So. The last several days have been interesting. OK, if you have a perverted sense of humor, then you will find the last several days of my life interesting. Me, it’s been but one more week living the drama that has become my mother. This week started with my usual Sunday afternoon phone call to the loony old gasbag I call “Mother”. I had called her Saturday evening and had one of our typical conversations where she was nasty and I tried to be nice. She was especially nasty and I snarked at her before I hung up. So, maybe that means my week started on Saturday. Or maybe I should say that last week’s shit spilled over into this week.
Anyway, I said, “Fuck you, you batty old bitch,” but I said it sweetly in spite of what she had said to me, and I finished the call with, “I love you anyway, Mother.” I rang her number:
Mother: “Who is this?”
Me: “It’s me, Mother, it’s your loving sonny boy making his usual Sunday afternoon call to his mother. How was church?”
Mother: “Sonny who? Sonny Hicks or that other Sonny?”
Me: “Oh, for shitsakes, Mother, look at the Caller ID—it’s me, Mooner.”
Mother: “Well why didn’t you say so in the first place? How come you never call me? And where are you?”
Me: Deep breath, small sigh, “I’m still in Santa Fe—home of the homosexuals—Mother. Where are you?”
Mother: “I’m where I’ve always been—in the special Hell the good Lord placed me for raising such horrible children. I just wish He’d take me now, put me out of my misery. You never call me anymore. Now tell me where you are before I hang up on you!”
Me: Sound of telephone receiver thwacking on skull, low, anguished groan, “I’m still in Santa Fe, Mother. Just as I have been for the last two-hundred thirty-seven times you’ve asked.”
Mother: “If you don’t tell me which Sonny you are I’m hanging up and calling Sheriff Wozniak. How dare you scare an old woman.”
Me: Sounds of me wondering why sweet Jesus won’t take me instead, sound of an idea light bulb going off, “I’m sorry, Mother Johnson, it’s me, Sonny Hicks. How are you doing down there to San Antonio? Do you like your apartment?”
Mother: “Oh, Mr. Hicks, I live in such a fine place. My son loves me so much he’ll only have me living in the best apartment in all of Texas.”
Me: Imagine the sound of question marks and total confusion, “Huh? What the fu… Er, that is to say, you’re son must love you very much. Have you spoken to him lately?”
Mother: “Oh, my yes, he calls me almost every single day. Sometimes we pray together—Mooner is a fine Christian man. His sister is a fine Christian as well.”
Me: Sound of a man sharpening a wooden stake, “That’s nice Mother Johnson. I hear Mooner moved to Santa Fe. Aren’t you afraid of all those homosexuals turning Mooner into one of their kind?”
Mother: “Mooner’s a good boy, Mr. Hicks. Where did you say you are?”
Me: “I’m still in Santa Fe, Mother. How was church?”
Mother: “We studied all about Sodom and Gomorrah, Mooner. Every day I get out of bed and look to see if there’s a story on the news about how you’ve been turned into a stone pillar. You never were smart enough to stay out of trouble, Mooner. You’ll soon be a homo-sex-u-al, and then you’ll see.”
Me: “I think you might be right, Mother. Just today I was driving down the street and I thought to myself, I thought, ‘I sure would like to suck on a big, fat and juicy dick right about now.’ You think that might be a sign?”
Mother: “I’ll pray for you, son. Now put that nice Mr. Hicks back on the line.”
Me: “OK. Love you and talk to you soon. Click.”
I do wish I was a gay man, or at least a bisexual man. If I could stomach the idea of sticking another man’s pecker in my mouth, I’d fucking be gay. No attachments or long term promises of fidelity and all that shit. Then again, it appears that same-sex marriage is going to become a reality, and that will totally spoil the benefits of same-sex sex for me.
Me, I’m wondering if this entire same-sex marriage dealio is going to end up as one of those “Be careful what you wish for” thingies.
Anyway, the second woman in my life who shares familial blood and messed with me by phone was Sister—the aforementioned good Christian woman. Sister is married to my third ex-wife and was excommunicated from the Baptist church about the same time as me—the year, I think, was 1968. Sister has been a lesbian from her first breath and a proud one at that.
Sister seems to feel the same way about sucking on a pecker as do I. And don’t start on my ass about how the fucking Baptists don’t excommunicate their wayward flocksters. Anytime a scolding ends with the words, “…and don’t you ever darken our door again,” you, dear friend, have been excommunicated.
My phone rang:
Me: “Hello, and thanks for calling La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe. How might I direct your rude disturbance into my ever so enchanted life?”
Sister: “It’s me, asshole. Call your mother and do it right now! You haven’t called her in more than two weeks? I can’t believe you, Mooner.”
Me: “Huh? What time is it?”
Sister: “It’s a quarter after three here in Texas. Did you lose your watch?”
Me: Sounds of irritation, “I stopped wearing a watch because everyfuckingthing I own has a clock on it, and, well, that makes it two-fifteen here and I hung up from speaking with Mother approximately twenty-one minutes ago.”
Sister: “Mother says you haven’t called her in weeks. Oh, and before I forget, she told me to tell you that Sonny Hicks called her this afternoon. Wasn’t Sonny Hicks the guy who took a crap in the pocket of Mrs. Browningwell’s raincoat?”
Me: “No, I think that was the other Sonny. How’s Anna? I keep hoping she’ll get tired of you and want to switch Johnsons again. It’s been months since I’ve had me any sexing, and…”
Sister: “Not even funny, fuckbreath. You blew that one and it’s my good fortune you did. I’ll tell her you still love her. Sorry I doubted you.”
Me: “It’s OK, Sis. I love you a bunch. Come see me, OK?”
Why is it that some of my favorite people are gay? Sister and her lovely bride, my buddy Lloyd, and George Tokay. Ellen DeG? I was contemplating that question when my phone rang again.
Me: “Hello, and isn’t it a lovely day at Mooner Johnson’s House of Contemplations. Is it better to have loved and lost or to count your chickens before they hatch?”
Aunt Hilda: “Well, Dearie, you seem to have another perplexing situation on your hands. I’ll go with the chickens. Are you getting enough bulk in your diet.”
Me: “Hey, Hilda, how’s it hanging, baby?”
Aunt Hilda: “High and tight, kiddo, high… And mighty tight! Why haven’t you called your mother, Mooner? She’s calling the entire family and boo-hooing all over the place.”
Me: “Oh, for shitsakes, Aunt Hilda. I just got off the phone with her a half-hour ago.”
Aunt Hilda: “Well, call her again. You know she’s a touch forgetful.”
Me: “OK, alright, I’ll call her again. Bye-bye baby. I love you.”
Aunt Hilda: “Me too. Why don’t you try one of those granola cereals with dates and raisins—move your stools right on along. Say “Hi” to Sonny Hicks for me, and go call your mother!”
I wondered if maybe it would be less stressful for me to move back to Texas. For like maybe ten seconds I wondered. Fuck Texas. I’ve never been happier than since I moved to New Mexico. I was counting my many Enchantedland blessings when my phone rang again.
Me: “Thanks for calling the Fuck Texas Hotline, Mooner speaking. Today’s special is your basic crew neck tee shirt emblazoned with our copyrighted slogan, “Fuck Prick Perry and Walmart Too!!!” Available in white, black or tittie pink, these high thread-count cotton tees are….”
Gram: “I’mma kick yer Texas-bred butt from here ta Waco, shithead. Git offn yer ass an’ call yer crazy fuckin’ mother and do it on the pinto!”
Me: “Didn’t you mean call Mother pronto, Gram?”
Gram: “Oh who gives a shit, Mooner, you ain’t got tha brains of a fuckin’ bean. Now quit yer talk-backin’ an’ call yer mother afore I come down there to New Mexico an’ kick yer skinny ass!”
Me: “God, it’s good to talk to you too, Gram. Are you getting any?”
Gram: “Hell to tha yessiree-Bobby! Me an’ tha P-cubed got a couple Aggie boys tied up over ta her place right as we’re a speakin’. Now call yer Mother.”
P-cubed is Penelope Paxon-Parades, Gram’s best friend and the woman whom Gram calls her “Poontanger huntin’ buddy”. Those two old broads are a horny young boy’s worst nightmares, and I got to thinking that I need to try to be more patient and caring for my mother. Dementia is a terrible affliction and I don’t need to inflict my wounded child bullshit on the woman who bore and wounded me.
Which reminds me. Why is it necessary for every single consumer product to now have a clock in it? What makes Time so fucking important that we now need it available in every instant of our lives?
Anyway, with my fancy new ball point pen with a flashlight, compass and clock in its top, I was writing one of those “Ben Franklin” evaluations—you know, wherein you draw a line down the center of a page of paper and write a plus sign on one side and a minus on the other? You put the goods on the plus side and the bads on the minus side. An old fashioned decision-making device that I have used all my life.
I was a good fifteen minutes into my decision-making process, one wherein I had sixty-seven good things about living in Santa Fe, and but one bad one—my new-found allergies—when my phone rang once again. Ring:
Me: “Hello, Mother, and thanks for calling Mooner Johnson’s House of Ben Franklin Decisions and Predictions. Pick your poison and talk to one of our experts. How might we assist you today?”
Mother: “Learned your lesson?”
Mother: “I did not mumble. Don’t ever mess with me again, Butcher Einstein Johnson. I am your MOTHER!!! Click.”
Me, into the dead phone line: “Sonofabitch. Mother, you’ve been playing me.”
Son… of… a …. Bitch! I guess my mother is going to screw with me until one of us dies. On a brighter note, Cynthianne sent me the linkster for the petition I couldn’t find the other day. Please take the time to sign it.