Archive for January, 2015

Big Banging A Religion; Could Methane Gas Be The Banger?

Sunday, January 25th, 2015

So.  Having received numerous interesting comments on the contents of my recent musings related to the latest visit to me by my God, I’ve decided to cogitate on whether to start a new religion, organize a church hierarchy, set some fucking dogmatic rules and regulations, and drum me up some paying followers, all while making regular visits for the next eight weeks to The Great Radiator.  Run-on sustenance aside, and likewise ignoring the fact that I don’t cotton to any form of religious dogma, I’ve started running the pro-forma Profit-and Loss spreadsheets on this religion dealio, and I find myself mightily impressed.  Religion, it appears, is a quite profitable scam—er, I mean business platform.

For those of you having noticed the typo contained above, herein, it is, quite simply, not an error.  As “elucidation and clarity of communication” is my middle name, nurturing support was the intended structural element.

Seems that if you are willing to compromise almost every aspect of your personal and professional integrity, there’s gold in them thar golden gates of heaven!  Everywhere I turn, there’s evidence that religion pays the big bucks.  I was flipping through the channels of the TV last night—the Squirt had a bellyache and asked me to sit up with her until she could pass enough gas to sleep—and that toothy jackass Joel Osteen, or whateverthefuck his name is, was on the screen telling everyone that he’s no happier now than he was when he apprenticed his daddy as nothing more than a Mega Church Preacher wannabe.  Pompous little prick was saying how all the millions he’s making haven’t brought him any happiness at all, and, by the way, “Don’t forget to continue your financial support for the ministries.”

Speaking of Squirtie girl’s gas, have you ever smelled a canned-tuna-and-Blue Buffalo Organic Lamb-kibbles dog fart?  Ever noticed how often you type the words “dog” and “God” one for the other?  Ever wonder if maybe the two words are interchangeable in ways other than on your keyboard?  Ever bared your nekid nether regions to the Austin City Council?  Have you ever wondered what it might be like to be an ADHD-addled and completely inappropriate fuckball?

To narrow my personal answers from the above, preceding paragraph, to but one, those dog farts are worse than little Frankie Martin farts.  Frankie was this guy back to junior high who was eighteen and still working his way through Ninth Grade curriculum.  Frankie’s momma didn’t know how to cook anything but cornbread and pinto beans, which she served with chopped onions and garlic bread from the bakery over to the Piggly Wiggly.  There used to be a PW located where 38th and 35th Streets sort of conjoin in this semi Y-shaped spit of land.  This particular Piggly Wiggly holds a spot in my heart as it was located maybe 120-yards off Shoal Creek, and just the other side from the Shoal Creek Mental Hospital.

Yes, dear readers, that Shoal Creek Loony Bin.  Anytime I could make a break from my confinements therein, I would race to the grocery store to use the phone.  Always got caught because, first, I never had a dime in my pocket, as hospital gowns have no pockets—a design feature of considerable frustrations to hospital gown tenants—and I was required to hustle that phone charge before making a call, and second, Piggly Wiggly store personnel seemed to be quite watchful for persons in hospital gowns begging for change.

Frankie Martin was the first person I ever saw light a fart through his BVD’s.  A thinking person would have the impression that burning off offensive methane ass gas would lessen its olfactory unpleasantnesses.   That person would be wrong, as Frankie’s farts only gathered richer, layered textures with torching.  Burn-your-eyes layers of textured stink.  Maybe it’s the same science as to how searing the outside of a meat before cooking enriches its depth of character.

The dogs and I sat around lighting farts this one time after a day of eating roasted pig and all the fixings.  That was a great day.  Dr. Sam considered relocating me back to Shoal Creek when she found out.  “You set one of your dogs afire, you inappropriate dumbass, and you’re getting a one-way ticket to Shoal Creek.”  I think those were her words.

Anyway, I’m looking for suggestions for how to organize my new church stuff.  Squat and Beej have already been offered executive positions, but we’ll need quite a large staff.  We need a name, organizational structures and dogmas so you can earn your way to Heaven, and for helping me with this shit you can earn a high-paying job at Mooner’s God’s church.

I’m working on the motto and here’s my current best effort:  “Mooner’s God-  All you could want, and more!”

OK, I agree it’s a lame effort, but I’m headed to play poker.  Which reminds me.  I have a secret meeting out to California that will take a few days away from The Great Radiator and place them onto the ass-end of my treatment plan.  When not secretly meeting, I’mma playing cards over to the Commerce Casino.  Commerce has the world’s largest poker room and it’s a bucket lister for any serious poker player.  Me, I think I’ve finally got my brain reorganized after the dehydration, bloat and newly-prescribed medicine befuddlements, and I’ve plans to make some cash out there to Poker Mecca.

Anyone sending suggestions for any of this church stuff can have a free gift package consisting of two pre-confessional excuses, a tithe rate-reduction coupon for a month, and a patch of the last of my bed sheets my God sat upon, autographed by me. But hurry, this is a limited time offer.

Fuck Walmart!

 

Prophetical Chat Stew; Electric Windows As Weapons

Sunday, January 18th, 2015

So.  I think it time to supply an update as to the goings-on with the Johnson clan back to Austin, Texas.  I was speaking with a longtime reader hereof last week and she said to me, she bitched, “Look, Mooner, we’re all saddened with news of your prostate cancer, but some of us don’t even have prostates.  Tell us what’s going on with your family in Texas.”

As to her specific comment re: having no prostate, I felt compelled to ask her if she might volunteer for one of the several sexing positions of which I still have numerous openings.  She hung up on me.  I was going to tell her about Mother’s progress when the thought of her round hips entered my mind and I was inappropriate.  Maybe progress is the wrong word to use for my mother’s steadily worsening dementias.  Maybe I should call it Mother’s “regress”.

I got my most recent Mother’s regress report from my third ex-wife and my sister’s now wife, Anna Johnson-Johnson-Johnson.  Anna the Amazon called me to check up on me and the subject turned to Mother.  “She’s on a steady march to having no memories, Mooner, and the drum major is steadily picking up the beat.  Mother’s time marches on.”

Sister’s beloved is the only person I know who uses figures of speech more than do I.  Should have been “I do”, maybe, and that reminds me to tell you about the now betrothed pig and ostrich Johnsons.  Upon their wedding day, Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry—said and same pig and head-hiding, giant bird—moved out of the closet in my bedroom and into one of the small guest houses there to the ranch. Gnat—she’s my still personal assistant who runs things out to the compost plant—has hired a caretaker for the two-room bungalow now shared by hog and bird.  Seems when you combine a pig pen with the bottom of a bird cage, the resulting cleanings have pushed my Gram’s patience to the limit.  Not that Gram has any patience to push.

“If’n ya don’t find ya sumbody ta clean that shed a theirs, I’mma torch tha sumbitch,” Gram scolded me a month ago.  “Wi’ them in it!”

As for said and same Gram, she and the P-cubed, that would be her best buddy for a very long life, Penelope Paxton-Parades, well, the two of them abducted Aunt Hilda and took a three-week long “singles” cruise in December.  As my grandmother has a shorter attention span than me, I asked my randy old grandmother why she took such a long trip on the water.  She told me, she said, “Looka here, sonny boy.  Them big-ass boats carry more un two-thousant loose lipped peckers.  Would a needed another week to sample ‘em all.”

“Assides,” she continued, “ it took my baby sister ‘till we was gittin off the fucking boat over there to tha Can-yer-fairy Islands ta hook her first un, poor boy.  Silly fuckin’ name if’n ya ask me, who’d eat a fuckin’ canned fairy?  Yer Aunt Hilda ain’t had her no poontang since that man with tha giant pecker stayed there to tha ranch.  Took three a us ta pry ‘er offn that little man.”

I heard my Gram take a swig of what I assumed to be Carta Blanca beer, then she added, “’More fishies in tha sea, Hilda, ol’ girl.’ I tried to tell ‘er.  ‘Throw this un back and we’ll git ya another.  Next un might have all his teeth.’”

Seems my sweet old auntie is a somewhat more devoted lover than is my Gram.  Which reminds me.  I had a visit from my God last night.  She came to see me in the visage of Rosie O’Donnell cast in the lead of Grease.  I awakened from a beer-and-pot assisted deep sleep to Rosie O singing to me, she warbled, “I’m hopelessly de-voted to you-ooo-oo.”

“Hey, God, how’s it hanging, baby?” I asked Rosie God.  “Would you mind covering your breasts for me?  You know how I feel about breasts.”

“For shit sakes, Mooner, God said.  “I thought if I looked like a married lesbian you could focus on something besides my tits.  What is your fascination with naked bodies?”

I was required to ponder before answering God as this is a question I have often asked of me, myself.  “Well, Ma’am, on first blush I’d likely lie and say that since it’s been so long since I’ve been in the company of a nekid woman…But that’s simply not the truth.  You know I was married to a lesbian that one time, and the truth is, I’m just a hound dog, and…”

God interrupted with Rosie doing an Elvis impression.  “You ain’t nuthin’ but a hound dog, just a lyin’ all tha time.”

We both laughed.  “You here about the cancer?” I asked God.  “I’ve made it through the first week of therapies, and The Great Radiator hasn’t killed me yet.”

“Thought you could use a pep talk, my man.  I heard you mooned the wrong woman last week and felt maybe you were getting a little too close to the edge.”  Then she laughed, and added, “That was some funny shit though.  Reminded me of the time you mooned Sammie when you had your butt hair in corn rows with the African beads.  The good doctor rolled the window up and drove off with a handful of pubic hair and colorful beads tickling her ear.”

“I got those beads from Aunt Hilda.  They were some of what was stitched into the rug she brought back from the Congo all those years ago.  From when she and Gram were running from the bad guys from the next village.”

Somehow, God had transformed into Maria Schneider from that Marlon Brando movie, Last Tango in Paris, while I was thinking about my aunt. “Holy shit, God, are you about to shove YOUR hand up my ass too?  I’ve so many appendages diddling my prostate I’m ready to scream.”

God didn’t directly answer my question.  Instead, She said, She told me, “It is what it is, Mooner—all’s well that ends well.”

And She was gone.

Now, upon the writing about this to share with you guys, I’m thinking that I have been put into the self-same conundrum as so many other prophets over the ages.  I’ve now recounted specific, actual conversations with my God, just as countless others have done with theirs.  I have chronicled these words along with the many other times I’ve discussed my God’s visits.  I have, in a way, written the Holy Bibliographies of Mooner’s God.  Now, each of you gets to decide how you will view my religious tome when compared to your own holy books, you’ll look at my words through the tempered glass that is your system of beliefs.

Maybe some one of you will make a serious, scholarly evaluation, decide that I’m a false prophet and feel sorry for me, pray for my heathen soul; maybe you will see simple sillinessess and laugh at me; and maybe somebody will become enraptured with my God and attempt to seek my God’s blessings.

This last person might call me to see if we can’t start a worship group.  We do, get filled with the Holy Spirit, tell others about the happiness and calm our God brings us, and some of those others ask to join us.  We print a handbook of our God’s teaching and other words, and start knocking on doors to spread The Word.

Next thing you know, some silly shithead decides that—rather than calling right-wing religious Christian bigots “misguided”—my God is sending a message that right-wing religious Christian bigots are evil.  Things digress and degenerate from there, like Mother’s dementia, and somebody gets hurt.

Ugh.  It’s hard to be a prophet responsibly.  It’s a lot of responsibility, pressure.  Maybe that’s why so many people who hear their God speak to them shy from sharing that information.  Sometimes they shoot the messenger, right?  Sometimes the messenger is a totally inappropriate, ADHD-addled fuckbrain.

Maybe I need a beer.  Fuck Walmart!

The Great Radiator- Part One; Je Suis Charlie

Friday, January 16th, 2015

So.  Here’s how this entire radiation dealio works, these are the basic steps as I now understand them.  Everything contained in this episode are what takes place to get things ready for your introduction to The Great Radiator.  The actual radiationating will be chronicled by me after I’ve had enough of it to be considered an expert at it.  Today is my fifth day of actual zapping but I’m yet to be fully in rhythm with the process.

Maybe I might should have said, “…is what takes place…”  Is “everything” singular, or plural?  Is it like a crowd?  As “everything” might be just one item, like, “She’s my everything,” and everything can also be an entire list of shit, maybe you singulate or pluralize based upon your intents.  Therefore, heretofore, I used proper grammatical efforts by using “are”.  It has also come to my attentions that mayhaps I use too many quotation marks.  However, as “clarity and emphasis in sentence structures” is my middle name, read and adapt.

First, you do a prep run in anticipation of the real race.  As The Great Radiator has its own bunker and segregated waiting room, you begin in the Oncology sub-waiting room swilling glasses of water to reach the point, as the nice lady tells you, “Drink until you feel the strong urge to urinate.”

“What inthehell do you mean by a strong urge?” you ask.  “My prostate is already so angry at me it’s constantly urging me to pee.”

And why does everyone insist on using the word “urinate”?  I’m peeing way too many times to use the extra consonants and vowels to even think, “Ur-i-nate.”  Too busy pissing to make a three-syllabic effort.

Nothing else can start until your bladder is water-swollen so as to “lift” it away from your prostate.  Need to keep it as far from Harm’s way as is possible when The Great Radiator casts its angry glare upon your prostate.  Then the real fun can begin.

You try to remember Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson’s words about anxiety.  “Live in the moment, Mooner.  Do not think about what might happen or of what you experienced in the past.  Focus only upon what is happening to you in each instant.  Live in the Moment.”

Words to remember as you get nekid, save socks, dress in a starched surgical gown and with the same urge to pee as induced by a six-hour non-stop car ride, you place yourself, backside down, on the cold plastic slab of an MRI machine.  Yes, an MRI machine and not The Great Radiator.  Keep in mind that this is a practice run—like an undressed rehearsal for the hopefully not final act of your Life’s play.  This gown is different from all the surgical gowns you’ve previously donned as it wraps and ties in your front, and it’s starched.  When you sat, waiting in your new gown, you absent mindedly started singing “Deck the Halls” using your present-minded, actual aloud voice, and “…now we don our gay apparel…”

The nurse laughs, tells you, “A good mindset helps, Mr. Johnson,” and you reply, “Please call me Mooner.”

“And you can call me Sandra.”

[Author’s note:  If you tell Sandra to call you Mooner, you, dear friend, have additional issues beyond the herein discussed prostate tumors.]

As is the gown, this medical procedure is likewise different from all previously encountered procedures, so your trial run must be done with great accuracies.  This is the start of what is basically a nine-week, daily exposure to a poisonous, invisible, death ray that might lengthen your life without wrecking it.  Data gathered hereat will be used to define the computer program used hereafter.  Like most advanced medical procedures, The Great Radiator is a robot controlled by a computer program.  Therefore, your life will be lengthened by the skills of the programmer, the radiologist doctor.

Not so incidentally, it might take your life by causing a different cancer, make your pecker to stop stiffening, cause you to leak urine constantly unless a clip is situated to prevent it, and it might wreck your bladder and rectum.  Your hope—based upon two months of research and conversation with others—is that this is your best option.  Your hope is to maintain all desired functions but rid yourself of the microscopic carnivores hiding inside the tiny bladder that is your prostate.  Those little cancer shits are cells that don’t know how to die.

They lack the DNA—RNA perhaps—to wither and pass-on to cellular Heaven and make room for other, new cells to grow, prosper and then die.  All cancer cells know is how to eat and reproduce.  So, they eat and reproduce—consuming more-and-more of your blood and vital enrichments—until they reach the critical mass required to metastasize.

I hate that fucking word “metastasize”.

And answer me this.  If cancer cells don’t die, why can’t we modulate those devious little bastards into extending our life rather than taking it?  Where’s the science on that?

Sandra places a large bag filled with Styrofoam balls under your feet and calves, and positions it to be, “Just right.”  She hits a button somewhere and you feel all the air sucked from the bag—it turns hard as a rock.  This is now “your” bag, the bag that will get you positioned just right each time they radiate you over the next nine weeks.

Your bag, and the four tattoos precisely placed at your bikini line, are the coordinates used on your body’s MRI navigational charts by The Great Radiator.  No sextants here, as we need absolute precisions when directing your cancer’s death beams.  “Wouldn’t want to zap your liver, now would we, Mr. Johnson.  I mean, Mooner.  This bag and your tattoos will help us insure that you are in the same position each of the forty-three times you visit.”

You and Sandra discuss the tattoos.  “As I already have one of Salvador Dali’s exploding, melting clocks depicted on my arm, might we tattoo four of his bottle flies for these navigational pursuits?  It’s called ‘Soft Watch at the Moment of First Explosion’.  Dali is my favorite.  Did you know what he always said when people called him crazy?”

Getting no response, I added, I said, “The difference between me and a crazy man is that I am not crazy!”

Sandra answers that it must be dots, that you have an “interesting” sense of humor, and calls the doctor into the room.  She did that air quotes dealio on “interesting”.

The doctor, your radiologist/computer programmer, talks you through the procedure, this “trial run” before the actual first application of radioactive beam bombardment, in the presence of your now, “your” nurse.  Your nurse, our Sandra, a mid-thirties woman with small, soft hands, soft blond hair and kind eyes, places her right hand on your left hip as the Doctor/radiologist drones through his spiel on your right.  Her soft hand fidgets as she watches the doc speak, and squeezes pressure at your hip as if to emphasize his words.

Her eyes, you now notice, are blue.  To yourself you think, you ponder, “I wonder if the upholstery matches the curtains.  The blond looks natural, her native color.  Makes sense with the blue eyes.”

Since you were pre-prepped in counselling before deciding to choose radiation, you’ve heard the spiel before, and your attentions are more focused upon the nurse’s hand than doctor’s words.  The doctor holds a bulb with a pinkish-colored rubber tip in front of your face.  “This is what I’ll use to place the dye into your bowel.  The two different dyes will provide the contrast we need to program your treatment plan—that’s the computer program.  Please turn to your side—face Nurse Sandra—and I’ll insert this.  It won’t hurt, but you will feel a sensation of cold liquid as I squeeze the bulb.”

Doesn’t hurt, and you feel the cold liquid dye solution as it pools in your backside.  “Can’t you warm this shit to maybe 98-degrees, plus-or-minus?” your question.

Doctor and nurse both assume it a rhetorical question as the doc now changes latex gloves and picks up a pillow-shaped plastic package while the nurse asks you to turn onto your back, knees elevated.  The doc says, “This is the catheter.  I’ll gently insert it just a few inches inside your penis and then squeeze some of this liquid dye into the catheter.  In the old days we had to push it all the way to your bladder.  It’s cold and you will feel some of the liquid spill onto your skin.  It will sting, then burn a little, but it won’t be that bad at all.”

He holds the inch-diameter syphon hose connected to a gallon jug to your face. “See,” he says, “no big deal.  Unless you wish a male nurse, Sandra will help me with this.”

Your mind attempts to place itself squarely in the Moment, but before you can say, “No, I like Sandra’s soft hands, and whatthefuck do you mean by no big deal?” Sandra places both of her soft hands on your pecker—one at the base and the second midway.  You feel a sting, then a searing burn, and wonder what he meant by a “couple” inches, and then cold liquid runs down pubic areas and to your butt.  The burn continues but you don’t seem to mind so much.  Your mind slips to Sandra’s soft blue eyes and gentle firmness.  You stay in the Moment, or at least the part at having your pecker held by a person other than yourself.  Soft hands become your entire focus.

“Focus on the sting, Mr. Johnson, or this will really hurt!  An erect penis aggravates this procedure.”  Not quite a scold, but firmer than her grip.

OK, let’s just stop right here.  Does anybody really give a shit what it’s like to have prostate cancer treatment other than those of us doing it?  Me, I’m starting to get numb about it—not care beyond what it takes to care for myself during the endeavors of having it, so why force it on you?

Je suis Charlie, and Fuck Walmart!

Is Psycho Therapy An Effective Method To Cure Dumbass?: Ducking Simple Truths

Friday, January 9th, 2015

So.  Anytime I think, feel, that I’ve made some modicum of progress as a rational, mature human man, I do something so incredibly stupid that I realize just how close my DNA is to that of a furry ape.  Anytime I think to myself, I’ll think, “Why look at you, Mooner Johnson, wasn’t that a very smart thing you did!  You made a decision to save greenhouse gas and walk for a week, and you’ll save ten gallons of fuel.”

Then, the day before the day I’m to start my smart week, I’ll leave the bag of groceries required to make a roast duck dinner siting in the back of the Mini, whereat said duckie will start Nature’s inevitable march to decay.  As the owner of a commercial composting operation, I can tell you with absolute confidence that a five-pound, locally produced canard—with giblets—can begin that decomposition process post haste, and with great alacrity of microbial activities.

The dogs were very excited to have a duck dinner as duck is the Squirt’s favorite and this duck was a beauty—freshly arrived from the farm, healthy, yellow-hued skin and but a few pin feathers stuck to wings, legs and plump duckie butt.  When I was younger those feathers drove me nuts when encountered on my poultry.  I’d grab the needle nosers and pry every last one from the bird.  Often, the damage done by me during said removals would create a carcass that could be quite off-putting in its own rights.  And just as often my favorite poultry part—said and same ass end—would be made inedible with all the ripping and tearing.

And why isn’t it “microbrial” with the added “r’?  OK, and why not a double-b in giblets?  Ought to be “gibblets”.

But I digress.  Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson came to town Monday late to stay with a friend and to minister at me face-to-face.  Seems she feels that I need extra assistance in dealing with my shit, so she’s psycho theraparizing me here to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe twice each day, and spending the money I pay for the sessions shopping with her buddy at Santa Fe’s trendy stores.  “I simply adore the shops at the Plaza.  I should visit your new hometown more often.”

As I both pay for these trips of hers and, likewise, endure the trauma that can be intensive psycho therapy, I’m basically wishing to cut back the visits.  When I mentioned this to her in yesterday’s afternoon session, she began scolding me, which brought out my “inner child,” as she described it, and I might have called her a bitch a couple of times.  A few times.

OK, let’s be honest herein.  She said to me, she said, “Look, asshole, you can’t only make fun about having cancer.  You have got to address the downside with a certain seriousness…An honest appraisal of what might happen, how to prepare and how you will feel/react if things don’t go well.”

Thinking that I’ve done a more than adequate job of those particular things, I told her to, “Bite my handsome, unkempt ass.”

She said something related to my lack of cogent thought practices, and I called her a bitch, she said something else to which I said, “Bitch,” and so on until, I said, “Bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch!”

Might have been one or several more bitches in my bitch, but you get the picture.  She called me childish, I called her a bitch once, and again, she said something else and I told her to go fuck herself.  I can only take so much verbal abuse from anyone.

She told me, she said, “I’m leaving now, you inappropriate sonofabitch, and I’ll not return until you first apologize, and then pay triple-time.  Double-time isn’t nearly enough to deal with your issues.  And next time I’m flying!”

“Fuck you,” my well-planned response, “I’m going to the gym.”

She stormed out.  I dealt with the Squirt chewing my ass off for acting like a shithead, then dressed and went to the gym to work out.  I’m trying extra hard to prepare my body for the endeavor ahead, and I’m told that better physical conditioning will limit the ravages of bombarding my guts with photon beams, or whateverinthefuck they bombard you with.

X-rays, maybe, but that seems so yester-year.

I worked out hard and long in an attempt to rid myself of anger, and what I guess might be a touch of shame at yelling at Sammie, finished and walked out to my car.  I love my little Mini Countryman in spite of bad reviews, and I admired the back end of it as I walked across the lot.  I was two rows away when I realized that Dr. Sam’s new Acura TL was parked beside the Mini, motor running.

This current TL is the third such in the series of autos purchased by me for the first of my ex-wives, mother to my children and main life antagonist.  I’ve way more room in the driver’s seat in the Mini than her Acura, but she continues to assure me that my comfort in her car has no import in her choices.

As I approached closer to her car, it looked like she was texting or playing Candy Crush on her phone as she waited to apologize to me for being such a bitch.  “How sweet,” I said aloud to myself.  “She’s never gone out of her way to apologize for anything she says in my sessions.”

I waved to her from where I thought she could see me in her rear-viewers, and sidled up next to her driver’s window.  When she didn’t immediately look at me I thought, “What the fuck, once more for the good old times.”

I pulled down the back waistband of my workout pants to allow me to jam a furry ass on her window.  I was careful to not expose myself to the rest of the parking lot, but insured that the resulting pressed ham was a really good one.  I left it there in anticipation of feeling the electric window ease down to the sound of her laugh and her pulling several hairs from my butt, the usual reaction in previous situations such as this.

Rather than feel the window move, I felt, heard, the car transmission hit reverse.  Not the expected response, I started laughing, pulled up my pants, turned and replaced ass with my shining face to the window.  “I’ve still got it,” I said into a face that was not my darling ex-wife and psycho therapist.  It was, rather, a thirtyish woman with the same hair as Sammie yet a remarkable scared/angry countenance.  She displayed the face of her phone with “911” in the window, and punched her finger to a button.

As I’ve been in quite similar situations way too many times in my past, I waited a good half hour for the cops to arrive.  But they didn’t show.  Maybe my handsome smile caused the lady to cancel her emergency call.  When I told this story at this morning’s therapy session, my brain doctor laughed her ass off.  Then she asked me to tell it to her all over again, from the start.  And she laughed her ass off all over, once, and again.

I really am a sick fucker and I don’t mean my ADD or my prostate.  I need help and just maybe if I pay triple-time, plus airfare and expenses, some of it will stick.  Ugh.

Fuck Walmart.

 

Ugh; The year In Review

Sunday, January 4th, 2015

So.  Here we all are in this happy, new year, and me…

I’m pissed.  I’m pissed at everything.  I’m pissed at my state and federal governments, I’m pissed at big corporations, I’m pissed at the weather, I’m pissed at my ass cancer and I guess I can say that I’m mostly pissed at my veryownself.  I’m pissed, pissed and pissed some more.

Here I sit at a time when I should be grateful for so many things, and all I feel is pissed.  I should be grateful for a (mostly) loving family, caring friends, adequate health care thanks to Medicare, enough cash stashed to live-out my days except and unless I live to be more than 94-years-old with today’s economy adjusted in historical terms throughout the next 29 years, my two constant companions love me and are honest with me, and I’m happy enough with my surroundings to not have too strong an impulse to pick up and leave Santa Fe for the Oregon coast.

Having said all of that, please allow me to add that I might should have taken the dogs—the above-mentioned constant companions—with me to Oregon.  I likewise should say “near” constant companions, a distinction of (to) which the Squirt has constantly reminded me since my return from the misty Pacific coastline of western America.

“Don’t you think we could have used a vacation, shithead…Think we might have basked breathing humidified air…Think we would have enjoyed the company of those nice people…Think maybe we’d have enjoyed naked rain bathing?”

That was the Squirt the first time after I recounted my pet-less visit over Xmas.  She added, “You, you thoughtless dickwad, left us with that nut-bag dog lady for almost two weeks.  I ought to tell the goat dog to pee all over your new memory foam mattress and to shit on all the heating vents.”

Yoda had gotten pissed at me when he found out he was staying with the crazy dog lady, and the night before I left, he took a giant, loose bowel movement on one of the floor-mounted heating grills out to the living room.  Required me to remove the grill, clean it and the metal pipe below, and all the while gaging at the verge of a puke.

As for the nekid rain bathing, I invented that one evening after returning to my room from a day of crabbing and munching on baked pot goodies made by my niece from up to Seattle.  It was actually too cool to lay on the concrete balcony—and I likely too far from reality’s grasp to make good decisions—yet there I lay, pin pricks of stinging rain pelting me from head-to-toe.  Nipples pursed like Mrs. Leticia Browningwell’s lips just before she scolded me in her third grade classroom, pecker hiding deep into groin from cold shock, and my eyes shut tight against the petulant rain.  Might have drown if I’d fallen asleep and it might have been the most invigorating thing I’ve ever done, save and except for this one time I ran from Mexican police with Streaker Jones.  The two of us had taken badly to getting rousted by a cab driver for triple the fare for a ride, and the cabbie called the police.  Seems that was a way for Mexican police and cab drivers to earn extra cash.

But I digress.  I’m pissed and Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson says it’s all about my prostate and me.  “You’re terrified that you’ll become incontinent or lose erectile function from your treatment, Mooner.  You love your penis too much to face those distinct possibilities.”

My psycho therapist is right.  What if I can never have sex again?  What if I actually become one of those limp dicks that we all have joked about?  What if I’ve already had the last consensual sex with another person of my entire life?  What if my Ivory soap bar becomes nothing more than a sanitary servicing device?

I can’t even imagine a life without sex.  Maybe I need to plan for that eventuality, you know, get twenty years of sexing done before treatment ends in case I go all erectile dysfunctional and shit.  Twenty years at once-per-week, a realistic estimate for the sexuality of a healthy older gentleman, would be 1,040 total remaining sexings for me.  To get that number in over therapy’s next two months, I’ll need to do the deed 8.67 times per day.  Not unrealistic.

Except for figurating with whom all that sexing will be partnered, this seems a doable dealio.  In the entirety of my life I haven’t met a single woman one who could, would, do it eight times a day for more than a couple days contiguously.  Personal experience tells me that new relationships can handle twice daily for a few weeks before losing the required ardor to even do it daily.  Using that logic, I’ll need five lovers daily for two weeks, then nine for a month and then thirteen for the remaining two weeks.  That’s a ton of willing women to identify when you consider that it’s taken me two years in Santa Fe to not yet locate the first.  Ugh.

Fucking ugh!  Initial thoughts would be to hire me some talent, but that would be so expensive it would cut my retirement bankroll in half and I’d run out of money before the cancer would kill me if I sought no treatment at all.  That’s not realistic as an option.  Double fucking ugh!

Seems like Medicare should provide this as a benefit to us as prostate sufferers under the mental health coverages part of the plan.  Maybe I can run an ad in the newspaper, maybe find some nice, caring women looking to do community servicing.  Or I can try the N.M. Department of Corrections—have them allocate some recently released detainees in need of social rehabilitations and assist them as they assist me.  Win-win is my middle name.

Maybe the best way to handle my anxiety over losing erections, and the hopefully resulting sexing, would be to write about it.  Dr. Sam tells me that writing about the things that bother you can help you overcome your worries.  I likely have a half-million words to say without giving this any further thought.  So look for the new best-selling novel by Mooner Johnson at your bookstore soon.

I’ll title it My Prostate and Me- the Love/Hate Diary of an Angry Man.

Fuck Walmart happily in this New Year.