Archive for July, 2014

Word Press Discriminates; She’s Dead, Dammit, She Didn’t Pass Anything

Wednesday, July 30th, 2014
  1. And So.  I’m having trouble with my Word Press website.  What happened is that I updated the silly fucking thing and now it makes a complete and total mess of the first paragraph I try to print by dropping some random number of the first few words and then printing the start of each bloggie dealio as a numbered format, like it’s an outline.  I’ve been trying to fake it out but with no luck. So, and once more again, I’ve typed some additional words to begin this silly shit in an effort to get things to read correctly for you.   Maybe this time I’ll succeed in outsmarting it.

Then, again, I don’t have a good record with outsmarting technology.  Like the time back to college when I manufactured a sixty-foot long aluminum foil antenna extension for the little Zenith TV that Streaker Jones and I watched.  For some reason the TV reception there to our little rented duplex was terrible and I had finally strung enough shiny balled foil out the window and around the eaves of the house to bring the picture’s state to what we called “somewhat fuzzy”.

The lightning strike was indirect as it made initial contact with a neighbor’s tree, splitting off a huge oak branch that fell on a Volkswagen Karman Ghia parked on their dirt front yard.  However, that much metal strung that close was simply too much for a lonely lightning bolt to ignore.  My best buddy and I were stoned out of our gourd and watching coverage of the Viet Nam War on our nightly news when lightning struck.

“Fucking farrrrr out,” Streaker Jones calmly stated when the TV exploded in a blast of dust and glass and this really stinky powder.  “I knew we’d git better reception when ya hung yer new antenna, Mooner, but holy shit, man.  It’s lik’ they brought the war to our livin’ room.”

Me, I’d ducked and covered as my personal impression of the event was that the North Viets had invaded Austin, Texas through our TV set and it was all my fault.

Anyway, so my sister Tammy died in the middle of the night Friday to Saturday morning.  She was alone and her poor husband didn’t go check on her until early Saturday evening.  He told me that he overslept and didn’t get the messages from Hospice and I believe him.  I called and left numerous texts and emails for him starting early Saturday and they always went to voice mail.  Or text mail.  Or whereeverinthefuck an unanswered text sits.  Fucking smart phone bullshit.

It would be fashionable to be pissed at him for not sitting at my sister’s side—his wife’s side—except for when you factor in the simple fact that he is schizophrenic. A tortured soul who has spent too many days locked up to the Loony Bin while wearing the fashionable laces-in-the-back outerwear found in abundance in such places.  Man fears hospitals with a certain ferocity, and while the hospice facilities are not a hospital, they are quite hospital-like.  To hold my brother-in-law accountable in such circumstances would be to demonstrate a callousness beyond that of a passionate, caring human.

A callousness such as that possessed by my mother.  I’ll not get too deep into Mother’s behavior these last weeks other than to provide you with the transcript of a phone call from Friday afternoon several hours before Tammy died.  “Ring-ring,” rang my phone:

Me:  “Hello, Mother.”

Mother:  “Why won’t anyone tell me Tammy is dead?”

Me:  “What?”

Mother:  “I saa-aa-id, why won’t you tell me Tammy is dead?”

Me:  “She isn’t dead, Mother, what’s wrong with you?”

Mother”  “People go to those places to die.  She needs to be dead.  Her hus…band (husband said with a disgust dripping with sarcasm) should be at her side twenty-four and seven.”

Me:  “Jesus-fucking Christ, Mother, you’ll get your wish soon enough.  Go play bingo, or in the street, but leave your son-in-law and me alone.”

Mother:  “She should be dead by now and you need to tell me!  And where are you?”

Me: Sound of punching the red “End” button on the phone.

When I replayed that conversation with Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson in this morning’s Skyper phone psycho therapy session, she said that I need to understand that people deal with death differently.  After an hour of discussing how I feel about Mother’s method of dealing, and some of the stunts she pulled while at my sister’s death bead, Sammie said to me, she said, “We’re off the clock now, Mooner, and I want to say something off the record.”

“OK, but if you threaten to send me back to the Loony Bin again, I’m throwing a hissy fit.”  I hate the fucking mental hospital just as much as my brother-in-law, and just exactly what is a hissy fit?  Is that where you hiss incessantly—“hissssss…hissss…hisssss—until somebody gets so tired of it they give in to your hissy fit?

My lovely ex-wife took a huge cleansing breath and said to me, she said, “Off the record, I must say it’s a miracle you aren’t all fucked up.”

As we were Skyping this session, my eyes had wondered to my ex-wife’s nipples—plumped raisins poking at the silk fabric of her kimono-style robe.  Those beautiful fruits are why I schedule my sessions early of a morning.

“Jesus Christ, Mooner, don’t you think of anything but sex? Stop staring at my nipples and focus on your issues,” she scolded.

“Oh for shitsakes, Sammie.  You said we were off the record.  Besides,” I said with a sly grin, “you used to like it when I was focused on your breasties.”

Which reminds me.  When I first got to Las Vegas and Tammy was still in the ICU, I counselled with her cancer specialist.  As we spoke, he kept looking at me in that curiously funny way we use to study curiosities that confound us.  He’d say something like, “No, Mr. Johnson, the cancer has spread too far to do anything about it.  Your sister waited too long to…” and then, wordlessly, he would ogle my face—acting as if he wanted to reach out and touch it.  He would lose himself staring at my face while he “Hmmmmed and Ooohed.”  OK, maybe it wasn’t wordlessly, but the oohs and hmms were hummed rather than spoken.

I got fed up with it and asked him, I said, “Whatthefuck is up with you, Doc.  I’m not gay and you sizing me up is making me uncomfortable.”

“Oh, sorry, sir,” he told me.  “Professional curiosity.  It’s just that you have a solid dozen pre-cancerous spots on your forehead, and a fat basal cell carcinoma right there on the side of your nose.”

He reached for said nose and poked the spot that has been sore and shedding skin for a few months.  “Ouch!” I whined like a kid.  “That fucking hurt.”

“Look at your sister over there in the bed, Mr. Johnson.  That little sore spot on your nose can put you under the covers with her if you don’t get it taken care of.  I have a friend in the business in Santa Fe.  When you get home, call and tell her I sent you.  Do it first thing.”

I did and saw her—the dermatologist—the Friday morning Tammy died, last Friday.  Please notice that I have only used the word died.  Not passed or succumbed or deceased or expired or even croaked.  My sister is dead goddammit, and that means she has died.  She didn’t “pass”, like she took a test to end her life, and she didn’t give up on life—the cancer fucking took it from her.  It pisses me off when people try to make all nice-nice when there is a death.  She was 59-years old and she’s dea-fucking-d from smoking cigarettes.  You face it and help me face her death as well.

“Dr. James from Las Vegas referred me and he said for you to see me pronto,” I told the receptionist when I called for an appointment.

“Oh, you’re the man Dr. James told us about.  I’m very sorry to hear about your sister, Mr. Johnson.  Smoker’s cancer is a terrible disease.”

“Well, thanks for the kind words but if I were you, I’d not make any further mention of my sister Tammy.  She’s gone lawsuit happy on her death bed and wants no mention of her after death.  Made the threat to sue me several times with too many of her last words.”

Anyway, I’ve now got a forehead that looks like it was spiked by football cleats, and the left side of my nose looks like someone stubbed out a fat cigar quite slowly.  Nose has an ugly scab the size of a nickel.  One of those oozy, multicolored jobbies.  So much was removed to rid me of the basal cell tumor I was worried that I could cover my nostrils and still be able to nose whistle.

And that reminds me of something I want to say about death.  You know how you never seem to know what to say to people who have lost loved ones—right?  At least those of us who actually give a shit, we seem to not be able to find words of comfort that don’t sound like either a silly fucking Hallmark card or the plastic words of some asshole Baptist preacher.

Here’s my advice.  Say something about how you’re sorry for their loss, ask them if you can do anything for them besides go the fuck away, and then say, “This is really shitty and I hate it for you.”  Say it just like that.

Because death is really shitty, and if you actually do care for me you hate that it has happened.  You will never go wrong with those words.  And:

Fuck Walmart because the Waltons are really shitty.

Watermelon Man Two, The Sequel; Some Things wash Off, Some Don’t

Saturday, July 26th, 2014
  1. I’m freshly arrived home to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe after eight days in Las Vegas where I tended to my wayward sister’s pending death.  For those of you familiar with a cancer death, my sister Tammy was “fish breathing” at ten-second intervals when I said my last good-bye in the middle of the night.  For those of you not yet acquainted with fish breathing—you lucky sonsabitches—breathing like a fish out of water is a near final stage of life for a cancer patient.  There is no visible remainder of the human who occupied the space alien-like being lying flat on the white sheets of the hospice bed, just an organic recycling machine that starts Life’s ashes-to-ashes decomposition by consuming itself in a quite mechanical fashion.

I find myself with far too much to say about these last ten days and far too few words to say them.  As a man lacking filters under usual circumstances, at my sister’s wishes I am forced to filter my thoughts like the Micronite filter on the Kent Cigarettes that enticed my sister to start smoking.  It was advertisements for the fancy Kent filters that convinced Tammy it was safe to begin smoking all those years ago, and it was the lies in those filters that has killed her.  Fifty-nine years old and killed by a business lie.

If corporations are people, why can’t we prosecute them for killing other people?

Which reminds me.  I didn’t have enough clean undies to pack for this trip, so I stopped and bought two packages of new drawers to take with.  One package contained two white pairs and one black, and the other had two blacks and a gray.  I have always preferred white underwear, but I figured whatthefuck, maybe some handsome woman wished to leave fond memories of Mooner Johnson in Las Vegas—the dashing Mooner Johnson who wore fancy, black underwear and knew how to pleasure a Midwest school marm.  I packed the new undies in my small second bag and drove to the tiny Santa Fe Municipal Airport.

The first sign that black undies might not be my style came to me when my bags were strip searched by Security before boarding.  The nice TSA agent—a woman of maybe thirty years, skin the color of milk chocolate and a radiant smile—said to me as she emptied my bag and set the new drawers on the stainless counter , she said, “Not your color, sir.  Navy blue… Maybe, but not black.”  After repacking my bags she sent me off with a giggle, “Maybe those black garments can be what you leave in Vegas.”

I love a woman with a sense of humor and almost offered to take her with me.  But the reason for the trip reentered my mind.  The word “sad” has become almost a mantra for me over the last weeks.  “How are you?”  “Sad.”  What’s up?”  “Sad.”

My trip was planned to arrive ahead of Mother.  I wanted Tammy moved from ICU at the hospital into the hospice care unit so that my sister would at least be more comfortable in her final days.  Having our mother coming to pay last respects was discomforting to my sister.  We had long discussions about how things should and would go once our lone remaining parental unit showed to Sin City, and we developed a safe word for use when Tammy wanted to end conversation.

“Just say ‘I’m tired,’” I told her.  “Your safe word can be I’m tired.”

“That’s two words, dumbass, three if you don’t contract them,” Tammy said with a smile.  “Fast as I’m losing it I’ll be lucky to remember the “I’m” part.”

Did I mention that it’s hot in Las Vegas?  It is, and each night I would visit Tammy a last time for that day, retreat to my hotel and change into walking clothes, and take a brisk walk up-and-down the Strip.  I got an Ambien from Mother as I wasn’t sleeping well on Monday—and knowing I had a half hour before feeling the effects—took the little sleeping pill and headed out for a walk.  An hour-long, hot and sweaty walk.  Sweat your balls off sort of walk.

I arrived back at my room all sweaty and tired and sleepy, forgot to turn the thermostat down but turned on the TV and sat back on the bed at 11:36 pm.  At least I think that’s what the clock said.  I awoke at 6:16 am with my tee shirt, shorts and underwear still sweat-glued to my body and itching like I had the crabs.  Had the crabs this one time.  Caught them from a chair at the La Quinta Inn over to Phoenix maybe twenty-five years ago.  I’m fresh out the shower and thinking about what to do next, so I grabbed the Phoenix Magazine and sat on the chair in my room.  Felt grit on my bare ass, so I stood and brushed what I thought was sand from the chair and re-sat.  Twern’t no sand, twas the crabbies.

Anyway, whoever says that you awake from a nice night of sleeping pill sleep feeling all refreshed and shit is a liar, a giant fucking liar.  Not only did I itch like a sumbitch, but my mouth felt like Motley Crew had partied in it back in the eighties and I felt as dingy as Victoria Jackson.  I struggled out of bed and padded to the bathroom to take a shower and try to get fully awake.  I pried the tiny cake of bath soap from its fancy cardboard box, and yes I did indeed do without my Ivory, turned on the water and climbed into the shower.  I stood with my back to the meager spray with eyes closed for a minute or two, hands against the back wall to brace myself.  Didn’t want to fall over.

After those few minutes, I opened my eyes and tried to get them to fully focus.  I first looked at my feet but they were too far away, so I next looked at my pecker and balls.  As all the men know, when you are hot for a long time, your pecker and balls grow in much the same way as they shrink when they get really cold.  With my foggy brain, I looked down at my heat-swelled package and as it slowly came into focus, I saw that not only was it swollen, it was black.

“Holy shit, my pecker is big and it’s black!” I almost yelled.  “There is a God and She’s turning me into a black man starting with my pecker and balls!”

I was quite excited and had started to think about what it might feel like to be a black man.  Excitement lasted until the tiny soap cake produced enough lather to wash the black off and I realized that it was the unwashed black underwear that turned me black, and not the hand of my God.  Also caused me to wonder if I could handle all that yang of a big black pecker’s yin.  I know I’ve got thick skin but I do wonder if I could handle that kind of prejudice, what with my getting such a late start.  Too bad cancer won’t wash off.

Anyway, and again at that, I’m headed off to the casino to work.  Johnson’s the name and poker’s my game.  So, fuck Walmart and bigots too!

Dark Skies And Darker News; Sad Times In Santa Fe

Monday, July 14th, 2014
  1. I have a quite unenviable task to perform later today.  Today I tell my mother that one of her children is dying.

Let me back up.  When I started this silly fucking bloggie dealio I was required to make two specific subjects verboten and totally off limits.  The first were my children.  Except to mention that I have them, I’m not allowed to talk about them.  My kids did nothing to deserve me.

The second subject unavailable for my discussions is my younger than Sister sister, Tammy.  Named for “Tammy, Tell me True,” the youngest of the three Johnson siblings was a full sheaf of wild seeds wide-eyed and naïve enough to wish those seeds sewn westward from Austin, Texas as a testament to personal freedom.  During one of our once-a-decade phone conversations, Tammy informed me, she told me, “If you ever speak of me again, I’ll sue your pants off.”  Then she laughed and added, “OK, that’s not a threat to you, you inappropriate sonofabitch.  I’ll sue and take the ranch away from you.”

See, my sister Tammy is a wild yet private citizen who prefers her associations to be with persons not named Johnson.  She once told me that she wanted so little to do with Johnsons that she avoided anything that had Johnson associated with it.  Even got married once just to drop the name.  “Cheaper than going to court,” she told me when I asked her about marrying a man she’d known less than a week.  “Besides,” she told me, “he’s going to make me famous.  I’ll be a rich and famous model.”

Tammy had model good looks.  She’s tall, curvaceous, and has that fabulous Johnson bone structure.  That “pretty Johnson girl” was her nickname all through school.  But Tammy took the brunt of Mother’s wrath when we were kids, and Mother pushed her away.  I want to say so much more, but I must honor Tammy’s wishes and not tell more.  Hell, she may sue me for saying this much.

Anyway, Tammy now lives in Las Vegas and she’s in Life’s deep doo-doo, and I’m the designated family informer.  I’m to wait until Sister can get over to Mother’s place just before noon, and then I’m to call with the news.  I lay awake last night rehearsing the words and way to break this terrible news to my mother.  Terrible enough that Mother will learn that she’ll outlive a child, but terrible more that her dementia will cause her to relive learning that news over, and over again.

Fucking ugh.

I’ll be heading out to Las Vegas for a while to assist my sister in whatever way I can, so I guess I’ll be missing from these pages during.

Fuck Walmart.  Fuck Hobby Lobby and SCOTUS.  Fuck cancer and fuck Death.

Trickle-Down Integrity Is The Only Trickle-Down That Works; Has Anyone Seen The Fucking Cat?

Friday, July 11th, 2014
  1. So. I’m attempting to set a new Santa Fe record for consecutive days writing, this making three such productive days in a row, and I’m finding it difficult to talk about anything not related to my new retirement.  My psycho analyst tells me that is because I’m sad and hurt by the events that prompted my early departure from what had been a fun and fulfilling work experience.  But there is this annoying Windows 8 dealio that places outline numbers into my postings for no fucking reason.  Anytime you see these examples of bad format, Blame Billy Gates, not me.

(Editor’s note:  When I started this shit it was, actually, for the third day of writing in a row, said writing to have been published for the third consecutive day.  Today is now Friday, and I’m hoping to actually finish and publish whateverthefuck it is that I’m trying to say before today becomes Saturday.  See, on Monday I got a call from a buddy asking me to discuss some stuff with him, so I closed this down, showered and dressed, and went to his place to talk.

We then discussed what it was he wanted to talk about. OK, after first talking about the wonderful rain we’d had the night before, we discussed what it was he wanted to discuss, and then after all that stuff, we talked about poker—my new profession—and what my plans were for the day.  One thing to another, and it slipped my mind that I planned to set a new Santa Fe writing record as I went to the casino. What comes hereafter was previously written Monday save, and except, for some editing and infill.)

Which reminds me.  I spent the day yesterday (please read here yesterday to mean “last Sunday” as I was writing this Monday) doing nothing but mindless chores and other shit with the dogs—cleaning the carport and shed, trimming landscape, running the vacuum, reading a poker book—and it was the most pleasurable day I’ve spent in a year.  I forced myself to be, as Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson calls it, “in the moment”.  In the moment is another word for enjoying what you are doing as you do it.  OK, three words, but who really gives a shit?

And speaking of living in the moment, my mother’s dementia is worsening by the day and I’m speaking of the actual worse rather than her previously pretended memory losses.  Until recently I could never tell when Mother was gaming me with her dementia, whether she was acting like she didn’t know or was it for real a moment of forgetfulness.

Now, it’s for real.  For very fucking real.

Last night the phone rang and I could see Mother’s San Antonio number on the little display of my cell phone.  “Hey, Mother, how’s it hanging, baby?”

“Why doesn’t your sister ever call me?  I can understand you abandoning me, but never your sister.  The lesbians have told her to abandon me and it’s all your fault.”

When all I could do to fill the blank time was breathe heavily, Mother added, “I just wish the Lord Jesus would just take me right now!”

“Mother, you and I were on a conference call with Sister just an hour ago—remember?  We discussed my son’s wedding this fall and we tried to help you make decisions about that happy event—do you want to go, would you sit in the car for an hour with Sister and her wife or would I need to drive four hours out of my way to pick you up, and why didn’t either of your children ever call you?  Do you remember any of that?”

“Who’s getting married?”

Oh, for fuck sakes, I was thinking.  “For fucksakes, Mother, I’ve discussed this with you for the last month.”  I’ve been trying to say the word “fuck” so much around my mother.  Seems she has begun to think that her sweet Jesus will think less of her for what I say and do.

“I don’t know why the Lord doesn’t take me now before you swear me all the way to Hell.  I worked so hard to bring you up the right way and my reward will be to burn for all eternity in the fiery pits of Hell.”

“That’s fine, Mother,” I told her, “save a set of chains for me, will you?”

Her response was to ask me, “Where are you?” and then we did the “I’m in Santa Fe/what are you doing in Santa Fe?” dance.  I’ve done what I consider to be my best to heed my buddy BJ’s advice and not be angry or tormented by Mother’s mental deterioration.  It appears that my hard work has resulted in less motherly meanness, yet more motherly memory loss. Maybe I should stop retaliating.  Maybe I can feel better about Mother by enjoying her newfound niceness rather than trying to punish her.

A trade-off I need to discuss in my next psycho therapy session.

Anyway, I promised you that I would provide you with a copy of the short presentation I devised years ago to aid my employees with their decision-making processes and behaviors.  Here it is:

Integrity from the Top Down

Leadership Principles for Success

  1. Critical Thinking on a Critical Path- the Scientific Method.
  2. Stop Peeing on the Campfire (It’s never too late).
  3. The Man in the Mirror.


This was designed by me because I have this business philosophy related to my employees.  It’s pretty simple, actually, and it goes like this:  I want every employee to be a leader, reach their full potentials, and do those two things even if they find another, better job or go out and start their own competitive company.  Good, smart thinking and decision making skills are critical to business success, and better businesses make for a better life.

I’ll leave that with you to ponder and if I remember to follow up, I’ll fill in the blanks on what should have been the fourth day in a row.  In the meantime, help me with my Hobby Lobby protest sign slogans.  Everything I think of is too long and clumsy to fit on the stiff corrugated plastic signs I favor for protesting work.  And by the way, has anyone seen the fucking cat?

Fuck Walmart!


Critical Thinking; Nekid Realities Of The Working Man

Sunday, July 6th, 2014

So.  It’s Sunday and three days after the start of “Retirement- The Mooner Johnson Story, Part II.”  I was discussing the entire retirement dealio with Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson at a breakfast time psycho therapy session this morning.  She was in Austin having a bowl of fruit and tea—Darjeeling, I think—and I was slurping at a bowl of sloppy, too-thin Cream of Wheat.

“I could eat this shit through a straw,” I grumbled to the tiny camera on my computer screen as we Skyped away three-hundred dollars of hard earned money on my questionable mental fitness.

Actually, the computer IS the fucking screen, and I don’t like it one bit.  Somehow, there was comfort in having a giant, noisy metal box whirring and gathering dust at my feet as I write.  Wrote?

“If you wouldn’t put so much half-and-half in it you might have something more edible,” Sammie quipped.  “And you’d lose some weight as well.  Have you looked in the mirror lately?”

  1. She is such a bitch sometimes.

“Bitch,” I half laughed.  “You can be such a bitch sometimes.  But my extra weight isn’t the issue, it’s the fact that I had a big chip stack yesterday over to the casino, and I blew it on a silly call.  I mean, the odds were right, but I’m playing poker for a living now and I need to bring home the bacon.  Not take big risks for big scores.”

“Wow, Mooner,that was actually a mature thought.  Are you feeling OK?”

See, I told you she can be a bitch

“Ha, ha, you so funny,” I half laughed again.

“Look,” she started.  “This is all about you getting forced into retirement.  You are sad and hurt.  Tell me what precipitated the departure from your job.”

And I did, and that is what I wanted to tell you guys about this fine Sunday morning.  See, I was charged to help grow this company and help it get through a five-year plan.  In my opinion, in order to do that, this business needed to get better organized and make better decisions.  I noticed that several key individuals lack the best decision-making skills when the decisions get really hard, so I sent out an email broadcast with the link to this fabulous video on Critical Thinking.  Me, I consider critical thinking the one thing that can turn religious bigots into actual human beings.

The video is from Hong Kong University and it’s a killer.  And, effectively, it helped me kill my most recent career.  Seems like the Emperor has no clothes is more than just a simple fairy tale.

Go figure.

Anyway, I’ve put a hyper linkster to the vid for you to visit, and please go do it.  You will thank me.  I never got to the second part of my Critical Thinking presentation because, as you already know, I’m in forced retirement and nobody gives a shit what I think about their thinking.

The little three-minute presentation not shared with my former company is titled “Critical Thinking on a Critical Path”.  I’ll print that later.  And now, for your viewing pleasure, I give you:

You, dear friends, are welcome.  Fuck Walmart!

Happy Independence Day; New Meanings To Mooner

Saturday, July 5th, 2014
  1. I find myself retired, again, and for the second time not by choice, and once more, again.  My first retirement was at the hands of Texas Governor Rick the Prick Perry, a small-minded asshole with giant eyes for political shenanigans.  The compost company I built into a major player in the state was dependent upon the Texas Highway Department for much of our business.  I’d developed ways to control erosion and grow serious vegetation in mostly sterile soils using compost-two important developments to TxDOT engineers—and TxDOT hungrily adopted the slightly more expensive, recycling methods for their significant improvements to roadway projects.

At the peak of the growth cycle of compost use by TxDOT, the Prickster stole $2 Billion from TxDOT coffers and used the funds to cover other State budgetary shortfalls caused by his mismanagement of my former home state’s budget.  Net result- Texas highway project fundings were ravaged by the loss, and anything declared “optional” (read here compost) by the Governor’s lackeys was, likewise, declared off limits to purchase.  The loss of that business forced me to make the tough decision to fire myself and save my salary.

One of the many reasons I dislike Little Pricky Perry.

This second enforced retirement is a horse of a quite different color.  I hate to say “again”, but I fired myself, again, this time for different reasons but resulting in the same ending to my employment.  I want to be angry, but the stoppage of me banging my head with a New Mexico adobe brick has led to a renewed sense of calm.  And that reminds me of the scientific research study just announced that states, in part, that the hallucinogenic properties of magic mushrooms can produce healthy brain function and assist depressed and anxious people adapt to life’s conditions.

Well fucking duh!

I could have saved them all that frustrating critical thinking bullshit and the bother of experimenting down the critical path.  Clear thinking logically is a skill lacked by many business people but thank goodness that scientists are required to do so before printing their conclusions.  The mushroom conclusions, basically, state that mushroom juice broadens a person’s emotional ranges while putting a lid on ego, thereby crafting a civilized human who cares more for wellbeing than for personal, egomaniacal gains.

Again, well fucking duh!  My family has been promoting the humanizing effects of mushroom juice for three generations.  Hell, my Gram is personally responsible for most of the civility in Central Texas for the past sixty years.  When she called last night to tell me about the study, she said to me, she said, “Looka here, Mooner.  I’mma cash cow it in on this new dealio.  I gotta batch a new potion I’mma callin’ “Who’s Yer Broad’s Mind A Risin’ Now?”  I’m gonna be rich!”

She hung up to go check on her potion before I could ask her, “WTF is who is your broad mind’s rising now?”  It came to me an hour later when the last batch of my Gram’s mushroom juice took hold on my own brain.

“She’s talking about broadening your horizons, Squirtie girl,” I announced to the adorable bundle of brown fur and sharp-tongued sweetness I call “Squirt”.  “Sounds like Gram has finally got scientific support for the medical use of mushroom juice.”

The dogs and I were cooking hamburgers to celebrate the birthing of our nation, and Squirt was at my feet the entire time, waiting for me to spill something.  I always spill something.  Yoda was busily poking his snout at the double wrapping of rabbit wire fencing that envelopes the tiny garden here to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe.  The tomatoes have just fruited, and the goat dog loves tomatoes.

“What are you going to do now, shithead?  I can’t have you sitting around here all day pestering the bejesus out of me,” Squirt asked.

“I’m so worn out from working my ass off unappreciatedly that I’m vacationating for a while. Then I’m going to play more poker to replace the lost income and write more bloggie stories,” I answered.  “Oh, and protest.  I’m gonna start with those pig fuckers over to Hobby Lobby.”

I’m a decent poker player when I can control the ADHD-ravaged cauldron of swill I call my brain, and there’s a HL store less than a mile from here and I’ll be giving them a part of my mind.  I need to develop snappy slogans for my two-sided anti Hobby Lobby sign.  But my brain is too tired to come up with anything that works.  I need help.

Anyway, Fuck Walmart and Hobby Lobby and the United States Supreme Court!  Fuck those godless religious fanatics.