Archive for March, 2016

Riddle Me This; Apologies In The Key Of Dumbass

Tuesday, March 29th, 2016

So. A riddle:  “How many Mooner Johnsons does it take to fuck up a wet dream?”

The answer is contained, maybe I should say, “The answer is intended to be contained…,” in the following prose. My desire is to use the parable format of storytelling, combined with a riddle teaser, to tell a story of woe and dumbass. The danger of using this format—better said as dangers—lies/lie in the simple facts that I am an ADHD-riddled shitball having no self-controls, no impulse restraints, no focus, and no filters. Likewise, please don’t think “parabola” as that would induce you to attempt linear thinking, and my logic is anything but in straight lines to anyplace.

Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson—my first ex-wife, longtime psychotherapist and chief mind fucker—has long held the position that I am crazy. “Is that your clinical opinion, Sammie?” I’ll ask.

“Why, yes, Mooner. I wrote it in your chart.”

I use to worry that having that specific diagnosis in my medical charts would be problematic. As often as I’m slapped, tasered and arrested, the concerns were that some attorney or judge would request the sequestering of my medical records for review under some tenant of law and I’d get re-locked back to the loony bin. I obsessed over this concern until one day I finally asked her about it.

“I’m worried about you writing about what a fruit cake I am. I know it’s the truth and all that, but what if a judge gets ahold of what you write? I’m not going back to Shoal Creek Mental Hospital. No way, no fucking way!”

Shoal Creek Mental Hospital used to be sort of like a spa for me. That is if you consider lounging around in a strait jacket with anti-psychotic drug-medicated snot and drool forming stalactites from your lower lip to the crotch of your crazy person Snuggy a spa experience.

“Don’t worry, Mooner. I also wrote that you are harmless to the innocent. But I can always amend my notes.”

Maybe they’d be snot-and-drool stalagmites. I can never remember the differentiations between snot columns formed from the top down as opposed to those forming at ground level and upwards.

Don’t you hate the veiled threats of medical professionals? Them all full of their own shit and sanctimoniousnesses simply because they spent an extra six years of schooling. Then, again, my daddy might still be alive had he listened to his doctor’s threat that he needed to get a colonoscopy or face serious health issues.

Like death.

Anyway, I play poker and Santa Fe has many TV and movie crews filming in the area—two divergent facts I’ll soon merge into a hopefully-comprehensible package. Actors and directors and celebrities come to my favorite casino to gamble and play cards. One of them—the self-same man to be further-mentioned—once told me that he loves visiting Santa Fe because, as he said to me when he told me, “People here don’t push scripts or project ideas at you. Back in LA, every person on every street corner has a unique project—the next Orange is the New Black, they’ll tell you—and there’s a part written just for you! Seriously, this role is per-fect. Here, take this and read it, and they get all up in your face with this stuff………….”

I’ve grown to like this man as a human and I think we could be friends. OK, I like him enough to befriend him, a sentiment now likely to be unreciprocated. Maybe that’s more accurately said as not reciprocated. Anyway, upon first sight of this gentleman entering the poker room, I always greet him with, “Oh no, not again.” Me, I think that to be funny as all sorts of shit, and it always lights a smile on his face, and generates a snarky reply as to my lack of basic intelligence, breeding, or whatever.

OK, let’s stop for just a minute and get a little background. As all of you already know, in addition to this bloggie, I’ve written a silly fucking book based upon my life and a likewise silly proposal for a television show that the entertainment biz folks call a “Treatment”.  In yesterday morning’s psycho therapy phone session I asked Sammie her opinion should I approach this guy with my treatment.

“Have you lost what little mind you’ve left? It would be no different than when people come up to my table at a café and ask me for advice. Remember when that former City Councilor bothered us at The Broken Spoke and you thumped him on the nose? Remember how pissed you got?”

“Yea, of course I do. But that was different. I was one more Cosmopolitan from your promised land and he totally ruined my chance at some poontanger. He deserved what he got.”

She laughed at me. “You were way more than one Cosmo away from my delicate parts, asshole. And don’t even act like you don’t understand what I’m saying to you. Do not bother this man on his free time with your silly bullshit. It would be terribly inconsiderate. And just plain dumb, as if refraining from doing stupid things was ever one of your life criterion. Besides, he may not be Harry Bellefonte, but, well you know.”

“Bitch,” I told the dial tone.

I told you guys the story about when our daughter graduated from college and Harry Da-Day-ay-ay-O was there to watch his niece do the tassel-toss walk? I thought the good Doctor was going to offer to blow him right there in the audience. Sure, Harry was way more handsome in person and yes he has dreamy eyes. Hell, I might have blown him myself if he’d asked.

But she really can be a bitch. I’m certain she has my best interests in mind and I had every intention of behaving appropriately and heeding her advice. Of course, I didn’t.

“I’ve written over 2 million words of blog postings, a silly fucking book and this TV Treatment that has a role that you were born to play. It’s perfect for you, it’s the next Black is the New Orange. No, wait. It’s the new Shameless, that’s what it is. It’s Shameless meets The Beverly Hillbillies. Maybe M*A*S*H* marries Green Pastures. Wait, Green Acres!”

Ugh. Total fucking ugh. When I told Dr. Sam what I did this morning in our phone session, she hung up on me. When will I ever learn? Can I ever obtain some impulse control? Will there ever come a time when I act more appropriately than inappropriately?

Likely not. The dreaded ADD and its big brother the ADHD are not curable afflictions. Like true dumbass, they are genetic and only suffer engorgement with stimulations. Like that boner you got with your first slow dance back to junior high. I can’t remember her name right now but I do remember her slap. Played softball, she did, and I saw stars.

Anyway, the answer is, “One.” So Fuck Walmart!

Delivering Daily Mail; Choosing The Chosen

Thursday, March 3rd, 2016

So. I’m muddling in my own stew—stewing in my juices, if you will—because I’m a knucklehead, and so am I. My ADD is in the same state of pronouncements as is the Mountain Juniper pollen that so thoroughly wrecks my sinuses this time of year, thereby wrecking my thoughts and decision-making and, in turn, wrecking everything around me. I’m a snot-dripping-swollen-eyed forgetful and inattentive fuckball.

Having said that, a quite good friend holds the unerring opinion that I do not have ADD. Nopers, this otherwise bright man thinks that I have, as he calls it, “Selective Attention Disorder, You Asshole.” My buddy seems to think that I have control of the boiling cauldron of witches’ brew bubbling around inside my skull and that I make simple choices as to what sticks, or doesn’t stick, and to what I pay attention, or don’t. He thinks my day is filled with a series of black-and-white, choose A or B, decisions. Remember this but not that, see her not him, do one something and forget the other. See the rose, miss the thorn.

This friend says that my forgetting to finish a construction project and leaving construction debris all over the fucking place before sending a final bill to a client who already had a pre-fueled rocket pack up his ass was an intentional choice, while my acute insight into the workings of a poker hand I played in 1984 is forever etched on my pain-swollen brain. He believes I chose to not think about moving and resetting the client’s satellite dish in advance of killing said client’s access to the last Republican debate, when at the same time holds the position—with absolute certainty—that I would want to remember the precise number of Fire Ant stings I got that one time Streaker Jones and I were chasing bikini-clad girls down to the Texas coast.

Ever been stung by a Fire Ant? If you’ve any allergy to them at all, each tiny sting delivers enough poison to raise a welt the size of a quail egg, each welt capped with a pussy point, and all of them burn like fire, weep incessantly, and itch. They itch so bad you have to scratch, and each scratching sends jolts of almost paralyzing pain up your spine.

Fucking Fire Ants. And isn’t it interesting that a puss-filled something is spelled with alikenesses to many-a-man’s favorite female part, and a kitty cat? Isn’t the yin/yang of life amazing? Woman says to you, you’re on a date with this nice lady and she casually mentions to you, she says, “My pussy is pussy.”

“Hmmmmm,” you think, and hopefully to yourself, “Is the cat sick or do I have a serious choice to make in the next couple hours?”

In my daily telephone/SKYPE psychotherapy sessions, Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson has been chiding me to make lists of the things I need to do, then USE the lists. “Make a list, dumass, and then USE it. How many times must you be told?”

This morning I produced a pile of Postie Notes containing a few of my lists starting from a date sometime in 1994, and marking the years passing until today. I held the bundled stack of party-colored sticky papers to the pin camera on my computer. God, I do love Postie Notes.

“Maybe at least one more time. Now, here. Look. See all these notes?”

I unstacked the pile about mid-way and removed the top paper. “This says it’s Tuesday and the items are: call Dr. Washburn about the infection; get Ferrari out of the shop; transfer from savings for Ferrari repairs; pick up laundry; mow Sammie’s yard and clean the pool; prepare for City Council meeting;… Hey, this must have been 2005. Remember when I bounced the check for fixing the front bumper on Gram’s car? I’ve got my pants down to my ankles to flash Councilperson Morales my depiction of the Mexican Flag for their Mexican Independence Day celebrations and that shithead process server hit me with papers. I thought it was because I bounced a check. Turns out it was that other thing. What was that other thing? That was a great Mexican flag, Ingrid got the colors just right. I need to call Ingrid–catch up.  Oh yea, and I mowed your grass but forgot to clean the pool. That was that time your sister brought her entire family down from Oregon and the kids all got eye infections. The pool wasn’t that dirty, Sammie. Your sister coddles those kids waaaaay to much.”

Anyway, I have one thing to say to anybody who thinks I have Selective Attention Disorder, You Asshole:

Fuck you, and Walmart too!