Archive for June, 2014

Liar, Liar Pants On Fire; Surveying The dreamscape

Sunday, June 8th, 2014

So.   I’ve had a lot of stress at work lately—shit that makes me ask myself the question, “Why?”—and I had another of the weirdly wonderful dreams I have when stressed.  Actually, I have weird dreams when stressed or worried or angry or even when I’m sad.  Maybe I dream weird shit when I’m emotional.  OK, maybe I’m weird and all my dreams are normal for someone so fucked up.

Sounds like time for a phone consult with the psycho therapist.  My first ex-wife and longtime brain the-rapist, Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, was in Santa Fe for a conference the other week and we had dinner together.  Our weather has been getting warmer and she wore one of those loose, I think “taffeta” would be the word, blouses, with no support garments to contain the raw beauties that are her breasts.  Sammie’s breasts were always her most stimulating feature sex-wise, and I guess I was staring at them.

“Jesus, Mooner, you’re looking at my tits as if they were to be your last meal on death row.  Try to find my eyes when you proposition me.  Maybe it will help you get laid when you encounter a woman with some modicum of interest,” she told me.  Then she added, “And ‘How’s it hanging, baby’ is not a good pick-up line, especially for women of a certain age.”

Maybe I was ogling, and I have another ex-wife, an opera singer of French descent, who has these gigantic and magnificent breasts.  Breasts that could launch a thousand ships breasts.  But Sammie’s breasts are, well, not something I’m willing to discuss with you and I guess I need to update my opening lines.

OK, and I do need therapy and having said all of that, I realize that my recent dream was stimulated both by my work stress and likewise my recent glimpses of my lovely ex-wife’s breasties.  I was asleep, lying on my back with the goat dog rammed in my arm pit and the Squirt nestled between my legs, her head resting on my belly.  My memory of this dream starts when Squirt said to me, she said, “Wake up, shithead.  Your God’s back to pay you a visit,” and she got up to sit at the foot of the bed.

“Huh?” I dream asked, “I don’t see no God.”

“You need to open your eyes, Mooner, I’m right here beside you.”

It was, indeed, my God.  But for the life of me I can’t remember what He looked like.  All that comes to me is that He was a He this time, and not Ali McGraw or Jane Fonda or even Raquel Welch.  “You’re under a lot of stress, sonny boy,” my God told me.  You need to have a little fun!”

With those words my pecker stirred, disconnected from my body, and transformed into that cigarette character from Doonesbury awhile back.  You know, the smarmy cigarette man with the smoking ash hair?  Except my handsome penis wore an unrolled condom on his head like a bolder hat.  Is “bolder” the word, or is it a “bowler” hat?  Whateverthefuck, my pecker was a dandy in this dream, and a popular dandy at that.

Have I ever told you that I have recurring dreams that I call my Shirley Temple dreams?  Shirley Temple part is that in these dreams I’m captain of The Good Ship Lollipop, and the Good Ship is loaded to the gills not with lollipops, but cocaine.  Giant natural rubber coated bales stuffed stem-to-stern in her holds, and sparkling, waist high piles of sniffle dust on her decks.

Coke everywhere in the dreams, but I can’t partake because me, I’m the fucking captain and I can’t pilot and snort both.  I don’t drink and drive or drive otherwise impaired, ever.  Spent the night in Atlanta’s downtown jail twenty-five years ago for a DUI.  That night broke me of driving while impaired in any fucking fashion.

Decks of Ship Lollipop were crowded with piles of coke and maybe a dozen young beauties in various stages of wearing bikinis, and not.  All the women had beautiful racks of mammary flesh, titties of all makes and models.  As a person of quite discriminating taste when it comes to women’s breasts, I must say that I’ve never seen a bad rack.

Had a really bad rack of lamb this one time up to New York City in the swanky “bistro” I’m no longer allowed to enter, but I’ve never encountered a breast I didn’t adore.  Maybe that’s because I wasn’t breast fed as a baby.

The women and the wayward appendage were having a great time as they partied with my coke.  And the weirdly wonderful part of this particular dream is that all these women used not straws, but, rather, my dandy-man pecker to snort the Peruvian marching powder.

I’m standing steady at the helm to guide Ship Lollipop safely to port, and my penis is having the time of his life.  I just know, deep in my soul know, that this dream is a sign that I am seriously fucked up, that maybe a million-dollars of therapy hasn’t yet uncovered all my lunacies, and that I need to fix some shit at work.

But, like my Gram always says when she says, “Who gives a shit, Mooner?  Yer nuttier than a eight-peckered Billy goat, so what’s tha diff-ernce?”

Anyway, all these sexy women are passing my pecker around from one-to-another, swilling champagne and dancing to the music of the Cars.  “Who’s gonna take you home, to-night?”  Dream ended when my pecker announced to the crowd, “Gotta go, kiddies, I’ve nine more parties to make before dawn.”

With that, wings sprouted and my condom-capped and quite a dashing figure penis flew off the boat and disappeared.  And that reminds me of something else.  Am I the only man standing who is afraid to tell a lie because I think a man’s lies will come back to haunt him?

I’m encountering liars who do so with these proud impunities.  Tell a lie, a big old whopping lie, then act all pissy when someone calls them on it.  See it in the workplace and social groups.  And especially in politics.  Like that fuckbrain John McCain.  Awhile back he says we can’t leave any soldier behind, blames Obama for his weak policy, and lays-out a prisoner swap plan to get a particular young soldier back home to America.  Now, Obama does exactly what Johnny War suggested and brings our boy home, and McCain calls Obama weak for doing so.  When weakly called out with a question about wasn’t this his idea, McCain’s answer is, “Well, er, that was different,” and the interviewer lets the sanctimonious asshole off the hook.

Whatinthefuck is wrong with us?  Are we really this brainwashed?  Is America so fucking stupid that we let powerful men tell lie-after-lie and not hold them accountable?  Was I the only kid who’s 1955 plastic Superman rubber band flying toy crashed and shattered into a dozen pieces on its maiden flight?

I was devastated on the afternoon of my sixth birthday when I—wearing my also new Superman cape, a hand-sewn garment from the loving hands of my Aunt Hilda—attached the quite lifelike plasticine image of my idol, Superman, to its rubber band launcher, pulled back with all my strength, pointed skyward and slung the mighty missile into the clouds.

“I’ll be a sumbitch.  That fuckin’ thing ain’t worth a shit,” my Gram noted at the broken pile of super plastic lying at her feet.  “Grab tha shotgunner, Daddy, we’re goin’ ta Willy Kocouric’s place fer a redone.”

Maybe I do need a new opening line.  How about this one- “Name’s Mooner Johnson.  Been married ten times and I’m guessing I’ve already got considerable experience in pleasing a woman like you,”?

Am I a silver-tongued devil, or what?  Fuck Walmart!