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.