Archive for November, 2014

Is That A Pepperoni In You Pants?; Plans For An Ungrateful Prostate

Friday, November 21st, 2014

So.  My ass doctor called me late last night to tell me that I have prostate cancer that rates a Gleason’s Scale 7.  The specificities of what a GS7 means will be revealed in Sunday morning’s consult, but what I do know at this time is, shit, it’s a GS7 and, thanks goodness it’s not a GS8.

GS7 is treatable but needs to be treated to prevent it from becoming an 8.  GS8 is when the cancer is all aggressive and shit and ready  to spread its ill-tidings to other parts of your anatomy.  Kiss-your-ass-goodbye is what GS8 cancer seems to be.

As I understand my options at this point, I can: A. Go through a regimen of radiation treatments (fuck this as I’m not letting a fucking radiator machine anywhere near my adorable ass); B. Do the newest treatment called Proton Treatment (expensive and taking almost a year spent at a clinic); or C. I can cut the little fucker out, dry it and wear it as a fetish.

Current thinking is Number C., above.  The now golf ball-sized anal gland should shrink to the size, color and shape as a whole walnut meat.  I’ll mount it on a short leather strap and wear it as a necklace where it will sit at the hollow of my neck.  Attractive single women will ask me, they’ll say something like, “Isn’t that an interesting necklace, sir.  I’ve never seen that stone before, might I look at it?”

I need a better opening line than, “How’s it hanging, baby?” and my psycho therapist tells me that the less I say, the better.  Let the shrunken organ do my talking for me.

How would you go about the dehydration process on a prostate gland anyway?  I’ve not dried organ meat before—is it the same process as with flank steak, or maybe tomatoes?  When I told my Gram about my plans, she said to me, she said, “Looks ta me lak it’ud be same as one a them dried headers dealios.  Git all tha bones out first.  I’ll ask yer Aunt Hilda to ask the Dubbie-J.”

Dubbie-J is Aunt Hilda’s shrunken-head-in-a-mahogany-box, a memento from when she and Gram were over to Africa as teenagers on a Baptist missionary dealio.  When I told the old gasbag that prostates don’t have bones, she snarked back, “Who gives a shit, Mooner.  Leave tha hair on it too, ya little shithead.”

A friend facing a similar situation asked me what it felt like to get the biopsy.  As mine was rated “more difficult than normal” because my colon wall was thickened with a layer of scar tissue courtesy of the infection I got from my first prostate biopsy, I decided that my actual biopsy would provide little insight.  Instead, I told him about the six hours of post op.

“OK, here’s what you do.  Take the 2.5-inch ball off a trailer hitch and weld it to a baby Moon hubcap.  Lightly lubricate the ball and place it anywhere in the vicinity of your asshole.  Next, swallow a four-pound, 700 AMP electromagnet. Take three deep breaths and energize the magnet.  Whine for six hours.”

In thinking back on my six hours of post-operative bliss, maybe I should have told him that at two hours in I swallowed four Vicodin tabs and smoked a fat doobie while lounging in a sitz bath with a sixer of Carta Blanca.  After toweling off from the bath I took a dropper full of a potion Gram makes to cure women of menstrual cramps.  Maybe my ministrations shortened my recovery when I passed out at the six hour mark.

And maybe I’m an ADHD-addled and totally inappropriate fuckball.

Anyway, maybe I can smoke the offensive organ first to give it a little color and then hang it to dry like a pepperoni.  Meanwhile, fuck Walmart!

Waiting For Mister Goodbar; Wait Is A Four-Letter Word

Wednesday, November 19th, 2014

So.  I’m sitting.  And pacing.  And playing computer games.  And calling every fucking person for whom I have a phone number.  I’ve read the flimsy Santa Fe newspaper eight times and I’ve reread the April 2011 Oprah’s O Magazine.  I’ve played with the dogs until my knees are blue with bruises—knee-marching and rolling around on carpets and wood floors.  I’ve been to the gym and walked six miles, and all of this since I awoke at 2:00 am thinking the phone could ring at any minute.

But I’m not waiting, I refuse to wait.  I’ll not have my life held on-hold for the answers.  Waiting is for the weak and immature—those who can’t actually face their problems.  I’m an action man, hell, “Action” is my middle name.

So, I don’t wait, I, rather and instead, fill the hours of not knowing with important activities.  To wait is to obsess, to worry, and with the thirteen distinct thoughts in my ADD-addled brain right now, to worry would crash my mainframe and send the punch cards that control my programming spewing.

Interesting thought.  It just dawned on me that ADD and addled share common first letters.

I’d have given you better metaphoric images if I actually knew how modern computers work.  But all I know is from when I took a computer programming course at the University of Texas back to 1967, and I was required to determine how to appropriately punch the 577 paper punch cards needed to program, as was my written assignment, the calculations for: [2+2X8-40+20-10+?].

Where I placed the question mark was actually a blank space wherein the computer—when properly punch-card programmed—would print the answer.  I liked the stiff, almost-cardboard paper punchies.  Maybe that’s what started my love of Postie Notes.

Anybody remember how noisy those old printers were back in the day?  Reminds me of this one time I went to work with a buddy who was a weekend DJ for a religious radio station.  News was carried on a Teletype machine sitting in a small, concrete-walled room.  Noisy fucker that banged in stutters and steps, constantly, as some silly asshole back to News Central typed the words that made the news.

The two of us were going to drop some acid just before he got off the air and then head to meet other buddies at the bowling alley.  Me, never one to wait on any fucking thing, I placed the tiny paper stamp on my tongue sometime, maybe three hours, early.  Ended getting a touch rowdy, so my DJ friend quarantined my ass to the Teletype room.

One of the few unpleasant experiences I’ve ever had with drugs.  I’m trying to read and remember every single story coming over the wire and attempting to make periodic updates to my buddy.  Did I tell you this was a Christian radio station?

My doctor told me to call after 3:00 pm today, and only then if he hadn’t called before, and it’s not yet noon.  Maybe I’ll start War and Peace.

Reflections In Death’s Mirror; 2,160 Words To Say Nothing

Tuesday, November 4th, 2014

So. Here we all are on the eve of midterm elections and the effects of the Citizens United SCOTUS ruling has now, and likely forever, handed the reins of our democracy over to the wealthiest among us. While it’s the conservative big money that concerns me the most, I am likewise unhappy that rich liberals can wield the same power using nothing more than money. Whomever has the most gold rules, so it seems that the Republicans are going to control both Houses of the US legislative branch of our government. Even though this shit is driving me nutso, I actually don’t see that as a bad thing.
One of several things will happen. One, those silly conservative assholes will propose one stupid bill after another and have them vetoed by Obama; two, the Democrats will filibuster the Senate as have the Repubbies and deepen the grid lock that is placing our democracy and public infrastructures in jeopardy; three, there might be some actual compromises on important issues, or; four, none of the above. And as my Gram always likes to say, “Who gives a shit, Mooner. Ain’t nothin’ gonna git done ‘till them Kookie Brothers run outta money.”
I love my grandmother, and OK, maybe a fifth distinguishable option would be that my ADHD and ADD will cause a global calamity that gets the President to issue Martial Law and then cancel the next session of Congress. My already poor focus has been seriously diminished for the last week. I’m all over the place. I can’t see anything being different in DC until Obama runs out of days and I think he’s become milk toast anyway. Unless the actual people rise up and make their collective voices heard, America will continue our downward spiral.
Which reminds me. I had another visit from my God—the one and only true God from among all the many Gods—the good God. My God isn’t one of those pagan asshole Gods Who sends mixed messages, my God is a straight-shooting, helpful deity. My God doesn’t encourage me to hatred and violence. Fuck your other Gods, and I mean that in the kindest possible way, and having said that, let me inform all you right wing Christian assholes that I have a new tracker program on my bloggie dealio that can find you when you attempt to hack and damage my business.
My God’s better than your God, so nanny-nanny-boo-boo!
The weather turned cold yesterday when this moist cold front passed through New Mexico. Dumped half-an-inch of rain and then an inch of snow over that. I had been watching TV as New England obliterated my adopted Broncos when I noticed that it was snowing. I’d also been consuming icy cold Carta Blanca beers watching the game and had sampled three of the new harvest mushrooms that arrived in Saturday’s care package sent by the aforementioned Gram. It was halftime when I looked out at the falling snow and the mushroom induced purple haze made each snowflake sparkle independently in my vision.
I love to sit in my backyard under the big pine tree when it snows. It always reminds me of the opening of Slaughterhouse Five—the scene wherein Billy Pilgrim is running through the snow in WWII Germany seeking escape from Nazi soldiers. I can sit with my eyes closed there in the backyard and visualize that movie—hear the music, see his breath, and feel the thud and rustle of Billy’s labored flight through heavy snow. That scene might be the most visceral five minutes in all of moviedom. Snowflakes—fat and wet as they cascade from the sky—seeming to carry the music on their feathered, downy falls. The angelic look on Billy’s face—a look that you’d think out of place in his predicament, what with the Germans hot on his trail.
Wait. Is moviedom a word? Should it be? I could have said, “That scene might be the most visceral in film,” but saying that would include actual war footage of guys attempting snowy escape from other guys in WWII Germany, and that can be visceral with actual viscera. How about movieville? Movieland?
I sat out back in a wrought iron chair with both dogs in my lap, lit a fat joint rolled with Cherry Bomb medicinal, took a heavy drag and washed it down with a long pull from a fresh beer.
“This is the life, Squirtie girl,” I told the adorable lump of lap warmer, “only thing missing is a good woman to complete this idyllic scene of modern Americana.”
The dog looked up at me like I’d lost my mind.
“Oh, alright, we resemble the part of America that doesn’t like guns or bigots. We’re the part that thinks a man can have too much money.”
Squirt seemed to buy my modifications on the good life so I took another drag and tug of beer—both somewhat less of volume than the prior—and added, “What did you think about that nice lady over to the hardware store? You know, the woman with the purple and pink hair and pretty face that I accidently tripped over.”
We were in the paint aisle looking for a two-inch finish brush to do some touch-ups here to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe. The dogs have scratched a couple of the window stools while looking at the outside world and I wanted to freshen them. There were no two-inch finish brushes visible behind the marker tag stating, “2-INCH FINISH BRUSH $5.98,” so I turned to the side, reached and peered in to see if there was a brush hidden way back behind the empty slot for the desired brush, and heard a sweet voice say, “Oh, what a cute little puppy you have.”
Since I’d taken the Squirt with me to encourage just such a conversation, I turned, somewhat abruptly, caught my sleeve on the metal hanger dealie the brushes that were not there would have hung from had they been in supply, shuffled my feet, which tangled in the dog’s leash, and tripped ass-over-teakettle across the back of the stooped-to-pet-the-cute-puppy lady.
“Oomph,” was all I could manage as I landed on my hip.
“Are you all right?” she said in return.
“Are you OK is the real question.” I outweighed her at least two-to-one.
I was, she was, and we talked cute puppy and paint talk before her teenage son came to check on her. Smart boy. Took his mother by the arm, gave me his manliest stare and led her away. Quickly.
Squirt looked up at me from my lap—snow on her adorable nose and whiskers—and with that same look a parent has when telling her child a fact of life. “Not your type,” she told me. “She seemed rather meek—like she’d feint at the sight of blood—and you need a sturdy woman with a strong stomach. Besides, what you don’t need is a teenage boy counting on you for any fucking thing.”
She was right. “You are quite right, little lady. What with me having the growth on my prostate and all, I might not live long enough to raise a teenager.”
We discussed raising children and lumpy anal glands while finishing both beer and joint and when that mission was accomplished, I lay my head back on the cushion to let the tiny flakes of snow that could filter through the pine needles hit my face. I was stoned enough for the ice to feel refreshing and drunk enough to fall asleep, which I did. Not certain how long I slept but I awoke to the sound of the Squirt in animated conversation with Ali McGraw. Ali lives here to Santa Fe and I spot her often. As she has a boyfriend I’ve stopped chasing her, but I do, however, still hold her as most desirous.
“He’s a really good guy who just can’t help but mess things up. Treats me right, rescued the goat dog from that fucking puppy mill and he cares about other people. Has the dreaded ADHD but won’t take the medications. Says it makes him feel weird. And I think he really has learned a few things from his ten prior failed marriages.” That was Squirt talking to Ali about someone.
“I get all that,” Ali McGraw answered the Squirt, “but like I told you, I’m not actually Ali McGraw and I’m not the kind of God to interfere with an unsuspecting woman’s love life. Besides, Mooner needs to get his shit together before he infects another woman.”
I struggled awake to see my God sitting in the chair next to us, undressed, in the visage of the character Ali played in Love Story. The snowflakes had stuck to her hair, eyelashes, brows and cold-erect nipples…And the fine silken hairs on her belly and what I could see of the rest of her. Her skin was pink and lustrous.
And somebody needs to answer me this. How is it that some women have perfect skin? You know, that skin that seems to have never been dry and rough, seen a pimple or ingrown hair. I’ve been married to three perfect-skinned women and that might make me the luckiest man in the world. I bet fewer than one from a thousand women have that skin and I married three of them. Take that, Mickey Rooney.
“Jesus Christ, God, don’t you know how long it’s been since I saw a real live nekid woman? You’re gonna give me a heart attack putting Ali McGraw this close to me.”
“Just wanting to get your attention, Mooner. I need you to pay me some attention.”
And just like that God turned from Ali McGraw into Walter Cronkite. I guess God chose old Walter because my Granddaddy always said that you can trust Walter Cronkite to tell you the truth. Newscasts had more integrity back when news was just that, and I’m guessing that most of those national news guys were trustworthy. I think Dan Rather might be the lone wolf of that generation still on the air.
“Look at me, Mooner, and listen carefully,” Cronkite God said. “You’re of a certain age now and shit is starting to go wrong with your body. This growth on your prostate is age related and the first of these things for you to face. You need to spend time in careful reflection and do some planning for the rest of your life. I won’t have you bitching and bellyaching about what you didn’t do before you die.”
“Is this prostate dealio going to kill me?”
God looked at me with sad eyes. “What difference does it make, Mooner? Don’t allow it to matter. Look in Death’s mirror, son, it gets you one and all. And don’t forget that any man who lives long enough will get caught and killed by his prostate. Most of you simply don’t live long enough to get got.”
“Could you change back into Ali McGraw, Sir? I’d much rather hear this lecture while looking at her.”
“Goddammit, Mooner, it doesn’t matter what I look like, it matters that you pay attention to me. You are spending way too much time in worry over politics and what it is doing to your country. Your country is what it is. Stop fretting and do a bucket list—start getting some shit done.”
“One thing I’d really like to do is kiss Ali McGraw. I know you can arrange that.”
“You are a gigantic pain in the ass, Mooner.”
“Please, sir. Pretty please.”
Without another word, God turned back into Ali, got up and straddled my lap. She took my face in both hands and pressed Her lips to mine. I melted.
“Wake up, shithead. We’re freezing our asses off.”
It was the Squirt all up in my face, not Ali McGraw. It was Squirt’s hot breath on my lips and nose, normally a major disappointment. All my exposed skin was wet and steaming in the cold air, and ice was crusted on the legs of my jeans. But I was smiling anyway.
“You’re not Ali McGraw, sweetie pie, and I’m not the least bit disappointed. Let’s go make us a bucket list.”
My first bucket item is to see if I can open a hot dog franchise here to Santa Fe. I’m tired of driving an hour each way for a decent hot dog. Squirt’s first to-do is to go to Paris and pee on the feet of the Eiffel Tower. Yoda? Well, the little goat dog wants to go back to Oklahoma to take a nip at the balls of the owner of that puppy mill. I told him I’d hold the shithead down.
All reasonable requests if you ask me, and all attainable. To Fuck Walmart, and have Walmart fucked by many others might be second on my list. So, Fuck Walmart!!!