Archive for September, 2015

Post War Rememberies; Modern Physics For the Insane

Tuesday, September 15th, 2015

So.  Have you guys ever noticed that you are crazy?  Totally, lock-me-up-to-the-Looney Bin crazy?  Has it ever dawned on you that you might just be the missing link in a Darwinian chain of counter evolution—the member of your species containing that initial flawed chromosome that spawns the regression of all mankind, marching the Homo Sapiens Sapiens genetics backwards to our knuckle-dragging beginnings?

Have you ever wondered to yourself, thought out loud, “Mooner, what, inthefuck, is wrong with you?”

Our boy Bert Einstein famously said that to repeat the same action, repeatedly, while expecting differing results, is the absolute definition of insanity.  If you agree with the famous scientist on this matter, then E=My Insanity Squared, and Insanity is my middle name.  Me, I keep doing things, saying things, which I have high hopes will change some particular situation—make a positive impact not previously made, influence another’s bigoted ideas, or change my own flaws.

Take, as an example, my New Year’s Eve resolution for 2015.  Drunk as a skunk and stewing in my own mushroom saturated juices as the dogs and I sat in front of the TV waiting for the Ball to drop, I made my resolution.

“Well kids, I’ve decided that I will not flick anyone on the nose or ear this year.  That’s a childish response to conflict and I always end up in trouble as a result.”

Speaking of dropping balls, have any of the rest of you noticed how your balls drop towards your ankles as you mature?  Much as a woman’s breasts reach towards the center of the Earth with age, a man’s testicles tug his scrotum ever downward.

My own balls often need to be moved so I can put on my socks, and don’t you younger guys go getting all excited about enlarging sexual organs.   This isn’t enlarging I’m addressing, like where things grow in mass.  Nopers, here we’re discussing more of a stretching thingie—think of a rubber band.  First time a new rubber band is stretched it goes a little and springs back.  Next time it stretches a little farther then springs back with slightly less enthusiasm.  Keep repeating and eventually the rubber band stretches to ten times its original distance and has no spring left.  Stretch it one too many times and it breaks.

I’m concerned that my scrotum has reached its breaking point.  I can see the sunlight through it when I’m drying after a shower, and the blood vessels look as if they’ll expose themselves to that same sunlight.  Can a scrotum drop off?  Like a skin tag on your neck that you twist out of aggravation until it stretches too far and breaks off at the skin line.  God knows I’ve twisted and tugged and abused my scrotum over the years.

I bought this book from the back of a girlie magazine when I was in junior high school—“Party Tricks for Lovers” is what I remember it was called.  One of those cheap paper, eight-page flimsy publications so very available for $5.95 plus postage.  Had all these twisty maneuvers you could do with your pecker and balls to make silly shit.  Like balloon twisting, you could make animals and shit with nothing more than the simple instructions in the pamphlet and a matched set of pecker with balls.

If my tired old memory serves me, twist your junk a certain way and backlight it in a dark bedroom, and you can cast an image of Winston Churchill smoking a cigar onto the wall.  Mother caught me practicing this one time, mistook it for masturbating.

“You’ll end up in Hell for sure, you ingrate.  I’ll never, and I mean NEVER, understand what I did to deserve you.”

Me, for my part, often wondered what it was that I could have possibly done to deserve her.  Sometime during that same junior high school year I took my Sex Education Class, wherein I learned precisely what it was she did to deserve me.  One of my most vivid childhood memories is when I told the entire Johnson clan the specificities of how Mother deserved me.

Sitting at the dinner table at The Johnson Family Ranch back to those days required the following of my mother’s routine.  As a public educator, Mother mandated that Sister and I each elucidate that school day’s events in some detail and be finished before the plates were cleared.  While I can’t remember what Sister’s conversation entailed, and she always went first as ladies always go first, I can remember the contents of mine.

“Well…” I started, “Coach Pepworth whacked me with his 2X4 because I kept hitting the two hole instead of the three hole, but that was Jimmy Simpson’s fault.  Jimmy kept blocking the wrong way putting the halfback in the wrong hole, and I wanted to knock the shit out of Ronnie Peters.  Linebacker’s job is to knock the shit out of the running back even if he comes through the wrong hole.  And don’t even get all up in my ass about saying “shit” because that was Coach Pepworth’s word, not mine.  Coach also said, “Knock him totally fucking senseless, Mooner,” but you guys notice I didn’t say “fucking” as I can still taste Ivory Soap from last week when I asked Mrs. Browningwell what a vagina and clitoris was in Sunday School.  First chapter in Sex Ed was all about vaginas.  Chapter two was peckers, except they call peckers penississes.  Like Mississippi, but with a “p” at the start.”

(Editor’s Note: Please excuse the improper use of quotation marks in the prior paragraph.  It is somewhat simpler to write this explanation than to correct that.)

“Anyway, I continued, I solved a mystery for you, Mother, something you said you’d never, and I mean NEVER understand.  You deserve me because you let Daddy stick his pecker all up into your vagina and you rubbed it back-and-forth until Daddy ersaculated.  Wait, immaculated, maybe.  Daddy’s pecker spit out some sperm—millions of those little suckers—and one of um managed to get to your eggie.”

Deep breath. “I never knew you lay eggs like a chicken, Mother, even though Daddy says you cackle like a damned hen, but the egg turned out to be me.  Why didn’t you keep my shell? I’d like to see my shell. Must have been the same thing for making Sister.  Teacher says sometimes people practice having babies for fun, but she laughed and said that was a joke.  You deserve me because you incorporated with Daddy.  Teacher says a lot of adults don’t know as much about sex as I will when class is done.  Maybe you can ask me your sex questions because I already seem to know more than you.  OK, it wasn’t immaculated, it’s ejaculated.  And the other word sounds like incorporated but with a couple.  Maybe you couplerated.  Back to that whole deserving thing, tomorrow we study masturbating, you know, beating off.  Teacher told Ricky James he was crass for saying that, then Ricky asked was jerking off less crass. It isn’t. But Teacher said, and I asked her twice if she’s sure about this one because it’s pretty important to me. Teacher says I will not burn in Hell for masturbating, nobody does because everybody does it, beat off I mean, and, well, then everybody would burn in Hell. That simply can’t be because some folks get to go to Heaven, right, and if everyone goes to Hell for masturbating then there’s nobody left to go to Heaven.”

My ADD aside, Mother still thinks I’m burning in Hell and, well, I flicked the off-cell-phone ear of this teenaged twat standing in line over to the Starbucks.  Prick’s arguing, loudly, with his mother about skipping school. I ask him to zip it or go outside, twice, he gets louder with my requests so I give him a little flick, he drops his phone and starts whining, loudly. I’m asked to leave without my coffee and he gets poor-sweet-babied by this cute barista.

No justice in this crazy world.  So, Fuck Walmart!