Liar, Liar Pants On Fire; Surveying The dreamscape

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!


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12 Responses to “Liar, Liar Pants On Fire; Surveying The dreamscape”

  1. bj says:

    Holy Flying Penii Snort Toobs What a dream! or WAS it? Big G said you needed some fun and then sentchy some. Man! wish I had a god like that … Luh-cky! and ooooo send a copy of this to Scorsese or Spielberg … can you just imagine The Good Ship Lolly Coke on the big screen? Oh yeah … I’d buy tickets to see THAT!
    When I was 11 or 12 a kid in my neighborhood had a Pocket Guide to breast size and shapes. Like it was a bra buying guide … or something. Kinda like this ( but with black and white drawings of different sizes and shaped breastesses – frontal and side view. As you might imagine … that little 10 or 12 page pamphlet was a very popular item in Woodfield Park. The condition of that little guide deteriorated quickly as we passed and stashed it around so all the fellas could … uhh … ‘study’ the reference material. I had forgotten all about that little pamphlet until your dream. Thanks for the …um … mammaries.
    Of all the lying rightwing hypocrites McCain is the werst. But I suppose if I spent MY time assigned to a war zone as a privileged prisoner living in the lap of the luxury of the Hanoi Hilton … well then I might have a different perspective about being a POW as well. I hope I see or hear just one of these bikers around here wearing a MIA/POW patch and poormouthin’ Bergdahl. THEM sumbitches will get a comeuppance I gair-on-TEE! Just wait ’til the details emerge about that sorry outfit he was in … and how they RAN OVER A VILLAGE KID WITH A FIVE TON TRUCK and then began shunning Bergdahl for not goin’ along with ’em. Oh yeah … I hope to see those same sumbitches Fox interviewed the other day who were calling him a deserter … I hope to see how THEY weather the national scrutiny and back on camera answering questions about the flies on their own asses. Oh yeah … You want the truth? Let’s get ALL the truth out. Fuck them. and fuck John McCain again and every day for infecting us with Palinignorance. Like you said … Liars all!
    Remember yer last encounter (that I’m aware of, anyway) with the real Ms. MacGraw when you wound up spillin’ shit on her and nearly turning her table over there to the craft fair thingy? ‘member that? You-uz practicin’ what you was gonna say … and how you was gonna say it ‘n all? ‘member what you wound up sayin’? when yer ADHD kicked into full swill? I’m thinkin’ that some-WHERE along the line … “How’s it hangin’, babe?” has werked for you … and you gotcher tip wet. and in all that swirlin’ confusion that IS yer ADHD … somewhere in there … yer little head kicks into gear and your subconscious takes control of yer mouth, hopin’ for a repeat. I could be wrong, though, … I mean, I DID forget about Fudd’s Deviations, so I’ll werk on an alternative opening line for yuz. Props to ya’ Momma …

  2. Beej. I just went over to M-Dot’s place to watch Shoes For Industry. Half way through, I had this flashback of what it was like the first time I protested the Nam war. Guy a couple years ahead of me in high school–kid named Dee Hyden–was shot down as he was dropping his chopper to the floor to help evacuate some boys from the jungle. I was a college freshie at a major Texas uni, and we smoked some weed while listening to FST, and I think it was Nick Danger. Got a call from another buddy to tell me Dee was dead.

    I was just now watching Shoes for Industry at M-Dot’s and reliving how we jumped up and went to campus to join the other students who protested near the fountains most all the time. Then it dawned on me that maybe you were one of those boys Dee Hyden died trying to save. I’m now finding myself quite grateful for the pilots pulled your ass out of those jungles.

    As for Mother… Older son’s getting married this fall and the rodeo to get his grandmother to that dance has begun. Might write about it. I need to start counting the times she asks, “Nathan’s getting married?”

  3. Katy says:

    You have to be really careful about getting cocaine on your junk. Apparently, it’s sort of a thing – cocaine will do you like Viagra if properly applied – but it can work too well. The “4 hours or call a doctor” thing with cocaine has led to some amputations.

    I guess an amputation might not be awful if your junk is already running around with wild women and staying out all night, but it’s something to think about. I don’t want this blog turning into something from the last scene of “Requiem for a Dream.”

    I probably just ensured your next dream takes a dark left-hand turn, haven’t I?

  4. Katy. The simple fact that you are speaking kindly about my junk is Viagra enough. Knowing that you are unattainable as well adds layers of stuff to my already muddled brain. When will your new place be open? I’m miss Stewed Lesbians.

  5. World. CAPTCHA just pranked that last comment of mine. WTF did i say to offend CAPTCHA??

  6. Squatlo says:

    Your dreams beat the shit out of mine… I dream about mundane stuff I don’t let my conscious mind dwell on during the day, like tire rotations and oil changes, things I should be taking care of, but don’t, because hey, life is short and who wants to spend it in a tire shop watching Faux News Channel on their waiting room TV?

    And for the record, cocaine sucks like a Hoover. Like the song says, “Cocaine’s for horses, Twernt never meant for men…”

    Beej’s breast pamphlet reminded me of the time my mom and dad took me with them to visit my sister Karen at Fort Sam Houston in San Antonio when she had joined the army and was in physical therapy training there. We stayed in some sort of base housing, sans air conditioning in Texas during the hottest August on record. I had my own room in this pisshole of a place, and in one of the drawers was a copy of Penthouse magazine. I was about thirteen at the time, and the only “dirty” magazine I’d ever seen was Playboy, and only then when stealing peeks at my brother-in-law’s collection. This magazine featured women’s pubic hair, and not only that, it clearly showed genitalia Playboy airbrushed out of every photo. Needless to say, it was like finding a boatload of cocaine and loose women, to a kid of thirteen. I probably came close to pulling off my pecker on that trip.

    The reason I bring this up (speaking of bringing things up) is because I tried to sneak that mag home in my suitcase, but of course, my mom was wise to my sudden interest in packing my own clothes for the trip home… busted. They didn’t believe my claim that the publication had been left in a drawer… like a gift from the Hooey Gods. At the time, it was the closest thing to a miracle I’d ever witnessed in my life, and then my mom handed it to my dad, who glanced through the pages and then tossed it into the trash on our way out of the place.

    I don’t know who she was, but I’m still in love with that woman’s muff… Funny how you remember things like that when someone else is dreaming about God and flying peckers.

  7. bj says:

    I respectfully disagree with Good Squatlo’s assessment of Bolivian marching powder. It is without a doubt god’s greatest herbal gift to man. It is the stuff of which Heroes and Legends are made.
    unfortunately that song is also correct …. “They Say it’s Gonna Kill Me, But they D-don’t S-say when. Cocaine …..”

  8. Squat. My favorite read was the Sear’s and R’Buck catalog. I swear to you that they would air brush, or whateverthefuck it was they did back in the Sixties, tiny creases and bumps into the chests and crotches of some of the photos on one page of women’s clothing. I had a magnifying glass and I’d study every photo of a woman inside the pages of a new catalog–page after fucking page, looking for the single sheet that carried the enhanced lady parts.

    Once found, there wasn’t a bar of Ivory soap in the county left un-lathered for the season. I’d have killed myself with a Penthouse.

  9. Beejer. I’m with you. Doctor shows me proof I’ve got six weeks to live, I’m taking two of them to visit family and friends to say my adioses (adiosi?), and then I’m cashing the 401K, calling these Colombian dudes down to Houston, and spending my end of days in a rented suite in Cesar’s Palace. Troll the casino and recruit as many women as can fit around the glass-topped dining table that I remember sits in the living section of a CP guest suite.

    I love all my family and friends, and dearly so. But there isn’t a one of them I gave up for my health.

  10. bj says:

    Have you seen The Wolf Of Wall Street? Did you see WHERE Jordan Belfort inserted more than one straw full before blowing? I think Katy’s just trying to scare you about the amputation thingy to help save you from your dreams. Of course if I’ve only weeks to live … I’ma try to WEAR it off before I die anyway, sooooo. Nah’me?
    I saw several close friends go down and out on account of Sneeze and in a moment of clarity was able to extricate myself from that scene and all those people. I knew I needed distance to be able to survive. Oh what fun it was to ride, though, ten feet tall and bullet proof …..

  11. Squatlo says:

    Gettin’ in is easy, gettin’ out can be tricky. I lost some good co-workers and friends to that particular narcotic, and while it might have made for some great times, it also made for some regrets I could do without. Nights spent playing “Quarters” on a mirrored table, trading shots and snorts, bouncing coins til 7AM… Calling in sick (which wasn’t a lie, we were sick at the time), and feeling like hell for days afterward. I can remember organizing trips and concerts and events around the opportunities to partake, and realize now how selfish it was to put THAT shit before some people and things that were way more important.

    Found out long ago that I prefer a slower ride, if I’m looking for an altered state. I’m hyper enough without help.

  12. Beej and Squat. Back when I used it in the old days, there was actually a big article in what I think was Time magazine that told us it wasn’t addictive. Had all these doctors and scientists saying it could be destructive to our wallets and yes, you can overdose, but not a real problem when you control your usage to the party scene.

    They were wrong, Chucko, and mightily so. But, and again, if I’ve already got the first foot on Life’s trapdoor…

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