I’m Not Really Crazy; Liar’s Poker For Dummies


So. It’s another glorious Sunday morning in Enchantedland. We’ve now had enough rain to ease the drought conditions and turn everything green. Not enough precipitation to end the drought, but amounts sufficient to make us forget about drought.

The temp is 51 degrees, and that’s the absolute truth. It rained a gentle rain for several hours last night and the air smells just like my Gram’s fresh-washed sheets hanging from the clothesline on a crisp fall day back to Texas. Back before fabric softeners and scented detergents ruined the actual clean smells that were the short term payoffs of hard household labor. Back before vaginal sprays replaced a vinegar and water solution squeezed from a douche bag. Back before the musky smell of a hard day’s work became offensive and needed to be wiped out by chemical anti antiperspirants.

Back before Madison Avenue became so powerful. Before the marketers of big business learned how to manipulate our desires so effectively, so terribly.

Me, I blame Hitler and the rest of those Nazi fucks. It isn’t that other assholes were not investing serious scientific efforts into making determinations as to how the human brain works and how to manipulate it. It is, rather, that the fucking Nazis sole goals were to further their evil desires to dominate the entire globe. And as with all extremist cultures, Hitler’s mind scientists worked at their jobs with the same furor as a modern day Muslim jihadist, or violent right-wing Christian anti-abortion protester.

The advances made by psychiatrists and other scientists from the late Eighteen Hundreds and into the 1920’s were used by the Nazis of the 1930’s and 1940’s to do all sorts of dastardly deeds. Mass manipulation of their populace turning good, hard-working people into robots; creating mass hatred of cultures and religions and social belief systems; instilling fears so strong that formerly rational men would use poison gas to mass murder fellow humans; brainwash a generation’s children to surrender their own parents to a chilling death.

It’s the fucking Nazis who developed the sciences behind most of today’s behavioral understandings, or said another way, it was the Nazis who taught us how to “spin” realities.

OK, let’s stop this train before I ruin the entire day. It’s just too perfect a morning for me to go off on the Nazis when I have some other thoughts to share. I got a call from Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson last night. She wanted to remind me that I’ve continued to “forget” to call for my regular phone psycho therapy sessions—a sign of either progression or regression of my lunacies—and also to tell me that she has finished her book.

It was the good doctor’s having decided to write a book that stimulated the desire in me to write a book and finish before her. Having said that, I now realize that I must have a mean competitive streak inside me that might require some additional psycho therapization.

How fucking sick can one man be?

OK, please don’t answer that as, again, this is a glorious day. Dr. Sam’s book is her memoir—the story of parts of her life. Maybe that would make it a partial memoir. Like, maybe she’ll mention the how I ruined her life but not my positive influences. Or perhaps how she managed to become a wealthy woman by over-charging me for unneeded services—maybe it’s a “how to” book rather than a life story.

She wants me to read it. She wants me to read it and tell her what I think of it. She knows that I’ll tell her the truth, and her knowing that I could never actually lie to her, this scares the shit right on out of me. After everything I’ve done to this woman—all the heartache and other pains I’ve caused—the last thing in the world I want to do is tell her I don’t like her book.

I lay awake all last night worrying about it. I tossed and turned something fierce. I must have “Ughed” a hundred times.

“Listen, shithead. If you ‘Ugh’ one more time, I’m telling the goat dog to shit on the pantry floor again.”

That was the tiny bundle of short brown fur and canine wit I call Squirt. It seemed that my worries were keeping her awake. Not so for Yoda, the aforementioned goat dog. “You’ll need to splash him with a bucket of ice water to get his attention, little lady. That little guy is sleeping the sleep of the dead.”

The Squirt looked at me with dead-pan eyes. “Get your ass out of bed so I can get some rest. Go write something stupid and post it on your blog. That always calms you down.”

And here I am. And here I now realize that I haven’t said anything that matches the happiness that Nature has deposited outside my door. I have so many things that bring me joy and all I can do is fret over the fact that I can’t effectively lie. I have spent my entire life in the attemptings to lie with believabilities, and I’ve spent that same lifetime tangled in the snares of a caught liar.

Ugh. The Squirt tells me that I need to get lying lessons, maybe apply for an internship over to Fox News. Learn how to twist the truth into total shit without so much as a facial tic. Then again, maybe it’s best that I can’t lie.

But who really gives a shit? It’s a beautiful day and I’ll see y’all manana.

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15 Responses to “I’m Not Really Crazy; Liar’s Poker For Dummies”

  1. Squatlo says:

    I fondly recall the scent of freshly washed sheets that had spent a sunny morning flapping in the east Tennessee breeze on my mom’s clothesline back in Kingston, and how nothing felt better than those fresh sheets on a bed. I still get enthusiastic about fresh sheets, but ’round here they get “Bounced” or something, and there’s no telling what they really smell like.

    About the chemicals we spray up under our pits, though, I’m afraid I’m going to have to go with modern conveniences and say that I prefer NOT to catch a whiff of someone’s sweaty armpits after a hard day’s labors. Especially my own. Truth be told, I can go from fresh scrubbed to “reek” in about two hours without deodorant, and damn if I want to announce my arrival in advance every time I enter a room.

    Fifty-one degrees this AM? Damn… we’re having a cool snap, too, but the humidity is somewhere between “Soggy” and “Waterboardin'”

  2. bj says:

    While I prefer everyone else (especially Nazi fucks!) use deodorant on their pits so I can’t smellum, I don’t find my own personal pit stench offensive. Sorta like … MY farts? Don’t really stink (Après le napalm hot wings and ‘Newcy Brown not-withstanding), but YOURS (using the collective yours here … not yer personal farts specifically, Moondog) make me run for cover … or intense ventilation! That said, however, I DO use Degree Powder scented spray anti-perspiration with the double dose of aluminum chlorohydrate … regardless of the long term adverse carcinogenic effect on my personal personry, as a service to mankind. I try to help the humans when I can. S’what I DO. Crotch and ass stench is a completely different matter altogether and intolerable in man and beast. Suggestions? I have two. First, stop with the Ivory fetish already and buy a can (stick, pads etc.) of deodorant for while interacting with OTHERS … but revel in your own manly odoriferous aura in the privacy of your own personally private company of aloneness. Secondly …. read the damn book. You may be pleasantly surprised and relieved to find her writings and cogitations are much more coherent than the scribblings that …… I mean …. you may actually LIKE her book. Think how good it will make you feel to tell her that. Either way … after reading her book tell her it’s the best thing written since the Ten Commandments. She is, after all, a Woman and you know THEY NEVER forgive or forget. No pressure ……

  3. mel says:

    Well, 51 degrees sounds just perfect to me. Perfect.

    Also, I am sorry that you STILL have trouble coming to my page. I swear, its just you, so maybe I cause you to need more therapy in some way and that is just your way of dealing with it…I don’t know. And I’m totally fucking with you. Its ok. Don’t worry about it.

    And finally, just read her book. You might actually LIKE it. For real.

  4. Katy Anders says:

    What’s the difference between a memoir and an autobiography? I mean, “memoir” sounds fancier. A former First lady wouldn’t write something as dirty and common as an autobiography, but other than that, is there a difference?

    If not, I want to make up a word that sounds even more highfalutin than “memoir.” What’s fancier than French (I assume “memoir” is French)?

  5. Squatlo says:

    Katy, if you pronounce “memoir” properly (ignore the French or whomever else tells you this is wrong) you will say the word “Me-mwar” After all, it’s all about ME, not Mem, right? If you want a new word for most of the autobiographies on the market today, why not use “mememememememe!” instead?

  6. Mooner's on Lunchbreak says:

    Squat. I think we’ve become convinced that Life’s odors are bad and only something purchased from big business smells good. Cleopatra had nothing but citrus and flowers and a little frankincense, and look at the trouble her scent caused! Me, I’m allergic to most of those chemicals so I never use them. Spent an entire week with a bunch a hillbillies in Tennessee and nary a single bitch.

    Ivory soap and pure Johnson pheromones.

    Beej. Keeping parts clean and recleaned after a day’s work is just polite manners. Anyone with a stanky ass wants a stanky ass. As for Sammie’s book, I’ve just decided that since I like her, I’ll simply “like” the book.

    Dr. Sam I.-Am: “Well, Mooner, what do you think?”
    Me: “I like it.”
    Dr. “What do you think about it?”
    Me: “Well, I liked it.”
    Dr. “Does it read well, is it written well?”
    Me: “I like it.”
    Dr.: “Did you even fucking read it?”
    Me. “Yes, and I liked it?”

    Am I a clever sumbitch, or what?

    Mel. The problem lies in my inability to open a Blogger or Googlater account. When it was the URL dealie to comment, I had it made. Maybe I’ll get someone to train me how.

    Katy. How about “Lebensgeschnichte”? But knowing my lovely ex, her memoir will be more about those in her life than her own existence. Much as I bitch, she’s actually one of the finest humans consuming oxygen.

    Re-Squat. Funny take.

  7. Squatlo says:

    I think someone should publish a “you-moir”, filled with shiny pages that mirror the face of the reader. It’s all about YOU! Every page of it! A celebration of YOU, the enlightened person who purchased the book.

    No need to thank me, I can come up with this shit all day long…

  8. bj says:

    There’s one you need to register/copy write, Squat. THAT book would STAY on the best seller list!

  9. bj says:

    © I meant copyright, dammit! © fuckin’ speelcheck ….

  10. Mooner's on Lunchbreak says:

    Beej. I’ve already stolen the idea and please watch your local bookseller for the arrival of, “What’s Better Than Me? You!!!” a you-more by Butcher Einstein “Mooner” Johnson. Available in hard cover for just $29.95.

  11. bj says:

    Hot Dog! I’m headed to Amazon right now! Let’s see … “I” want a copy and Ms. Baby’s birthday is next month … and Christmas is just around the corner and ……..

  12. Mooner's on Lunchbreak says:

    Beej. I decided to have them make the pages do that carnival mirror thingie. Each page will provide a different distortion of the distortions looking at themselves.

    “Oh, does this make me look fat?”

    “You betcha!”

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