So. How many ADHD brain-addled fuckballs does it take to poster a story to a bloggie? From the evidence herein contained, the clear answer is, “At least one more than you, shithead.”
Not a complaint, mind you, but I’m way busy with my work and trying to keep far too many balls in the air, and doing so in the face of strong oppositions. I guess some folks don’t like you messing with their balls, an actual life situation that would be a welcome respite for truly yours.
And don’t even start on me with your silly “it’s ‘Yours truly’ dumbass” bullshit. You, dear reader, spend the same 45-minutes in careful thoughts as I did pondering as to whether “yours truly” or “truly yours” is more accurate when making the express statement previously made, herein, above, in the specific contexts as those thoughts weighed by me when I was in said quandary in real time, and then tell me I’m wrong.
And whyinthefuck isn’t it “truely”, with the “e” left inside?
Which reminds me that I’ve been having these really interesting dreams lately. In one recent dream I decided to adopt this busload of school children I found abandoned on the side of the road that runs from Cimarron, NM, through the back mountains to Eagle Nest. I have traveled that road recently for work and saw a bus load of kids parked on the side of the road near a spot where you can get to the river and trout fish. I dream wondered what they were doing stopped, where they were fishing or taking a pee break, or whatever, and now I have another question.
Why is it “traveled” and not “travelled”? This shit is pissing me off. Evil goat fucking grammar shitwads.
The kids were a rainbow of colors and spoke as many languages as they bore hues. In the dream, the kids debated having me as their father and decided that they’d rather stay orphaned and wandering endlessly through the mountains looking for places to make pee stops.
“You look deranged, Mister. We’ll keep on trucking.”
I also had a dream—the one that has stimulated me to get up at 3 am on a work day to write to you—about which I’m finding myself inarticulate. I can’t seem to find enough of the right words to use to express my sentiments with any adequacy. Let me lay it out for you by telling you the basics of the dream.
So, I’m sleeping with me spooning the Squirt as she lay with her back against my chest and her adorable head under my chin, and Yoda was spooning me with his one leg draped over my neck and his snout draped over that paw. We’d had a take-out salad from Joe’s Diner—this with-chicken affair garnished with six pounds of fried garlic on top. The garlic had made its way through our systems and into our skin and breath before bedtime, and in sleep our combined odoriferous emissions were peeling lacquer from the viga-beamed ceiling, one of several architectural features of the master bedroom that are New Mexico trademarks.
Having said that, I find myself required to address viga beams. A viga is a natural log beam used as ceiling and roof framing here to New Mexico. The exposed beams are usually covered with a tongue-and-groove planking that serves as ceiling on the inside, and roof decking on the topside. The resultant wooden features are considered to be one of Santa Fe’s charms.
Sleeping soundly with draped-dog warmth, I felt the subtle movements of the mattress made when a person, or a fucking dog, attempts to mount the bed and slither under the covers. The presence moved carefully from the bed’s foot to a position behind me where a second person would sleep on my king size mattress. The newbie settled, fussed with the covers—an action that normally pisses me off—sighed deeply, and started snoring.
It was, at first, a light snore. It was the sweet sound of a new lover after a sweat-drenched hour of first-time sex. “Been awhile since I heard that sound,” I said, dream aloud, to myself and whomever it was lying next to me.
“It will be quite a while longer, Sonny Boy, if you don’t find some time for yourself.”
The throaty sound of Sharon Stone’s Basic Instinct voice added, “You need a vacation, asshole.”
Dream-realizing it was my God who had slipped in beside me for another late-night counselling session, I whipped over and sat up to face Her. Said actions caused both dogs to jump-start, and begin barking at God.
“It’s OK, kiddies, it’s only God come to fuck with me some more.”
This visit, God looked like Raquel Welch in Myra Breckinridge, and she was dressed in the nurse’s outfit from the movie.
“Uh, hi, God,” I dream stammered, “please don’t tell me you’re here to peg me, ma’am. I’m not that young anymore, and I’m unsure my heart could handle the stress. Uh,” and here I stuttered some more, “uh, uh, ah. Um… OK, you sound just like a sassy Sharon Stone but look like RW when she played that man eater in Myra Breckinridge. What’s up, Ma’am?”
God kissed my open mouth with Raquel Welch’s lush lips. As a young man, I had often wondered what it would feel like to kiss those lips. I’d fanaticized the soft, sweet taste in my youth. As a dreaming old man, this not so chaste kiss did not disappoint.
“You’ve been working quite a lot and I thought I’d pay a visit to remind you to have a little fun. You need to have a little fun, Mooner.”
I dream thought a minute. “OK, Ma’am, how about you pull those covers down and show me your breasts. The most fun I can think to have right this instant would start with my head nestled between Raquel Welch’s breasts.”
I awoke suckling the rubber nose of Yoda’s stuffed bunny rabbit. Sad to say that my garlic mouth tasted worse than a month-old dog toy, but “Truth and the American Way” is my middle name, and foolish behavior my modus operandi.
“Fuck it, kids, I’m getting up. You two might as well stay in bed because I’m not feeding you at three in the morning.”
I unsettled and sat on the edge of the mattress dressing to a growl from the goat dog and Squirt’s, “Eat shit and die.” I paddled in here and started writing and now find that I will be late for my 6:30 am work start.
But before I go, I want to say one thing. I want to say that racism is alive and well in America. I want to say that somehow, some way, we have allowed bigotry to re-infest and re-infect our civilization to the same epidemic levels experienced in the 1950’s. We need to stop this near-pandemic disease before it ruins us. Big Money is fueling divisiveness and using it to pit common men against common men, women against women.
Take a stand against prejudice before it’s too late, and: