A Bikini And Six Tiny Reindeer; Xmas Cheers Too All

So. After maybe thirteen attempts to write about Trumpie’s appointments, I have given up. Every time I think I’ve mentioned the dumbest appointments since the invention of assignments, DJT announces another dumbest pick. Like Little PRicky Perry to the Department of whatchumacallit. You know, that one.
After the last attemptation to speak my mind about that insanity, I thought to myself, I thought, “Whatthafuck, I’m tired of this shit, and nobody gives a rat’s ass what I’ve got to say, anyway.”
I heard at my feet, “Having no audience has never stopped you from blabbing before, dickhead, and neither has having nothing to say.”
That was the Squirt, and maybe I had spoken aloud. It seems I’m talking to myself aloud often these days, and maybe I should try to find a mute button. I was over to the dry cleaners on Thursday, there to drop off and pick up shirts. Woman in front of me had a bundle of clothes in her arms that smelled like roadkill from two days of summer sun. I was thinking to myself, I thought. “Jesus Christ, lady, you ever heard of soaking the really bad stuff first? I always pre-soak whatever the goat dog shits on before doing the laundry.”
Woman dropped her load, turned and slapped the shit out of me. Through the stars floating around in my vision, I think I saw a formerly white, blood-stained, puffy comforter heaped at my feet—a bedspread much akin to my very own goose down bed wrap. Mine was there to the cleaner’s place just a month ago for its annual tune-up. Woman teared up and walked to the door without slapping me a second time, what I’m certain was a tough avoidance by her, and greatly appreciated by me. Left the stuff there on the floor in a messy pile.
I was thinking that bloody cloth really stinks, again to myself.
Laundry lady says to me, she says, “Bloody stuff is the worst we get in here. People think to rinse the rest, but for some reason not the bloody stuff. I always wonder what happened, people bring in bloody sheets. I always think the worst—suicide. My best friend in high school committed suicide. She’d tried before. She cut her wrists, but not deep enough. Made a terrible mess on her bedclothes. Then she tried a whole, big bottle of aspirin, but she couldn’t keep ‘em down. Gave her a terrible headache, if you can even imagine that. She even stuck her curling iron in the bathtub. That electric thingie on the wall saved her from the curling iron. What do you call that thing?”
“You mean the GFI?” I interjected, both to answer her suspended question, and, likewise, for her to catch a breath. “Ground Fault Interrupters cut off the electricity in those cases where the curling iron falls accidentally.”
“Yea, I guess that’s what they are, GFI plugs. Who still uses curling irons, anyway? That’s soooo yesterday.” the laundry lady said.
As my interest was piqued, I asked, “OK, those methods failed, so how did she do it, did she jump off a building?” Sometimes I need to let things go.
“Oh, nothing that tidy. You know what a grain auger is?”
As my own granddaddy’s final act here to Planet Earth was to stick his head, accidentally we presumed, into an operating combine, I quite understood. Big John Deere machine. He’d been working on it all morning, and…
Anyway, I was sitting here this morning feeling sorry for myself, wondering why I even write anymore. Is it to communicate? Educate? Elucidate? Entertain? Express? Emote? Emit?
OK, let me back up and provide you with some ADHD revisionist prose. I tried to log-on over to Squatlo Blog for the last several weeks only to be told that I was, and here I’ll quote the message, “Go the fuck away because you, asswipe, are not invited.”
Maybe I paraphrased and repurposed the words there, but that was the gist of the message. As I’d written numerous, unanswered comments there to his scribbles over the last while, I figured what with him having a young charge in his casa, he’d prefer I not stop by anymore. I’m thinking since we’re buddies he didn’t want to confront me, he simply wanted me to go away on my own. And as he’d stopped stopping by here to my place, well, it seemed confirmation.
As quitting anything on my own is a skill set not yet mastered, I made another attempt yesterday for entry to Squattie’s message board only to find a new message that, effectively said, “Go away. I’m tired of this shit and I’m done with it, so leave me alone!”
Seems my buddy Bob has thrown in the towel, which, in turn, made me wonder should I mayhaps do the same, and fuck auto-correct because mayhaps is too a word. After viewing the end of Squat World, I picked up the phone and called my psycho therapist, former Mrs. Mooner Johnson Numero Uno and mother of my kiddos, Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson- MD, PHD, LCSW, LSMFT, M-O-U-S-E.
“Sammie,” I said. “My buddies are discontinuing their bloggies. Reckmonster, Thundercat, and the rest. And Now Squattie. I’m thinking I’ll quit too.” I then went on and on.
“Look, Mooner,” she told me after I’d expressed my consternations, “Writing is therapy for you. It helps you unload some of your insanity—pass it along to the unsuspecting.”
“Therapy?” I was thinking.
“Yes, therapy. Have you been thinking to yourself out loud again?”
I thought carefully, decided I wasn’t.
“Oh yea, you are. If you don’t start developing some filters you’re going to get into more trouble. And you’ll get slapped more often.”
I thought that it was too late on the slapping, and why do I pay her so much for therapy when I can simply write my blues away.
“It’s never too late to be a better human being, and the reason you pay me is to illuminate your path to sanity. Think of the writing as evacuation—like a bowel movement for your mind.”
Now I’m thinking about shit for brains and shitting your brains out—you know, those metaphoric brain/shit dealios. Mental diarrhea.
“Now you’re talking,” Dr. Sam said. “Writing helps you purge your brain of its overload of lunacy. That way you’ll have fewer times when it spills over and gets you slapped.”
With that, she sipped her chamomile tea, set the delicate china cup back on its saucer, and looked at her watch. These things I knew because it’s precisely what she does in every one of our sessions.
Thinking that my time must be up and remembering that the china was from our wedding set given us by her parents, my lonesome libido peeked out.
“Yes, your time’s up. Look, buster. You’re lonely, and that’s a dangerous place for you to be. Take the dogs for a walk. You’ll feel better.”
I did. So, fuck Walmart in the merriest of Xmas ways!

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9 Responses to “A Bikini And Six Tiny Reindeer; Xmas Cheers Too All”

  1. I was disappointed to see that Squatlo had hung up his fighting gloves right when we all need him the most. Mr. Trump has won yet another one: he took down the Bush Dynasty, he took down the Clinton Dynasty, he took down Squatlo…

    I thought he was made of tougher stuff, but I guess Trump beat him pretty good.

    They’ll probably put his head up on the wall of Trump Tower like they would a buck.

    It’s okay. Defeat happens to people and Trump is apparently a more worthy adversary than he looks like on television. So Squat’s afraid to take on Trump. We shouldn’t think less of him for that.

    I’m reading back through this comment and it almost looks like I’m trying to goad Squat into posting again. But I’m not. He got beat, and he got beat but good by Mr. Trump, to the point where he’s gone into hiding. I’ll remember the good times, when he could take on state reps, which is perfectly respectable as far as a fighting level goes.

  2. Not to beat a dead horse (and I’m not calling Squat a dead horse, you understand), but so long as we’re talking about going into hiding, do you know who else went into hiding?


    So Squat’s sort of like Yoda at the end of “Revenge of the Sith” when the Emperor beats the hell out of him and he has to sneak out through a ventilation duct to where Jimmy Smits is waiting.

    Nobody dislikes Yoda or calls Yoda a pussy just because he went into hiding. And similarly, I think that all of us – every single one – should restrain ourselves when we are tempted to call Squat a pussy just because he’s running away and hiding from Mr. Trump.

    I mean, YODA!

  3. Mooner's Cascading Rivulets says:

    Nazzy. I guess I don’t blame Squattie for disappearing under Trump pressures. Wouldn’t want a Big Bertha dropped there to Middle Tennessee, what with all the nuclear proliferations going on.

    Which reminds me. How, inthefuck, can I make a comment over to your place? I’ve lost all my login info for Discus and Facebook and such, and they’ll not allow me to reassignate.

    Anyway, what I wanted to tell you is that the first ever chair was a log from a tree that was struck down by lightening. Early man-type sat after spending a fruitless day hunting and gathering. Guy wore ass-cheek shaped furrows on the log over his short lifespan, then one of his kids took over that throne. Have it on good authority, this information. Which reminds me of something else.

    Do you give Xmas gifts?

    Fuck Walmart with Xmas spirit!

  4. bj says:

    I hope the good Dee Arr is correct about it “never being too late to become a better human being”. becomes frustrating sometimes dealing with the humans; the grey areas are getting darker and I keep trying. but. YOU …. have illumination. Lucky.
    Quitting blogging is easy. I quit this bloggy thingie at least a couple times every year. Sooner or later I crank up a new variation on a very old, worn out, theme. I’ll almost bet that if I didn’t spend so much time each day in front this device designed to SAVE said time …. I could finish my own great american novel – if I ever did start one. Therapy, she calls it, huh? well that makes us both sound like a couple’a loonie birds. I know that when I REALLY let it out in a post over to my place it’s almost as satisfying as a triplethreat bbq dump. One you can REALLY get a grip on and shove it all out. Know whut I mean? Bloggin’s like that. the more full of shit you are? the more likely that it’s impossible for YOU to quit blogging. I … will always have a blog somewhere. Brown eyes, you see. SOME … call it therapy.
    um .. the title of your post and the ending of your post are Christmassy af. The actual content of your post, however, … not so much. I wish I could transfer half my happy/merry spirit to you cause there’s plenty for both of us. EVERYbody here to Johnsonville sends his n her love and best wishes to you, the missus, and all your furry little confidants. We Love You, Man.
    does this blog have a complaint section or a suggestion box? No? okay then. here’s my complaint. It’s about your “Store” and your “Merchandise”. How much would it cost to remove all that “Rick Perry sux this’ern and that’ern” and just have “MOONER sez …” stuff. Like, oh I dunno, like “Mooner sez Keep On Truckin’!” or “Mooner sez Onward Through The Fog!”. shit like that. I mean … it’s too fucken late NOW! Christmas is wrapped already! But you know, there might be a Christmas next year, TOO, so ….
    alls I want for Christmas is another Lombardi Trophy. *sigh*

  5. bj says:

    pps glad yer still bloggin ….

  6. Mooner's Cascading Rivulets says:

    Beej. Where to start. My “store” is like the rest of my bloggie save and except for the posting part, which is to say totally out of my control. What that means is that I lack the mental acuities and Word Press skill to make any changes anywhere to the pages hereat. Herein, maybe. I keep telling myself I’ll find a WP expert to help me fix shit and maybe try to teach me maintenance thereof, but and alas, I’ve yet to get off my duff on that one.

    As for the false advertising, I was lurking around the I-net and came across this list of the most clickable buzz words. I thought about buzz words and decided to try some. They included “bikini” “Xmas”, and “reindeer”, buzz words I then decided to work into my title even with the apparent lack of relevance. But, to use a football analogy wherein the title were to serve at the left and right uprights of the goal post, I’m A-OK with my having kicked the puck wide left.

    As for their effectiveness in dragging folks to this site, kicking and screaming after arrival, I got sixty-seven first time visitors from Woodbridge, New Jersey. Sumbody splain that one to me. All of then within a half-hour of the others. I mean whatthefuck, right?

    And while I’m not full of holiday spirit, I’m not unhappy. I’m aggravated, irritated and agitated at the state of affairs of our State Affairs, but my own life is as charmed as it’s ever been.

    OK, and maybe that means I’m far from Prince Charming and perspectives are everything. But I’ve taken the time to insure that at least a few poor unfortunates will eat this next year, and I’ve vowed to not get arrested before summer. Maybe that should be a NY resolution rather than a gift. I was thinking it a gift to me for the holiday, sort of a atheist’s plum pudding.

    But I’m addicted to words. Can’t stop. Get the shakes after a couple weeks. So, let’s all spread holiday cheer and Fuck Walmart!

  7. bj says:

    Keep those “cascading …” coming. You talk purdier’n’a … well …

  8. Q says:

    Squat gave it up? No more Guano? I guess that everyone retires at some point. However, you shouldn’t Mooner! Like you, I agree that there’s therapy in writing. My blog allows me to express myself uninterrupted, which is hard to come by these days. It’s also allowed me to meet great and talented people like yourself.

    Heck, I follow Reckmonster and Thundercat on Instagram and Facebook and communicate with them still although they’re retired. Mr. “Lost in Idaho”, Brandon, too.

    We will always be a virtual family and it’s sad to me to see someone hang it up. But, that’s just me being selfish. And my selfishness doesn’t want to see Mooner Johnson’s blog stop being the great distraction from the world that I need from time-to-time.

  9. Mooner's Cascading Rivulets says:

    Q. Squat’s gone but go over to BJ’s place for your midweek guano fix. Don’t worry about me quitting. I’m far too crazy as it is, and if writing my thoughts to the pages herein stems the progressions of looniness, it’s best for all that I do.

    So, let’s all lift a toast to our fallen brethren, and shout a hardy “Fuck Walmart!”

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