Archive for February, 2015

Word Swill Of The Day; Can You Find The Hidden Message?

Thursday, February 19th, 2015

So.  For the first in a long time, I sit here to my computer keyboard not knowing what to say.  That doesn’t mean I have nothing to say, as my brain is literally a-swill with shit needing to be said.  Imagine a washing machine filled with a colorful assortment of laundry on the spin cycle.  That’s the swirling slop sloshing about in the bone-headed cauldron that is my skull.

The reason for today’s brain fritzing is a multi-functioned collapse of synapses caused, in part, by the simple fact that I am an ADHD-addled fuckbrain.   A second factor would be the small, brown bundle of piss and vinegar I chose to name Squirt.  I was reading the previous posted post to my puppy before posting it the other day—part of the editing routine for every pre-posting ritual—a requirement to reduce the addle contained inside my writings.  As editing is an important task here to the Mooner Johnson Bloggie, having someone who can unpack some of my dense prose is a partial blessing.

I say “partial” blessing because the Squirt’s help always comes with an attachment of pissy criticism.  “Look, shithead.  “’Whom’s’ is not a word, and when are you going to fulfill all the promises you’ve made to your readers?”

“Huh?” I responded.  “Whom’s needs to be a word, so I’m not changing it.  And what, inthefuck, do you mean I don’t keep my promises?  I always try to keep my promises.”

Squirt said to me, she told me, “Mangle the language all you please, bird brain, but you routinely tell folks that more will come on a subject and then you leave them hanging.”

Her words perplexed me.  “That’s perplexing, little lady.  Can you give me an example?”  She did.  I asked for another, and she did that.  Then, when I pretended to not care, she rambled on, and on, with other things I said I would do and haven’t yet done.

“Bitch,” I called her.

“Dickhead,” her response, as she snorted and shook her adorable head and walked away.

She was right, though.  Blame my ADHD and its little brother, the ADD, all I want, I routinely make promises of more to come on a subject that never materializes.  I discovered just how right she was when I started going back through my writings in search of broken promises.  Holy shit do I make a lot of promises un-kept.

Like a cracked Hollandaise sauce sitting on a white China plate, my broken words sit—curdled with runny grease—like primordial ooze on the pages.  Possibilities of ripened fruit no further evolved today than a swill of carbon-laden gas soup a billion years ago.  If it were up to me to move things along, we’d still be single-celled numbskulls not unlike some of these modern right-wing, conservative Christians.

Are you as fascinated by those shitwad’s inability to consider evolution as am I?  We have undeniable evidence that human tools were covered by a volcanic eruption 1.2 million years ago, and they hang onto a 6,000-years myth.

Which reminds me.  Today is Presidents’ Day, a day to celebrate our having Presidents.  Allow me to celebrate, herein:

“Whoopi-ta, yee-haw!  Presidents, Presidents, Presidents.”

I’ll finish this later.  Fuck Walmart!

***Editor’s Note: The preceding was to have been posted on Monday, Presidents’ Day.  As the editing process has slowed the cogs of industry here to Enchantedland, please enjoy the additives, hereinafter, contained.

So. It’s now Thursday, and while I have not fully vetted the 1,200 words written herein, above, please allow me to provide some elucidations as to the wherefores and wherethoughts as to just what, inthefuck, has been going on.  As a young man growing through the maturities from the first grade through maybe the tenth, I was mightily impressed with our country’s myriad presidents.  Maybe that should be myriad “of” presidents, but who really gives a shit, or, for that matter, for whom are actual shits given.

And while I’d have preferred to finish that last sentence with a question mark, it was, rather, a statement made by me and without any real concerns as to how you might have answered, had it been a question.  Confused?  Or better stated, confused!

OK, I am!  Confused, as it were.  As a self-reflective sort—one who continually questions his own motives—I find myself in quite a quandary.  Better said, quandaries.  We all at various times in life have experiences, or thoughts, that cause us to say to ourselves, we say, “Oh, now I get it!”  Like, for example, when we first had actual sex with another person.  You know, that sort of “OK, now I get it!”  Then you have sex with stun gun foreplay, and you say, out loud, “Oh, well then, now I really get it!”

An epiphany is what I mean, epiphanies better more said.  I have been having epiphanies lately, and they are truly monkey wrenching my works.  The Squirt thinks that some of the, as she so adorably calls them “radar beams”, generated by The Great Radiator and directed at my turncoat prostate, have managed to deflect or bend and waggle their way into one of my cortexes, the resulting brain zappings messing with my thoughts.  Among those messed thoughts would be an epiphany re: American Presidents.

In the younger years of my education, I was taught that Presidents were, are, great men of giant aspirations to make America a better place for its citizenry.  Men who desired to make remarkable improvements in the lives of the ordinary people whose dreams, desires and hard work made it possible for America to be the greatest nation on Earth.  Using the Constitution and Bill of Rights as their banner, the succession of Presidents made the tough decisions and took the strong measures to end slavery, fight the British off for a second time, and give women the right to vote.  Presidents, I thought, were men of highest moral character with little concern for personal advancement.

Then, when LBJ expanded the war in Viet Nam, I became aware that Presidents can make major mistakes.  Not that I figured it out on my own, but I took Daddy’s word for it.  His approximate words were, “Goddammit, Lyndon, you ignorant asshole!”

Soon after, Richard Nixon pulled the myriad stunts that marked the legacy of his rein, and I found myself questioning all Presidents.  The only President I fully liked since LBJ was Carter, and I have seen major flaws in each one since.

OK, let’s stop the presses and allow me to cut to the fucking chase.  Presidents are men and all men are flawed, an epiphany for the day.  That said, a second e-pif-fanny is, that until we have a woman or perhaps a gay man as President, we’ll not have a true President of the People.  If Hilary Clinton didn’t have Wall Street’s thumb up her ass, she might make a great president.  Lizzy Warren would actually make a great President, but since she doesn’t have Wall Street’s thumb up her ass, she’ll not get elected.  We won’t have a truly great President until common folks get pissed enough to fight back against the tyranny of money.

Ugh!  Some epiphanies are Ugh!-inspiring.  Once, and again, fuck Walmart!

Magic Dirt For Sale; Adjusting To The Great Radiator

Thursday, February 12th, 2015

So.  It’s an overcast and drizzly day here to Santa Fe, Land of Enchantments, and the weather is quite a tight match for my dietary system.  As I sit here to my computer in the small bedroom that I made my office, I can see the light rain gather on the corner of the adobe casa, where it grabs and pools into fat, rubbery blobs, hanging on for dear life, before it gathers enough surface tension resistance to run—lazily—down the walls’ length to the ground.

Again, today’s moist weather enjoys a perfect harmony with Nature, the weather a  perfect antonym—the mirror image, if you will—to a personal health dealio that might drive me totally bonkers.

Background.  As of today, I am precisely one-half way through my treatments for prostate cancer.  While The Great Radiator hasn’t yet killed me, it has brought me to the edge of wondering if conversion to a radical Islamic sect, and Fatwaing my way to a boatload of virgins, might be in my future.

OK, let’s stop once more and background the background.  Until I learned of these silly globules of cancer packing the walnut-sized bladder that is my prostate, I have been the model of good health.  While I do have a slight spare tire, my blood pressure, cholesterol and organ meats all generate quite near perfect testing results for an old geezer of my maturities.  Great oxygenation, and all of that.  As the nurse over to the Cancer center told me when they did the physical to screen me before zapping the shit out of me, she told me, she said, “Why look at you, Mr. Johnson, you’re the picture of perfect health,” two, three, and four, “uh…well…er…of course, except for the cancer, and all.”

After pronouncing me fit-as-a-fiddle, except for that pesky little army of killer cells hiding inside my semen sack, Nurse Sandra handed me a thick folder titled “Preventive Program for Patients Receiving Radiation Therapy to the Pelvis and Abdominal Area”.  Inside this forty-page tome are held interesting facts about radiation therapy, potential side effects, and methods to ease the burden of said side effects.

And whyinthefuck are they called “side effects”?  For starters, it should be side “affects”, as the distresses, upsets and disturbances are way more emotionally bothersome than are they belongings, or possessions.  “Yes, doctor, I’ll have the radiation treatment with five sides, please.  Oh, and might you hold the rectal bleeding and nausea?  Last time I had rectal bleeding I ended up in jail.”

Actually, I had picked a fat ingrown hair from my scrotum—and we all know that scrotums bleed way more than even faces—and the resultant bleed-out landed me behind bars.  And why is it that, as I older grow, I seem to constantly be holding my balls?  I’m sitting over to The Great Radiator’s waiting room yesterday—wearing nothing but a blue cotton hospital gown and socks—reading a Womens’ Day magazine held in my left hand, and I’m hanging on to my balls with my right.  Room full of other patients and I’m jamming my hand under my gown to play with myself.

One important side effect is diarrhea.  As defined by Google, diarrhea is, “More than five bowel movements per day of liquid stools.”  While my now personal experience shows this to be a weak descriptor, it is an accurate depicter of the changes in bathroom habits one endures when encountering The Great Radiator.  Between visits for number oneies and twoies, I’ve considered attaching one of those portable latrine jobbies straight onto my ass.

A second, important side effect is changes in urinary habits, including, “…more frequency, extra urgency, difficulty starting and stopping…,” and something the brochure calls “leakage”, and, “…the tendency for BPH symptoms to exacerbate significantly over the course of treatments…”

To narrow for you the calamities engendered under this side effect to better more elucidate, you pee more often, more (and less) volume, you dribble after you think you stopped, and it fucking hurts sometimes.

Take a moment to read all the synonyms for exacerbate, signify them, and call me in the morning.   You want proof that the right-wing Christian God is a myth?  Be a mature man with mild BPH and have those symptoms “exacerbate significantly”.  No loving God would willingly put a man through this.

Which reminds me.  Last year, when Seattle won the Stupid Bowl, many of the team’s players went above the call to thank their God for the win.  “God did it for us, it was His will” was one quote.  Why didn’t they blame God for making the stupid most play call in the entire history of the NFL to end this year’s game?  If God is responsible for all good, then He’s likewise responsible for the bad.

Which, of course, means that the Christian God has willed and created all the Islamists Satans.  Which, in the half-closed eyes of blind-following Christians, also means that their God created my God.  For which please allow me to say, “Thank you.  Thank you very much.”  Abundance of whiches aside, it is my God that has spurred me to write today rather than to clean this filthy house.  My duties as a homemaker have slipped as my visits to The Great Radiator have mounted.  Fatigue is another side effect and I’m thinking it has set in.  That, or I’m using it as an excuse, the reason my God gave for paying me a visit last night.

Rather than clean yesterday afternoon, I chose instead to sit out to the back yard with the dogs.  We grilled some ribbies, drank some Carta Blanca beer, and smoked a fat dube while enjoying a Spring-like day.  After dining, we snoozed for maybe fifteen minutes before I awoke to take a painful leak.  The three of us stood over to the northeast corner of the wall to mark our territory, a second trip around our perimeter wall, this time with the Squirt joining us.

I was leaning against the wall—head nestled against left elbow resting on the rough stucco—with my eyes shut, listening to the sounds of one man, one male dog and a female dog peeing on bare soil.  You know the sound a woman sometimes makes when she really has to pee?  That semi-squealing sound?  Maybe it sounds more like forcing the water out of a douche bag.  That sound.

That sound entered the other pee sounds, so I opened my eyes.  And there, squatting with undies at Her ankles and white cotton smock gathered under Her breasts, was my God.  She reminded me of Ursula whatshername, and my third ex-wife, Anna the Amazon.  Anna has always reminded me of that Nordic goddess who was in that James Bond movie—the one wherein Bond had to suck poison from her adorable foot.

“Why are you peeing with us, God?” I asked Her.  “Seems to me you’d be above such sillinesses.”

With a grimaced face, God finished with a sexy grunt, magically had tissues appear in her hand, wiped and then made the tissues disappear.  She pulled Her panties—semi-bikini and modeled after my favorite swimsuit style—to Her lush, round hips, and stood to settle the cotton dress that was cut to end at that soft indention at the back of a woman’s knee.  I fucking love that spot on a woman’s body, and maybe I should have capitalized “woman” in deference to the simple fact that I was addressing God.

“I normally don’t waste my time with waste disposal, Mooner.  But I’ve wanted to experience what you are going through with your treatments.  That shit’s painful, boy.  Tell your doctor to prescribe you some Tamsulosin- .4MG Caps.  Tell him you need them twice daily.”

“Thanks, God,” I told her, “but what about the drizzly squirts?  Imodium makes me shit bricks and that’s worse than diarrhea.”

“Take the Imodium one tab at night after dinner and one after breakfast, silly rabbit.  You really should read directions.”

She said, “Silly rabbit,” with pouty lips and a Swedish accent while embracing me, reminding me that the one, maybe most significant, side effect has yet to hit my loins and grind my sex life to a halt.  I guess my woodie made some Godly contact as She pushed me back with a laugh.  “Don’t you even think about it, buster.  That can be made to disappear as well.”  Harsh, but still said with a laugh.

“Hold it right there, Your Worshipness.  You told me you never interfere with us in that way.  OK, those ways.”

She laughed again, and disappeared.  The dogs and I walked back over to our chairs and sat.  Squirt said to me, she said, “Well that was interesting.  You looked like you were getting geared up to dry hump God.  You can be such a dumbass sometimes.”

“Most interesting thing about it was Her disappearing that used tissue.  How great a waste disposal idea is that?”

Maybe I should save the dirt where God peed for marketing purposes.  Anyway, my ADHD has driven us to 1,500 words saying nothing, so let me finish with a Fuck Walmart!

Evaluating Happiness; You Need More Fingers Than That

Friday, February 6th, 2015

So.  I’m back from my secret meeting out to sunny California whereat I had a wonderful time, I’m back to home turf, which, in its veryownself is wonderful, and I’ve returned to my five-times-weekly, daily visits to The Great Radiator.  As I have mixed emotions as to the volume of wonderfulness I feel, I’ve been required to make an evaluation.  As I always do in circumstances such as these, I count on one of our Founding Fathers.

OK, for starters, is it Founding Fathers—all capitalized and shit—or should they be marginalized as founders in much the same way as modern day conservatives marginalize the true meanings of their brave Declarations and Bills and Constitutions.  Likewise, did I properly communicate, herein above, that I go to visit The Great Radiator each Monday-Friday, weekly?

Me, I’ve long thought that if there had been a few Founding Mothers, America would have gotten its shit together way fucking sooner than now.  Hell, set a six-pack of strong black women to writing the Bill of Rights, and our brand of republic would be the actual world standard, and not simply the delusional wishings of American assholes.

When looking at my current life in the perspectives of a Ben Franklin Decision-Making Matrix, I’m needing further B Frankie evaluations.  For those readers not familiar with old Bennie’s decision-making matrix, it’s a three-step process he developed to make even the most difficult decisions more easily made.  It’s one of those “outweigh” dealios, wherein a person makes a decision based upon a ledger, and which side of the ledger scores “higher”.  Or “highest” should there be more than two possible solutions to your particular, studied dilemma.

As my current dilemma is whether it is truly wonderful to be back home, and I choose to think it either wonderful, or not, then I have a two outcome matrix.  First, draw a line down the center of a page of paper and put “Plusses” atop one side, and “Minuses” atop the other.  Second, place each positive aspect of your issue on the appropriate side, negative aspects to the other.  When you have exhausted writing aspects, assign a value of significance to each—I use a one-to-100 valuation system—then add up the numbers for each side.  The winner will have the largest resultant tabulated number.

If negatives outweigh the positives, shit-can the idea.  Versa with your vices, move right on down the road.

OK, let’s stop the presses right here.  Seems like, mayhaps, old Ben’s system is considerably more than a three-step program when you’re as fucked up as am I.  First step would be to get a leaf of paper, then find a writing instrument, then clean a spot on your messy desk upon which to place said paper leaf.  Then—as you pride yourself with the same proudnesses in drawing lines on already-lined paper as you do with the accuracies in your word-smithing—you look for the fucking ruler, an instrument last spotted that time you were creating a thong for the Squirt.

That’s the thong you made so that your adorable little puppy could view her cute tooter wrapped and pulled tight into a camel toe.  I’m still taking shit from my psycho therapist for that one.  Parenting can be a real bitch sometimes.  Finding the balance of safety net between what’s OK, and what camel toes might have stepped over the line, eludes me.

Alludes me as well, suggesting that this parenting shit started out as difficult and has only grown as I have matured as said parent.  Turns out that fathering two precocious puppies, as a quite mature and well-rounded adult man, is way harder than the raising of my actual kids.  Then, again, I had considerable assistance from their mother, the said and same psycho therapist, aforementioned.

But this entire vaccination/inoculation scenario playing out in the national news has gotten me to thinking.  Who, or what, is the arbiter of rules for raising kids.  I mean, really, who inthefuck gets to say when a parent might have crossed the line?  Who are you to tell me that putting in the effort to help satisfy my young charge’s curiosity as to the plumpness of her girl meat package was inappropriate?  If you could have seen the smile on that little doggie’s face when I showed her the photos…

And, having said earlier that my current dilemma was but a two-sided matrix, I’m wondering if I might be one of those black-or-white, all-or-nothing, manipulative borderline  assholes I personally find so offensive.  Ugh.  It isn’t that I don’t already have an overloaded plate of mental disorders.  My dilemma is way more complex than a simple yea/nay thingie, as evidenced by the simple fact that my Ben Franklin Decision-Making Matrix scored 3,348 Plusses to 3,198 minuses, a winning margin of less than five percent.  Had I added but a third matrix column, I’m certain that Plusses would have won in a runaway.

OK, would the third choice have made it a matrices, and I’m thinking that, since I do consider things not black or white, then I am not an offensive borderline personality(?/.)  How, inthefuck, does one punctuate that last sentence?

But just for the record, it is wonderful to be back to La casita Johnson de Santa Fe.  As the Squirt is the only person I told what I was out there to California to do, I can’t tell you about the excited conversation she and I had, as it relates to said return home, but I can tell you this.  I did not leave them with the crazy dog lady, instead I had an in-home sitter.

Squirt’s in love, and Yoda drags a pair of the nice woman’s panties everywhere he goes.  Me, I find it sad that there is no telling if the goat dog acquired them when clean or dirty, and sadder still that there is no doubt to whom those panties belong.  It would be nice to need a debate over whether they were left by the sitter in my absence, or, while in my presence some other female removed a pair of panties here to the casita, and left them.

Which brings up another parental issue.  How filthy dirty must those panties get before I take them away from Yoda and wash them?   Might their having started dirty be a/the reason he is so enamored with them?  Am I the only one thinking this is a serious parental issue?  Was it the chicken, or the eggie?

Fuck it.  I’m making an emotion-based decision, and I now declare that my shit is truly wonderful.  And while I’m at it, Fuck Walmart too!

Post Testing, Post Haste

Sunday, February 1st, 2015

So.  Testing, 1, 2, and a 3.