Archive for March, 2015

Prefix, Suffix and Crucifix; There’s Just Some Shit That Don’t Make Any Kind Of Sense.

Sunday, March 29th, 2015

So.  Here we all are on Palm Sunday, one of Christendom’s most sacred days.  If my memory serves me right, this is a celebration of the day Jesus made his way into Jerusalem amid great pomp and circumstance, and a massive public demonstration of support.  Seems that my memory also recounts several celebratory hymns in the thick Southern Baptist Hymnal that sat in the wooden tray screwed to the backs of Baptist seating arrangements.  Again, if memory serves, the Jesus songs use the word “triumph” or derivations of triumph, like “triumphant”.

And why isn’t it “Christiandom”?  The reason I bring this up at all is that Santa Fe—the locale chosen by the dogs and me as a retirement scene—is a hugely Catholicized place.  Catholic stuff is all up in your face, and these next couple weeks are some of their stuffiest time of the year.  OK, does a bunch of stuff make you “stuffier” and would that most amount of stuff create a stuffiest scenario?

And, in full disclosure, I’ve already lied to you in the first 200 words of this missive.  The actual reason I’m writing is because of the Squirt.  We were having our Sunday morning cup-a-Joe and reading today’s paper when the adorable bundle of brown fur and pissy attitude got all up in my ass.

“It’s been a month since you wrote anything and gotten shit off your chest, and you are driving Yoda and me to distraction.  Sit your ass down at the computer and write something.  You’re not any fun.”

This was said as I sat in my reading chair attempting to read the paper.  Squirt jumped into my lap, pushed her cute nose under the paper, and planted herself on my chest.  Looking into my eyes from maybe three-inches away, she added, she said, “And don’t write about your fucking prostate, shithead.  That’s not what’s really bothering you.”

She’s right about that.  I’ve completed my visits to The Great Radiator, my side effects have swelled and are now seeming to wane, and I’m in that waiting game stage to see if any pesky cancer cells raise their ugly fucking heads over the next year.  As I don’t play the waiting game well, I’ve decided to forget about that shit until it’s time to address it with the Doctors.

OK, that would be a second lie.  The BPH symptoms that are one of the side effects of radiation therapy are an absolute and total BITCH.  Imagine, if you will, that a person you do not like even a little bit is pinching your urethra two inches inside your body cavity with one hand, and squeezing your seemingly always full bladder with the other.

I now understand the moans and groans and howls old farts make when standing at urinals.  I’m taking the max-dosage of FlowMax allowed under law, and I’m ready to self-catheterize my own fucking self with a garden hose.

And I have ADD.  So, Jesus triumphantly conquers Jerusalem on this one Sunday, and before the week is up, He’s Judased (Judasified, maybe), has a final meal with His boys, He’s charged, tried, convicted, sentenced to death, built His own wooden cross, dragged it across town and up to Crucifixion Hill, been nailed to said cross, slowly asphyxiated as crucified persons do, tells His daddy it’s OK, died, and been buried.

Who would have built the cross if Jesus had not been a carpenter?  If He’d been a plumber would they have drown Him?

Busy week for one semi-man, and a ton of capital “H”es for one sentence.  But Jesus is the Son of God, so He manages to handle it.  And here’s the part of this entire scenario that pisses me off.  Pissed me off back to the Seventh Grade when Mother still had enough power over me to enforce attendance down to church and the attendant Sunday School as well.

See, Jesus was born for this job.  His Daddy, The One and Only God, impregnated a sweet little Jewish virgin girl to bear His seed, birth, and raise Jesus for the purpose of having this last week’s activities.  The only reason Jesus existed was to be tried and executed.  In God’s infinite wisdom, He decided that He would absolve every human’s sins—wash those nasty fuckers right on away—by having the only child he would ever conceive by any method murdered by those same humans He wished to forgive.

God could have required everyone to attend a confessional once a week for a cleansing, but no, desperate measures for desperate times.  No simple solutions for such a complex situation.  No siree, the all-powerful God had let this entire Earth dealio get totally out of hand.  He decided to have the earthlings kill His only begotten Son, and somehow in God’s infinite wisdom, this murder would absolve them of sins in totality.

Me, I never got this concept.  This basic precept of Christianity was, is, beyond my mental grasp.  I try to imagine the conversation God is having with Gabriel up to Heaven when this idea first sees the light of day.

God:  “Well, Gabe my good man, here’s what I’ve been thinking.  The Ten Commandments just are not working for me.  Ever since Moses died their power is just lost on those damned Earthlings.  I need to figure out a new way to keep those silly sumbitches from going straight on down to Hell.  That, or I’m going to need to build me a bigger Hell.  Don’t want old Lucifer to get a big head, so that option is out.”

Gabriel:  “What you planning to do, God.  Thinking about another slaughter of first-borns?”

God: “Naw, that one didn’t work for shit either.  Me, I’m thinking of having a son, having the humans murder Him in the cruelest way possible, and telling them I’m doing it to keep them out of Hell.  Show them how much I love their mangy asses by letting them sacrifice My own Son for their sins.  Why in the total fuck did I have to go and invent sins?  Dumbest thing I ever did.”

This entire concept didn’t sit well with me from the first time I could understand it, and it still doesn’t.  But what set my Seventh Grade brain afire on that particular Palm Sunday was that little affair that happened shortly before Jesus expired.

There he hangs on Calgary’s rocky point, battered and bloodied and breathing His last breaths.  His destiny—the only reason God sent Him to earth—is about to be fulfilled.  He is to die, hang around in a cave for a couple days rejuvenating, visit a few friends a last time, and then ascend right on up to Heaven.  Again, this is what Jesus was destined to do, ordained by God the Infallible, the reason He even had life.  As God is incapable of making a mistake, God is dancing and partying up to Heaven to have His Master Plan for the Salvation of all Mankind finally reach fruition.  Right?

Wrong.  Nopers.  Infallible God actually questions Himself just as Jesus is ready to die.  That entire “…Forgive them father for they know not what they do…” set me off like a bottle rocket in Sunday School all those years ago.

“Wait just a minute, Mrs. Browningwell.  God had this big plan of His all worked out to save me from my sins and then He changes His mind at the last minute.  That’s just shitty, if you ask me.  God doesn’t get to change His mind.  I’ve got too many sins to forgive and this is scaring me.  I don’t like getting burned.  It’s too hot in August and Hell sounds worse.  This is a load of crap, and you know it.  Gram’s right, this is all about the money.”

Every way I look at it, the basic pretext of the Christian religion is not only nonsensical, it’s total bullshit.  I mean really, what thinking human with half a brain would buy that load of crap?  OK, silly question.

Anyway, I need to pee.  Fuck Walmart!

Don’t Pray For Me Argentina; Reviewing The Devil’s Bug Zapper

Wednesday, March 4th, 2015

So.  It’s been snowing here to Enchantedland and the billowy, wet flakes have deposited into an eight-inch accumulation.  An egotistical writer of ADHD-addled prose might tell you how he’d used his nine-inch pecker to measure and how the snowfall didn’t quite measure up, but I’m working hard to rein my ego into check, and the women of my past would encourage me towards honesty.  Having said that, I realize how often I say, “ADHD-addled.”

What if I start using, “ADHDdled,” save us some time and maybe make it into Webster’s’ New Abridged.   Pronounce it “Ad-had-ld”.  OK, I’d need to spell it “Adhddled” for it to become an officially-approved actual word.  From the many prior submissions made by me to the dictionary Gods, they allow but the one large letter per word, said big letter positioned up front—Capital engine pulling its little-letter train.

Maybe I should print my own dictionary.  Make a little scratch for retirement and change some lives.  Maybe I can take submissions from youse guys to help fill it.  Maybe then we could write a book using all the new words—sort of a self-help, how-to dealio.

This was a wet snow and we have most of a week more in store.  Needed moisture in our drought-stricken state.  And that reminds me that I’m now down to the last couple weeks of daily visits to The Great Radiator.  What that actually means is that after the next couple of weeks’ treatments, I’ll have but a year to endure the temporary, cumulative side effects of the radiation poisoning inflicted upon my ungrateful fucking prostate, and then whatever lifetime after to endure whatever of those short-term effects decide to linger.  Maybe it’s better said to say, “..whichever of those…”

Got to be “whatever” lifetime and “whichever” side effects, right?  My whiches and whats have given me consternations since I was a child, a lingering side effect of grammar school.

And speaking of whitches, I’m reminded to tell you about my recent visit to Los Portrillos, our town’s best Tex-Mex café, located but blocks from La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe.  I always get either the Fajitas Plato, or Plato con Enchiladas.  Why the menu puts the plate in front of the fajitas rather than behind, in proper Español where it belongs, eludes me.  Maybe it’s because fajitas isn’t an actual Spanish or Mexican word at all, but an invented word, developed by an American chef much in the same way as I do mine.

Same sort of thingie as when a Mexican chef invented the Caesar salad and used an Italian name.  In that case, Ensalada de Caesar became Caesar salad.

Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson was in town for some shopping for herself, and some face-to-face theroporizing for me, and I took her to Los Portrillos for a leisurely dinner.  I find the more time I keep her distracted from my issues the less of my money she consumes when visiting.  We ordered the fajitas plate with added jalapeno peppers.  For those of you unfamiliar with fajitas, it’s basically grilled meat, onions, green and red bell peppers served on a sizzling platter that sits on a wooden serving vessel.  Comes to the table all smoking and sizzling and splattering, making a louder entrance than a drunk Sarah Palin.

Anyway, portrillos are ponies—young horsies—and the place was packed.  When they brought our food to the table, it was really smoking.  Apparently the jalapenos were extra hot—and as hot peppers tend to do when cooked, they released capsaicin into the air—and the acrid smoke was spicy enough to burn eyes, make your nose run, and cause you to cough.  And this plate of smoking hot jalapenos was enough to produce those effects on the entire restaurant.  It’s twenty-degrees outside and they open the front and back doors to let in fresh air to stop the coughing and wheezing.

It was fantastic!  Half-a-hundred people hacking and wheezing and rubbing their eyes.  When we finally could see well enough to make tacos with the contents from the smoky plate, they were so fucking hot they made us laugh, and cry.  It was a great experience, and mindful of the many past times when my lovely ex-wife and I would try to “out hot” each other.  We both like spicy food and each can tolerate the heat in differing ways.  She puts enough dry pepper flakes on her food to kill a horse, and I do fresh peppers the same.  I was thinking that, perhaps, this little past revisited might spark her interest to revisit other aspects of our past as well.  But, and alas, sex was not on her mind.

“You need to spend the rest of the evening reflecting on your mental health, my dear ex, and stop worrying over your sex life.  If,” and here she giggled, “you have any sex life left.”

“Oh, that’s empathic,” I replied, but with a giggle of my own.  “Maybe I need a sex therapist to help me through these dark days.  Possibly a sex surrogate.”

“What you need is a lobotomy, but I can’t bend the official criteria to fit your needs.”  She laughed some more.

And all of this reminds me of something else.  When will the bulk of the American masses come to realize that this current batch of right-wing conservatives are NOT patriotic, they are, instead, greedy religious fanatics?  Maybe it’s a rhetorical question, but really, what inthefuck is wrong with people, and that brings up another thing.

Many people hear that I have cancer and they tell me, they’ll say, “I’ll pray for you, Mooner.”  Me, as a thinker that prayer is actually nothing more than meditation with misdirected expectations, I would rather they make a donation to a cancer research fund, or assist me in finding a sexing partner.  A former business associate called me last night just before I went to bed to tell me she had heard, and told me she’d pray for me, so it was on my mind and must have stimulated a nocturnal visit from my God.

I’m actually starting to like saying, “My God.”  Helps me to segregate myself in a positive way.  So, I’m sleeping away when the Squirt nudges me awake.  “Wake up, shithead.  Either God’s here to see you or we’re making a featured appearance on The West Wing.

True enough, sitting to the side of the bed was Mary-Louise Parker—an attorney from that TV show and likewise star of Weeds, another of my favies.  “Hey, God…baby,” I told Her.  “You are looking good enough to eat.”  I was a little sleep drugged.  But Mary-Louise looked ravishing—disheveled hair framing her quirky-smiled and adorable face—as she filled out a black silk nightie.  “Slip under the covers and lets check my radiation side effects.”

God barked my shoulder with her knuckles, told me, “Mind your p’s-and-q’s, buster, or I change into Rob Lowe and let him check you for erectile dysfunction.  I’m here to give you some info on prayer.  For starters, let others have their prayers.  It helps them accept their lives without actually dealing with their deaths or other realities.  Most people need a calming respite from the calamity.  You get eight billion folks realizing that they make their own fate, and their death ends it all, and we’d have ourselves quite the panic.”

I thought on that.  “Holy shit, Ma’am, there’d be chaos in the streets worldwide.  And might I say you look totally fucking ravishing.  I guess I’d never really looked at Ms. Parker before.  But I’ve been thinking of how so many religious freaks speak of getting signs from their Gods—happenings that they think prove their Gods’ existences—I’ve been wondering if You might provide me with one.  Can you give a man a miracle?”

And here, and I swear to God this happened, God said to me, She said, “OK, big boy, you got it.”

With that, she reached under the covers, grabbed my night woody, squeezed and smiled.  “You still got it, lover boy,” She said, and vanished.

Upon awakening this morning, I started looking for my sign from God.  Actually, I was thinking of it as a “Sign from God!” kind of dealio, you know, a burning bush thingie.  I carefully examined my toast for an image of Mary-Louise Parker, watched the news to see if the Koch brothers had finally been indicted, you know, shit like that.  I even read every article in our Sunday paper to find my sign.

I always read the comics last and found myself somewhat disappointed at finding no signal from my God and I started thinking that Her visit was just a dream.  But when I got to the last thing I read every Sunday morning, the final full-color comic for the week, I got my sign.

It was Non-Sequiter.  My sign was in a comic strip.  Let me tell you something, folks.  My God has a serious sense of humor.  Find Sunday’s comics and check it out.

So, fuck Walmart in lesser ways than before, and give Hobby Lobby a gigantic bang for me.