Archive for April, 2016

What would you do for your kids? Lessons learned late.

Thursday, April 21st, 2016

So. The Squirt won. I’m loading the dogs into the car and headed for Arizona. Phoenix, Arizona. Fucking Arizona. Not moving, just visiting–checking out the possibilities for an actual move. Fatherhood can be a bitch.

Is That A Clitorical Question Or Do You Just Want To Touch Me? Time Capsules Of The Infirm

Friday, April 15th, 2016

So. I’m sitting here this glorious morning waiting for the sun to get in just the right position for the dogs and I to sunbake. Our pine trees have grown so much that we have but two windows of opportunity each day. Me, I don’t like sitting in the sun, but the Squirt has been Jonesing for some sunbathing. It’s been overcast here to Santa Fe for a few days and my tiny dog who worships the Sun’s rays has been bitching.
“Let’s move to Arizona, shithead. These cold winters and dreary days are getting to me. Besides, the Sun’s heat helps ease the pain in my back. You don’t want me down in the back again, now do you?”
Squirt can be a persuasive little pest. She got paralyzed with pain a few weeks back, and I’ve not been the same since. She doesn’t know it but I’d do anything for her, including moving to Arizona. Really. Fucking Arizona.
“Stop your bitching, little lady. You couldn’t get me to move to Arizona with shackles and armed guards.”
Squirt looked me in the eye and said to me, she clearly elucidated, “You already heard that emergency vet tell us that cold will make my old bones hurt worse. We’ll see your posture when it gets to the point where you choose between moving us to a warmer place, or feeding me my bottle of pills. I won’t live with you wiping my ass.”
I long ago prepared a bottle of “Final Day” pills for each of us three. As a semi-packrat, I’ve never thrown any leftover medications away since I avoided the draft way back to the sixties. While I’ll not commit a Federal offense on the pages herein, I will say that I have distributed thirty-six giant “Yellow Jacket” amphetamine capsules into the death caches. One of our bottles—I can’t remember which—has a few Phenobarbitals from back to when I had sleeping problems in 1968. Taking enough speed to keep a trucker awake for a non-stop, cross-country haul can effect a person’s sleep patterns. All sorts of shit totaling either 549 or 627 total pills. The wide variance in those amounts of pills is due, likely, to the quantity of Carta Blanca consumed as we counted pills going into each of the three bottles.
Maybe I should pull the Phenobeenies. If memory serves, they were sort of like Quaaludes except for more powerful. Then, again, my memory hasn’t been serving me too well of recent.
“Why do you have a quart jar and we have those tiny pill bottles? I want to be absolutely certain I die when I take mine. I want a bigger bottle!”
“Looka here, Squirty girl, you weigh eleven pounds with a full belly. Me, well I’m approximately nineteen times your weight and have a system pre-disposed with tolerances to a few of these drugs. Don’t worry, I’mma make sure you get a lethal dose. When your time comes, the last thing I can deal with is a near miss.”
Talking about our Final Days pills has me realizing that all these medications are time capsules of my life. The smelly old Penicillin pills mark my loss of virginity, the speed my decision to flight rather than fight a war that was just plain wrong even though some of the best men I know chose to go. There’s Phenergan from when Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson had a bout with nausea that wouldn’t stop, pain meds from our family’s tooth issues, antibiotics of every sort for every infection three kids, ten wives, four dogs and I ever had.
Which reminds me. The state of our American Republican Party is hilarious. Establishment Republitards are so freaked about the Trumpster that they are supporting Teddy Cruz. Self-same Teddy who could be murdered in plain sight on the Senate floor and no witness would come forward to aid in the killer’s ID. Sister Lindsey Graham must have had a near terminal case of the vapors when he found himself a Cruz surrogate the first time.
And saying that reminds me of a recent Squatlo posting. Seems his Tennessee General Assholembly has passed a born-gender bathroom law akin to too many other states. You know the laws—born a boy, use the Boy’s Room. Those laws. Me, having spent way too much time thinking about the application of such laws, I had had a discussion with the Squirt the night before Squattie posted his story about the Vol State’s legislature. Having already pre-thought the issue I posted a comment, repeated herewith. Hereafter, maybe. OK, maybe herein.
I had seen a report on TV regarding this subject of requiring a person to use the bathroom of the gender on their birth certificate, and the justifications used to support these laws spurs me to restate my thoughts from Squat’s place. The following—while not a word-for-word recount—is a mostly reprint of what I said from over there. Proper referencing is a founding principle of intergrital writing, and I’ll go with “hereafter” as referenced herein, above.
OK, so I know this man. Who was formerly a woman, who is three inches shorter than my six-four, and who works out over to my gym maybe twenty hours a week. I got a free gym membership with my Medicare Part B coinsurance, and I like to work out a few times a week. Keeping my bones healthy is a way to fight any recurrence of the cancer I seem to have licked, and lifting weights builds healthy bones.
Did get into a heated discussion over to the gym with this asshole who was bitching about TV coverage of Black History Month, and all the stories and programs about mistreatment of Native Americans. Shitwad was going on and on and on and on about why isn’t there a white history month. Kept it up to my break point.
“I’ve got some ideas for your White History Month,” I told him. “First, let’s do a week of programs on the slave trade. Make it a cradle-to-grave dealie. Start with the slavers over to Africa stealing people, the ship voyages with humans packed like cattle and dying standing up, the auction sales, then life on the plantation.”
“Follow that with the last hundred-sixty years of white racial bigotry—the KKK, George Wallace and the modern Republican Party. Third week can be how whites came to America and stole the Natives’ lands and took advantage of their naiveté. Tell the stories of slaughtering their people for sport—forcing them to take white man’s religions. And let’s not forget about when the whites gave the Native people blankets known to be infected with disease, intentionally infecting them. Spend the last week on the state of the White in today’s America. Look at how white people are in their final days as the controlling majority and what the future holds. Talk about a future of bigotry against whites.”
Asshole. Anyway, this now a guy at the gym is a big, muscle-bound sumbitch with a full beard, basso profundo voice, and who likely had a donkey dick manufactured from whatever it is they make penises from when they do those surgeries. Guy’s pretty proud of his testosterone-enhanced physique, so I’m guessing when the doctor asked, “Now, tell me sir, which of these penis models would you prefer?” this now a man said, “Don’t you have anything bigger? I plan to be a six-one muscle machine and I need a penis to match.”
Me, if I was getting vaginalized I don’t know what I’d want as far as all the specifics go. Do I want a small, tight jobbie that most all the guys would like, do I want one of those sleek, low-slung jobbies or do I prefer a big camel toe model for when I wear my Lycra workout pants? Much as I like camel toes, I’d likely choose the roast beef model.
But I can say, and without any hesitations, that I’d want a clitoris the size of a basketball player’s thumb. Fat, rubbery job—one that needed a table-spoon of lube to preparate for manipulations. Me, I’d be playing with that sucker all day long, play with it everyfuckingwhere. Hell, when I changed my name, “Female Orgasm” would be my middle name.
I’d be sitting at the poker table and the dealer would ask me, he’d say, “It’s your action, Mz. Johnson. Uh, Mz. Johnson, the action is on you. Moonette, Earth to Moonette, are you with us?” and I’d be all, “Ah, ah, ah, ah…”
Do the members of Tennessee’s Genital Assemblage seriously think the fine Baptist ladies of The Smoky Mountain State want that born a woman but now a man pissing and primping in the Girls Room over to Tennessee University? Or my female conversion hanging out in the Boys locker room showing the little ones how to please a lady?
“OK, gentlemen. The first lesson you need to learn is the quite simple fact that most of a woman’s pleasure resides in this thing here. Billy, you look like you want go first…”
Jesus we humans can be dumb. So let’s all Fuck Walmart!

Roots In Grass; A Fuck You A Day…

Tuesday, April 5th, 2016

So.  I’ve awakened to a landscape plastered with snow. As all the fruit trees here to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe were covered with blooms yesterday afternoon, we’ll likely have little fruit again this year. Hard freezes this weekend are certain to kick harvests right in the ass.

Another sucker punch by NOT Global Climate Change effectively screwed up the weather. What a fucking surprise.

I had a full day planned—a day filled with outdoor activities—which is now shot all to Hell, so I decided to take a leisurely approach to my day. I had missed reading yesterday’s newspaper, so the two pages of actual newsie information contained therein had escaped my view.

I miss the days when newspapers were kings of all information media. A Sunday paper that was a half-day read in past days is now a four-minute perusal, with breaks to sip coffee. I miss the times when having the byline “Associated Press” meant that the voracity of a story was a vetted, accurate depiction to be absorbed, and hopefully understood, without concern that it was a “planted” fake. Like the 147 FBI agents looking at Hilary Clinton’s emails.

Really? Even my Gram ferreted that lie. “Them fuckin’ Fibbers ain’t got that many agents smart enough to catch Hilry. Didn’t assignation more an a dozen when they killed JFK. Assides, who really gives a shit?”

So, I poured a dram of brandy into my coffee cup, stoked match to twisted paper end, sucked a full breath and opened the previous day’s paper. OK, maybe it was two drams, and upon first seeing the snow from my office window, I had chewed, and swallowed, three of the dried mushroom buttons I have hidden in the bottom of the cedar chest that sits as a dog half-way station from floor to the heights of our bed. The mushrooms are a variety from Malesia sent to me by Streaker Jones—the remains of maybe two pounds dried provided on his last visit—and they are nestled comfortably at the bottom of the cedar chest because Yoda is nicknamed “the goat dog” for actual reasons.

And why, inthefuck, isn’t it spelled “Malasia”? Nobody says, “Ma-leezia,” dammit, it’s said as, “Ma-laisya.” Asshole fuckface smelly-assed fascist grammar shitballs.

Having said all that, you could rightfully contend that this would be one of the few bloggie postings I have written while stoned. I always tell you of these occurrences and they truly are few. I don’t drive any motorized vehicle while impaired in any fashion—while I do enjoy being driven—ever since my arrest some thirty years ago. Scared me straight knowing I might have hurt someone. Think of it this way: ADHD + ADD + Stoned = Oh no!

I harbor the same restraints for KUI—Keyboarding Under the Influences—as I’m less likely to thoroughly edit my words before posting, an act leading to multiple consternations. Read consternations hereat in its synonym “bewilderments”. OK, maybe worries would be another. One of these days I’ll post some unedited musings for your enjoyment.

Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, psycho the-rapist to the stars and me, tells me that having been arrested for parking our Caterpillar 960 front end loader—its  12-yard light-weight bucket filled with turkey shit—on the front steps of the offices of Sewell and Petty Law Firm, was a sign for me to not imbibe and drive. I heeded that advice and thanked my stars that Texas didn’t have mushroom juice or pot on its Breathalyzer scales. Blowing 1.02’s-worth of Carta Blanca breath was enough to get me into a world of trouble, so I can only imagine how bad it might have been.

The loader was the big one from out to Mooner’s Compost Plant and the turkey manure was from this giant place over to near College Station that organically fattens its turkeys and lets them play outside for a few hours each day. While in Texas, I purchased all my turkeys from those guys. Birds were smaller overall since they got no growth enhancers, and I was especially impressed with the size and quality of their organs. Smaller, firmer and with better color, and even if it was psychosomatic, had far better taste.

Ever watch domesticated turkeys? As smart and shifty and wily and interesting as wild turkeys can be, the domesticated varietals are as opposites. Bred all the brains right out their skulls, we did. They seem to be totally paranoid, scared of their own shadows. Literally scared of their own shadows, looking over their over-plumped shoulders and jumping sideways.

Something about a turkey’s diet creates eye-watering odors. Even though turkey shit is one of the more pungent varieties of shit, it wasn’t my first choice. First choice was grease trap waste, but I’d have puked to death on the eleven-mile drive from the plant over to east Austin with 12-yards of that stuff. I can wear a Haz-Mat suit and still smell grease trap waste. Hell, typing “grease trap waste” stirs my gag reflexes.

But the turkey litter—they call turkey shit “litter” in the poultry industry—proved an effective tool as I managed to empty the entire building within maybe seven minutes. First officers arriving at the scene called the Sheriff right away. “Hey Woozie, its Mooner Johnson and you want to be here for this one.”

I shot the Sherriff a full moon and he tazed my bare ass.

Anyway, I opened the paper and read as I sipped from my cup. Sipping because it was too hot to drink, I didn’t spit a mouthful of brandy-laced coffee when I saw the headline, I merely sprayed a spritz similar to one of those tiny atomizer sample thingies at department store perfume counters.

I read the one paragraph story, reread to insure its actualities, and exclaimed, I shouted, “Hot damn!!!” and raced to my computer. I opened Googleate and typed in my query. I peered down the listings, found The Motley Fool, clicked there and found a headline that lifted my spirits to even new heights. There, on my computer screen, was proof positive that a grass roots consumer advocacy effort can be effective. I read, reread and read again.

“Hey, Squirty girl, come in here and looka this!” I shouted. “You’ve gotta see this, kiddo!”

The small brown puppy came running and jumped into my lap, read. “Holy shit, Mooner, you’ve won!”

“War’s not over yet, Sweetie Pie, but we’re winning some big ones.”

We celebrated what we read, as there, on my computer screen, was this:

“Walmart Is Falling Apart Before Our Eyes

Wal-Mart is no longer the popular retailer it once was and beneath the surface it’s starting to show the same cracks that brought Kmart and Sears to their knees. “

As an atheist, I didn’t thank God for this gift, I thanked you, the readers of the drivel posted herein. Thank you, thank you, and thanks some more. My plans to topple this giant of American retailing greed is working with all of your help! Not that our job is completed because fucking Walmart will not be a finished task until Alice Walton applies for food stamps. Now that we have them on the ropes, it’s time to apply evermore pressure. Speak loud and proud. Say it aloud with me. Say:

Fuck Wal-mart! Fuck Wal-mart! Fuck Wal-mart!