enough to to match that of the Hiroshima Fat Boy bomb. I say that the antimatter in our right-wingers is enough to destroy the world.
Anyway, the day after the Squirt threatened to have me eliminated, I had lunch with some friends from Albuquerque who own the largest and finest business of its kind in all of New Mexico. Smart, fine people I’ve known for decades. They asked how I was doing and when I told them of my dog’s plans, the man said to me, he said, “Well, maybe this is a coincidence of good fate, but we’re doing so much business in Santa Fe that we want to open an office here. How about you run it for us?”
After three-seconds of serious and detailed consideration, I said, “OK, when do I start?”
I’ll do anything to stay alive, including work for someone else. I love my life even without sex. Maybe if I was getting sex I wouldn’t be able to stand it. Maybe there is something as being too happy. Maybe a person’s heart would explode if their life was filled with too much joy.
Bottom line—and the conflictions mentioned way up there in the beginning, herein—is that I’ve been working my ass off and having a ball while at it. I haven’t worked as an employee since I was a kid, and I have never in my life been involved in any business enterprise wherein I had no financial risk to the business’ success and profitability. My new boss and friend says that my fiscal responsibility and management experience make me especially well suited for his needs. I say that the constant worry that it isn’t my money at risk is a burden. I’ve never worried about costing another person money if I make a bad business decision. All my boo-boos, blunders and basically hard-headed mistakes have only cost myself. Now I carry the additional burden that if I fuck something up it hurts another human whom I care for. OK, stop. My mistakes only hurt the finances of people for whom I care.
Ugh! Being an employee is tough.
But I love what I’m doing and having a blast doing it, and that reminds me of something else. The Holy Roman Catholic Church is electing a new Pope. Do you think he’ll be vetted to first determine if he’s a pedophile, and second, determine if he’ll move the Catholic position on rapist priests into at least the Nineteenth Century?
Me, I’m thinking not. I think that as long as The Church won’t allow women to become leaders and they prey upon the purses of the World’s poor and uneducated, that institution will still be run by fucking Nazis.
Maybe if they make the black guy Pope I’ll feel differently. Until then, fuck the Pope and fuck Walmart too!
Manana, y’all. OK, maybe manana de la manana or thereabouts.