Cardinal Sins And Other Misdemeanors; Blessing Da Pope


So. Its 3:43 am and I’m sitting, awake. With the first infestations of Mountain Jumpier Pollen- Version 2014.1, my entire body is itching from a spot that lies one-sixteenth-of-an-inch under my skin—a calamity wherein the more you scratch the more you itch—I’ve snotted up an entire box of recycled facial tissues since eight last night, and I’ve managed to obsess over almost every aspect of my life. I’ve finally managed to obsess my shit enough together on the professional front to make plans to play poker today, but, and alas, I feel like hammered cat fur balls, I’ve dried snot making my face look like Tony Montana’s in the last scene of Scarface, and I can actually feel the swollen blood vessels in my eyes when I blink.

I’m a fucking mess.

Then, again, a certain unsettling countenance can prove beneficial when playing poker for actual cash. Which reminds me. I was sitting in front of the TV in an attempt to watch Ohio State play Clemson in a bowl game. The dogs were both planted on me as I lounged in the soft den sofa and the score was 14-to-7. Don’t know which had what points and I didn’t really giveashit when the phone rang. I’d forgotten to bring a phone close to the sofa, so I was required to disturb the dogs to answer.

“You’re a total asshole,” the Squirt told me when I untangled her from her nest between my legs. The diminutive brown puppy likes to wedge herself between my legs and then have me wrap her with blankets. She then twists-and-turns until cocoonelated like a silkworm in its final life stage, sighs a “Harrumph”, kicks with her back feet to tighten said and aforementioned cocoon, and sleeps like a baby.

“I keep telling you to put a phone close. I was dreaming and almost caught the bunny rabbit when you roused me,” Squirt groused.

I didn’t bother a response because to respond would have caused me to miss my Gram’s call, and catch an additional load of crap.

“Happy New Year, you sexy old gas bag. How’s it hanging, Gram?” I love my grandmother in inexplicable ways.

“Don’t you be all sweetie pie talkin’ ta me, Mooner. Call yer fuckin’ mother an’ do it right pronto. She say’s ya ain’t call’t ‘er since Halloweenie an’ there’s a terrible cry shits ya need ta handle. Now you git,” and I was left with dial tone.

“Love you too,” I spoke to the dial tone, “and whatinthefuck is a ‘terrible cry shits’?”

I looked at the dogs and asked again. “Terrible cry shits?” The fractured English that spews from Gram’s maw can be unsettling, but does, however, provide the mental gymnastics that lubricates my brain. I’m told that keeping mentally fit stays off the terrible effects of dementia, a malady that has already struck my bloodlines.

“Oooooooh. Crisis. Mother has a terrible crisis,” I said with not a small amount of pride.

My mother is a batty old broad now living in an advanced living facility who suffers from advancing Alzheimer-linked dementia. I call her at least daily and she sometimes forgets but mostly pretends that I, as she would say it, “Never calls me. Mooner never calls.”

I hit auto-dial to ring Mother’s apartment. She must have had her hand on the phone because the first ring didn’t complete its tone before I heard a clipped, “What took you so long?”


Me: “What’s up, Mother. Gram tells me that there is something terribly wrong.”

Mother: “I wouldn’t need your grandmother as an intermediary if you would simply call me every month, or so.”

Me: “I called you what is now, maybe, seven hours ago, Mother. Don’t you remember that you told me that Mr. Rosenthal kissed you and tried to get you to hold his pecker for him when he pees?”

Seems poor old Mr. Rosenthal has the shakes so bad that he waters the entire bathroom when peeing. Me, I’m thinking of using Mr. Rosenthal’s pick-up line. “Pardon me, young lady, would you mind helping me a moment?” My personal solution for missing the commode and also as a water conservation program, is to pee in the sink.

My sinks, your sinks and their sinks.

Mother: “Listen to me, Butcher Einstein Johnson, and listen good. There’s a diabolical plot hatched by that African Muslim president of yours to sabotage the Catholic Church. We’ve got to stop him!”

Me: Huh? What in the world is she talking about? “Mother, for starters President Obama is not a Muslim or an African, and for finishers, what in God’s name are you talking about?”

Mother: “You know, Mooner. You’re one of the conspirators. Mr. Beck told us all about how you people have tricked those poor Cardinals into electing a communist as Pope.”

Me: “Oh, for shitsake, Mother.” I started laughing.

Mother: “Don’t mock me, boy!”

Me, feeling full of piss and vinegar: “I heard a joke the other night. God and Saint Peter are sitting up to Heaven, bored out of their gourds. ‘It’s been centuries since we had any fun,’ Peter said, ‘let’s go to Venus and hit a few bars.’

‘Too hot on Venus,’ God tells him, ‘I don’t much care for all that heat.

‘OK, then, let’s go to Mars instead.’

‘No,’ God says, ‘too cold there. Makes my bones ache.’

‘What about Earth?’ Peter suggests.’Earth has the perfect climate.’

‘Very bad idea, Peter. I went to earth a couple thousand years ago—dated this nice Jewish girl for a short time—and people just won’t stop talking about it.’”

After a long pause, Mother: “You’ll burn in Hell, Mooner. I’ll see to it!”

Me: “OK. I’ll change my will to have some marshmallows placed in my casket.”

Mother: “You’ll pay for your heresy,” and she slammed her phone in my ear.

Me, I was feeling pretty satisfied with myself, but I might have been the only one. “You can be such an asshole, “ Squirt told me. “Why do you always feel the need to stir your mother’s pot?”

In retrospect, why indeed? I’m plenty assertive with Mother, so there is no need to be passively aggressive with her. I’ll never get her to see the world any way other than from the right-wing, conservative Christian view, and I’ll never be one of those assholes. I picked up the phone and hit the redial:

My telephone: “Ring…ring…ring…ring…ring…ring…”

Mother’s phone: “Beeeeeep. (pause) Mrs. Johnson is away from her phone. Fine Christian callers may leave a courteous message after the tone. Mooner Johnson can go straight to Hell. Beeeep.”

Me, to the machine: “That is stunningly brilliant, Mother. I’m booking my passage to Hell. See you there.”

I remain flummoxed at the Christian right faction of the American fabric. There exists enough dichotomies contained in their logic to make a schizophrenic feel organized and also to make my head swim. Imagine what a devout Catholic must be going through right now.

Warms my heart. Fuck Walmart, y’all.

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8 Responses to “Cardinal Sins And Other Misdemeanors; Blessing Da Pope”

  1. Katy says:

    What’s great about the Pope is that the way things stand, you can attribute almost ANY headline to him:

    “Pope abolishes sin.”

    “Pope declares Wicca ‘mostly true’.”

    “Pope reads homily consisting of Jay-Z lyrics.”


  2. Squatlo says:

    This guy is exactly what the Catholic Church needs right now (other than RICO charges and a pedophilia sting operation by Interpol). Think about it… instead of the same old cardboard cut-out Papal Dolls, we’ve got ourselves an enlightened comic who drives his own car, sneaks out of the Vatican at night alone to walk the streets, lectures prudes and homophobes to give it a fucking rest, and basically spends most of his time trying to teach “Christians” how to be Christians. Full time job, and he’s not even been over to America where the worst of the hypocrisy has its mother ship.

    Wouldn’t surprise me if the guy guest hosted Saturday Night Live.

  3. bj says:

    When he liquidates the Catholic Church’s coffers and spreads it amongst the poor and infirm as his Christ commanded I will be impressed. Yes and of course ANY pencil neck Jesuit is better than the previous Nazi in the beekeeper hat, but c’mon … we’re talking Catholics here. Same stratum asfucking Muslims, Jews and the all the other “Holies”. Jim and Tammy Faye looked legit in the beginning. Well, for a minute. I do love hearing updates on Gram, yer Momma, and the Kids. Glad to hear Mother is doing better. Too late to change her … just try to make sure she’s happy. LOVED the joke ……

  4. Mooner Johnson needs sexing says:

    Katy. How about, “Pope provides 36 billion pages of evidence against priest abusers WITHOUT a supoena.”

    Squat. I do guess that it’s the tried and true “baby steps” dealio, but I tend to be more aligned with BJ. If this guy follows through and doesn’t get politicized I can be more supportive.

    Beej. Here-here! My buddy Peter told me the joke and I should have credited him up there, and my favorite part is old Mr. Rosenthal. Brain ravaged by dementia and still getting all creative and shit whilst thinking with his pecker. Rumor has it that Gram stopped by to meet him.

  5. Squatlo says:

    Okay, a caveat from the lapsed Catholic in the crowd… I don’t expect this sumbitch to atone for all of the Church’s sins for the past couple of millennia, but wouldn’t be surprised if he made some efforts to at least expose and renounce those responsible who are still on the payroll. I’m never gonna be an apologist for this organization, under any circumstances, and would contend that nothing the Church has ever done or will do warrants a “plus” on the ledger of history. They’ve been a net “minus” regardless of future actions. Cure cancer, end warfare, amend the designated hitter rule, speed up baseball entirely, and help push along the political evolution of mankind? Then we’ll talk.

    And for the mother fucking record, Jim and Tammy Faye never looked legit. Not in the beginning, not during the mascara massacres, or during the mea culpa pleadings with federal authorities.

    Ernest Angley had a better scam going…

  6. bj says:

    Yes, for the mother fucking record, I didn’t mean the Bakkers looked legit to YOU, Squatlo. Legitimate to the sheeple who are searching for the truth and then are sucked dry to perpetuate the greatest fraudulent endeavor. I suppose, though, that if he does anything that tuns out to be beneficial for the masses it will have legitimized his ‘rule’. Fucking … NOT!
    ps: I’ve never given the Mackeral Snappers a dime …. but I did send Gene Scott 20 bucks once. Rev. Gene had better hats ….
    and Mooner … don’t take this the wrong way or get mad? but I’m pulling for ol’ man Rosenthal to get more than just his tip wet. No offense ….

  7. Squatlo says:

    Hey, BJ, I MISS Rv. Gene Scott! Those shows landed on my TV at about the time I was getting home from 4 to 12 shifts at the plant, and they were always (!) entertaining as hell!

    “Play the damn song! I’m not reading another word until those phones start ringing!” as he wore two pair of glasses at the same time, sitting in a fur coat with a pimp hat on his head. Classic. I tuned in one night and he was addressing a “complaint” that he wore too much jewelry, and that a man of God should have private jets and boats and multiple homes. He told the camera that his ministry asked people to tithe, 10%, and he tithed 10% of what they sent him to his ministry. The rest was his to do with as he saw fit, and they could kiss his ass and KEEP their money if they didn’t like it.

    Only “minister” I would have given cash to, ever…

  8. Mooner Johnson needs sexing says:

    Beej and Squat. Don’t fight, my brothers. Instead you should find the truth, and light a fat dube and say a word of grace to the great Ernest Angley. “Hee-al,” I say to you, bretheren.”

    Used to drop acid in college, and often, and would spend the last hours of the second day watching the only TV station that had 24-hours service. The Ernest Angley Hour and The porter Waggoner Show were run back-to-back starting at midnight. I’d often space my shit and think the big haired lady on Porter Waggoner was Dolly Parton and when old Ernie would tell us to touch the TV screen to get “Hee-aled”, I rub my crotch on that woman’s head.

    Good times, the Sixties!

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