Archive for June, 2016

Think, Thinked, Thunk, Thunked; Literary Devices Of The Insane

Monday, June 27th, 2016

So. Big thinks brewing here to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe, and big things as well. Most of the things are as yet unsettled and, therefore, to be unmentioned, and since my thinkings are never quite settled, we shall, herein and herenow, further discuss.

OK, let’s stop for a moment of both literary reflection, and in effort to provide clarity of thought, to examine the meanings of that last paragraph, said paragraph being the last and the first paragraph(s), and having said that I feel both smart as all get out and also dumb as a fucking brick.

Why is it that a person can say or do something quite smart yet be thick as a brick? For my part, I’ve just spent thirty minutes digesting, evaluating, and reflecting upon those early words, above, and find that they quite perfectly reflect with precision what it is (was) that I wished to tell you. I then spent an additional hour writing a detailed explanation as to why, how and in which contexts you could understand the perfectness of my prose, editing repeatedly those words, and then I spent another thirty seconds with my finger on the “Delete” button to erase it all. I’d have used the highlight-and-delete thingie but I always delete shit I want to leave and can’t remember what it was that I deleted unjustly.

“What in the world are you doing?” the Squirt asked me. “You’ve been sitting here typing away for three hours and all you have are two-and-a-half paragraphs?”

As is typical when the small brown puppy asks me a question, she inquires with the same disdain so frequently heard in the voices of the women in my life.

“I’m fulfilling my promise to the readers hereof to provide as much clarity and truthfulness as possible, herein.”

“OK,” she said, and again with disdain, disdain used in the form of condescension, “but what is it with you and this where and here shit?”

“Huh? What where and hear shit? You mean herein?”

“No, dumbass, here shit, not hear shit. Like hereat, hearein and whereat and wherein. Not bare shit, bear shit. What the Hell are you talking about?”

“What the Hell are YOU talking about?”

Alright, let’s take another breather as my ADHD has taken control of this spaceship and headed it straight to Uranus, and mine. That’s another thing I heard as a child and almost as often as I heard my name. “Pull your head out of your ass, Mooner.” I wonder who invented that phrase and did they get a literary medal for perfection of intents.

There was this one time when I was maybe seven when we were all picking sweet corn and cutting okra from tall, stalky plants out to the garden.  All save Sister and I had sharp knives to prune fruit from stalk, and we kids had baskets for collections. Remember bushel baskets, those thin wood lath affairs strung together with twisted wire? I loved those big leaky buckets. Anytime they were used they brought some sort of bounty.

Sister worked with Daddy and Grandpa over to the corn rows, and I was following Mother and Gram down the okra aisles, catching the sticky pods as they cut and dropped my way. As my mother considered herself highly educated and somewhat above hard labor, sweating and slapping at buggies while doing laborious tasks was not good for her humor. In passive-aggressive anger, Mother seemed to be taking out her angst on the okra plants. Looked like with every other pod she culled she’d cut the stem as well. Looking back on this reflection, I think she may have been attempting to reduce future okra cutting labor.

After maybe a half-dozen large stems hit the bushel basket and fell to the rich earth of our garden, my grandmother had reached her point. “What tha Hell is wrong with you, Mother. You ain’t payin’ no more attentions ta yer work than Mooner does ta his schoolin’”

“Yea,” I thought to add, “pull yer head outta yer ass!”

Repeating that scolding phrase directed at my veryownself so often—and only recently having gained full understanding of its meaning—I relished the sounds coming out of my mouth.

“Pull yer head right on outta yer ass, Mother, and do it right damn now!”

If I sit quietly and close my eyes, I can still feel the stings of Mother’s lashes with Daddy’s thin leather belt.

Recounting that story has, for some reason, reminded me that I have seen Jethro Tull in concert twice. Once when they opened for Vanilla Fudge and Zeppelin and the second as the main attraction. It was quite confusing for me to have LZ conjoined with The Fudgies, as I saw those two groups as conflicting as any high school battle of the bands ever. Second Tull event was attended by Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson and I, Gram, and this Baptist high muck-a-muck she picked up from over to the Southern Baptist Convention. Baptists held their annual soiree daily in the same neighborhood as the concert was held, and my randy old grandmother liked to troll the Baptist Smokers Lounge for wayward Deacons.

Anyway, the biggest of my thinks is that I miss my family back to Texas. Most of them, anyway. My Gram wrecked her Ferrari, again, and for some odd reason I yearn to be there to chew her out and then pay to fix it. Leaving a retainer at the body shop is not the same as bitching while writing a check.

So Fuck Walmart!

K-K-K-Katy, Beautiful Katy; Diswitting The Trixter

Sunday, June 19th, 2016

So. Question: “How many gun nuts does it take to change a light bulb?”
Answer: “AK-47.”
We’ve company in from the northwestern coast of America for the week and it has been a treat. These are truly great people and they’re family—traits often mutually exclusive, yet to be treasured when shared.
“Let’s ask them to move in with us,” the Squirt asked me last night as we settled in bed. “Tony can fix everything you break, and Cindy can make you act right.”
While the tiny brown puppy might have made an accurate statement, getting Oregonians to move and me to act right are two monumental tasks. “Looka here, Squirty girl. You’ve not been to their home so you lack the understanding as to why they’ll not move here. And as for my acting right, I’ve had ten wives in possession of the Mother of All Male Persuaders, and none of the ten could get me on the straight and narrow. With Cindy married to another man, my cousin, she’s little chance to influence me.”
So, another joke. You may hate yourself for thinking it’s funny, but this is truly funny. What’s the difference between a chick pea and a garbanzo bean? Two, three and four. I won’t let a garbanzo bean on my chest.
OK, and maybe another joke, this one played on all of us. Remember Katy from over to Fascist Dyke Motors? Remember how she hooked us with her intricate life and stories well told, and then disappeared? Me, I’m not a conspiracy nut, but my buddy the Beej has drawn the conclusion that a recent addition to the bloggie scene, new buddy Nazzy at Groves of Spears, is actually Katy. Beej has done extensive research and has quite a convincing argument.
Me, for my part, I have been fascinated with Katy’s eyes and lips ever since I first met her. Long enchanted by lesbian women—as if there might be other varieties of lesbians—our Katy had me firmly in her grasp. Upon first sight of a personal pic posted by Ms. Nasreen Iqbal, I was taken by her eyes and lips just as Katy’s had enraptured me. Those lips and eyes much akin to Katy’s.
OK, and why isn’t it spelled “Iquabal”, with a “u”? Who, inthefuck, decided it be permitted, permissive perhaps, to drop the u?
Having done some research into the theory that Katy and Nazzy are the self and same human person, I ask you all, and most especially the Beej, to Googlate the following:
1. The Nasreen Iqbal Charitable Foundation in San Luis Obispo, Ca.
2. Nasreen Iqbal, staff writer for The Oklahoman newspaper.
3. Images of Nasreen Iqbal.
Beej, you brilliant son of a bitch! Katy, you slinkster. With that riddle now solved, let’s all go out and Fuck Walmart!

Condone, Condoned, Condoner; Conditioned Responses For Bigots

Thursday, June 9th, 2016

So. Having been absent from the pages herewith, hereat, or maybe even herein, I find myself in reflections as to why. Why have I not spewed, why have I not shared, why for fuck sakes, have I not communicated and unburdened my tortured soul? And, just for your grammatical edifications, “hereat” is too a word. If “whereat” can be a grammatically accepted word—if, in the greater scheme of Life, the generality of a specific location can have named validity in the form of “whereat”—then the very specificities of a specific location shall, likewise, have a proper name. That name is hereat. Take away the “w” and we know whereat we wonder that we are.
Think about it. Webster’s unabridged can sanction a word for a questioned attempt at specifying a location, yet cannot provide equal treatment for a known, specific spot on the map? Fuck Webster. Fuck Webster hereat, and whereat you may be.
For my part, I have no specific answer(s) as to my absence from these pages other than to say I have too little, yet too much to say. Maybe the answer is simple: I’m an ADHD-addled shitbrain. But, I have been busy with some personal shit, and I learned that someone close to me had a dangerous and painful firearm accident, and I do know with absolute certainty that I hate guns. I don’t care how smart, how well trained or how careful you think you are, when a gun goes off accidently, the shit hits the fan.
And when that shit happens with a gun, your fan ain’t big enough.
Maybe it’s because I’m overwhelmed with politics. Maybe the corporate ownership of our media has finally managed to finish its intended lobotomy of my pre-frontal lobe. Just the other day I saw a man in a red “Make America Great” hat make a sneering comment at a kid with rainbow hair and three pounds of metal stabbed into her head, and I let it go. Said nothing. I shook my head and walked to the deli section of Trader Joes to grab a package of their uncured ham. Tasty, clean pig meat at half the price of the same at Whole Foods.
I used to be in love with Whole Foods. It started in Austin and for years was a great place to shop. Helpful and enthusiastic workers who felt loved and respected by company management, fair prices for what you got. For years I felt that Whole Foods management actually cared about my and their employees’ welfare. Having learned that John Mackey is nothing but one more corporate asshole has turned me into a detractor. So, while fucking stuff, fuck John Mackey and Whole Foods.
And fuck bigots. Fuck Donald Trump and fuck anyone who supports him. Especially Piss Ant Pauline Ryan. “Donald Trump’s remarks are the very definition of racism, but I still support him.”
Really, Mr. Speaker? Really? Has anybody realized that second in succession to our country’s Presidency is a man with no actual backbone? People who claim to know him say Paulie is a “good man”. Riiight. Like all the good men in Germany back to the Thirties and Forties. “Oh, well, I know Herr Hitler is a racist, but he’s so good for Der Mutherland and so much better than the alternative.”
Condone. Condone is an interesting word, Mr. Ryan. “Condone: to approve by overlooking; to forgive; to tolerate; to accept by not rejecting; to make allowances for.”
The entire Republican party—all of those who do not condemn Donald Trump—have condoned his bigotry and racism. And when you approve or tolerate or make allowances for Evil, you are by definition, Evil your veryownself. The second in line to become President is, by his condoning of bigotry, a racist bigot.
“But he’s a good man, Mr. Johnson, a good, Christian family man.”
Really? Is that your definition of a good Christian family man? To any who say, “Yes,” I say, and with extreme emphasis, “Fuck you!” And me, as I have managed to condone bigotry in the fresh veggie aisle over to Trader Joes, “Fuck Me!”
How has it happened that we’ve gotten OK with all this bigotry and hateful public discourse? When did the entire country start accepting Southern racism by condoning it? How has it happened that America’s fall from its high perch as the beacon of freedom come so fast? Why is our mirrored reflection that of The Wizard of Oz? When did we become a brainless, heartless, cowardly bully? Did this happen quickly, as I see it, or have we always been?
Anyway, I’ve still too much, and too little, to say. But I can say with absolute certainty, “Fuck Walmart!”