Macabre Thoughts And Other Distractions; Looking For Mr. Goodyear

So. We three Denton County Johnsons have just returned from a trip to central Texas for a visit with the entire clan. The dogs and I flew south on I-35 in the SS and it was decided that we might need new tires soon. We saw Gram and her new beau Harry, a not-so-bright chemistry grad student over to the University of Texas, Sister and her wife Anna the Amazon, gram’s buddy P-cubed, one of my sons and his newly-preggers wife, the gigantic Rush Limbaugh and his husband Rick Perry—now 700 pounds of pig and an ostrich who swings his bowling ball-sized head like a medieval mace—and, of course, Mother.
OK, so why don’t we say “medivial” when referencing that particular period in history? Most everybody says it that way. When enough English speaking people used the word “internet” it became an actual word. There wasn’t an internet until somebody invented it as a word, and then it wasn’t an actual word until enough people started using it.
The Squirt and the goat dog slept in the closet with Rushie and Ricky while we were away, and I was required to hose them down before loading the car for the trip back. Rush Limbaugh the pig has decided that he needs the full complement of AXE men’s products used liberally to overcome the normal P. I. G. odors his beau finds offensive. Seems the smell of a manly hog’s ass puts an ostrich off any thoughts of sexing in totality. Me, for my part, I can’t stand the smell of AXE products, and I’m pretty excited about the new grandbaby-to-be, a boy, to-be. Other two already delivered are girls, so a boy will likely give us all the sexes, or genders, whichever might be the proper verbal consideration and whatever life choices they make.
I also had a quite long in-person psycho therapy session with Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson for which I paid, and she also gave me a couple of freebies—each free session the results of what she considered “inappropriate” behaviors by me while in the company previously mentioned, above. Interesting how the free sessions had no real value while the paid-in-fucking-full two hours of psyche tuning had immediate perceived benefits.
Seems to underscore that old adage about free advice. Which reminds me. What with my ADD, visitations with my entire clan of Texas family has put my brain in a new and awkward space. Seeing my mother nearly depleted with advanced dementia while my randy old grandmother ticks on like a Timex, I’ve had a mind filled with unusual subjects every night as I lay down to go to sleep. As Mother has now added the statement, “I don’t know why the good Lord doesn’t just take me,” to the usual five questions that contain the full equivalencies of all her conversations, some of the rest of us might—strictly by accident, mind you—and including my crazy brain, have been asking itself the same question, that being:
“When will I know that enough is totally fucking enough?”
OK, I have read that last paragraph thirty-four times and as awkward as it is, it clearly states my intentions. Said and asked another way, I’ve been wondering how sick and with what illnesses will I be ready to abandon this orb? At what mental state will I turn in my room key so’s the make ready team can get things spruced up for the next tenant to occupy my earth-confined space?
Since I usually start the ZZZZZs as soon as my head hits the pillow, I’ve been forced to reach a conclusional answer to that question in order to avoid sleep deprivation, and conclusional should be an actual word. To arrive at said conclusion I developed a logarhythm, or whateverthefuck those decision concluding thingies are, a clever device wherein I can put in various situations and see how any particular circumstance would end with me wishing to keep on trucking through life in spite of my maladies.
As I have already forgotten the component parts of said scientific formula, I’ll not bore you with anything but the conclusion. Much like “The Standard Deviation to Fudd’s First Law,” Firesign Theater’s famous treatise on macro and quantum mechanics both, the hereinafter named “Mooner Johnson’s First Law of Continued Life Desirability” shall serve as the guiding light for our late-life decisions. It is:
“As long as I can laugh, and know why whateverthefuck it is at which I’m laughing is funny, I want to live.”
My sincere hope is that each of you can understand the logic my idea contains even if you don’t agree with my conclusions. While this seems a simple-minded decision tree, please note that it contained at least a hundred pre-sleep hours and thousands of spinning thoughts as filters, and hundreds of ideas eliminated.
I guess I’m saying that no matter how bad things get, if I retain what feeble mental capacities I have remaining and I can laugh at whatever shitstorm is over my head, there might be some good reason to exist. If not, adios, y’all.
It’s like when my God visited me this one time back to when we were in Santa Fe. The three of us were enjoying a mellow desert mountain night—one of those late fall crystal-aired evenings laced with the sour smell of spilled beer and lingering pot smoke—when my Big Guy flew in and took a perch atop the stucco wall that surrounded our little compound. I was sitting under one of the big pines with the dogs discussing my cancer and visits to The Great Radiator.
God had chosen the visage of one of those funky-fake characters featured in one of the Fifties Sinbad movies—overly-large bird with steely talons and a man’s bearded face. The only thing unsettling to me was that he acted like one of those animated models and the air around him did that what I guess you’d call a “shimmer,” just like those movies.
“Hey, God, wanna cold one?” I asked. “Maybe a toke?”
My God and I have what some might consider a casual, perhaps inappropriate relationship.
“Not here for good cheer, Mooner, I’m here to maybe enlighten you on the off chance that you’ll take my advice. You’re at the age where your body has started to fail you, as is indicated by your rebellious prostate. This rebellion won’t kill you anytime soon, but you need to spend some thoughts deciding when you want to go, because what does ‘soon’ really mean?” Then, in a swirl of dust and pin feathers, “poof!” he was gone.
Combining that gem of advice with my God’s question this one time when He said to me, OK actually It was She this other time when I was awakened from a deep sleep by a young Madeline Kahn eating cherries and spitting the pits in my face, She says, “Ask your neighbor to contemplate the possibility that this right here is his Heaven.”
The neighbor was this Catholic guy and having just conjured up that memory, I’m thinking maybe my mother might do a similar contemplation. Then again, Mother’s contemplator is in a state of significant disarray.
Ugh. I need drugs.
Fuck Walmart and the GOP!

Print Friendly


8 Responses to “Macabre Thoughts And Other Distractions; Looking For Mr. Goodyear”

  1. bj says:

    So glad to hear about Gram, Sister, Rush, Rick and the gang again. Wish All a Merry Christmas and Happy Hollydaze from us here to Johnsonville!
    Meanings of words is all that really matters and it’s okay to combine, respell or even invent words if it gets the point across. So you go Boy! Make ’em up! Just don’t do like the most recent “Sign Language” translator and try speaking a language you don’t know to a buncha folks who DO. and anyway … I had an Internet Transistor Radio( Taken away from me by my Chemistry teacher, “Buck” Crabbe, while listening to a Yankees game when I was a Junior in the Fall of 1968. Never got that rascal back, neither.
    Y’know, I’m a regular customer at my favorite sub shop, Sub Station II, and they have what they call the Sub Club. Yeah, and they give you this little card with 12 squares on the back y’see and when you buy a six-incher they stamp that puppy once and when you get a footlong they stamp it twice. When you get the card filled you get a free foot long – get the #19. That’s NUMBER 19 not hashtag 19. The Super Special. um .. where was I – oh. Maybe the Good Doctor, Ms. Sam could like keep a spread sheet for her most addled customer(s) and maybe cut ’em a break every 12 manipulations or so. Might be worth checking into, though I don’t suppose you’re gonna get yer mind shrunk for free. Absolute.
    We had a rule in my house when my boys were growing up: “If it’s Funny, You’re Not In That Much Trouble”. Humor is good medicine, too. That said, like you, I have a plan and a red line. I ain’t in no hurry to suck on my own gun but quality of life means a lot to me and there is a minimum, fer shure. I sent off for that 23 and me dot com DNA health assessment. It maybe too late to help me but my children and grandchildren, well, information is knowledge. It searched for markers of Late Stage Alzheimer, Parkinson’s and several more. I’m no geneticist so I can’t say if the findings are accurate but mine were informative and somewhat comforting. Whether accurate for me or not.
    If you ask Gram, I’ll bet she’d make you up a potent batch of mind relieving Mushroom Mousse that’ll put the Holiday back into yer Spirit! Or the other way around. um and um .. I’d like a batch for my greedy self, too. I need ME some Ray Harryhausen dreams.
    Merry Christmas To All …

  2. hiya Mooner…I dont want anybody making decisions for me if I become incapacitated…as long as I’m breathing everything can and should be done regardless! ain’t no pulling the plug on this hillbilly girl, I’d come back and haunt ’em! Happy Holidays to you and the clan! 🙂

  3. Squatlo says:

    Thought you’d want to see this. Some assholes in Hollyweed have bought the rights to make a tv series based on Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse-Five. There’s a reason no one has remade “Gone with the Wind”… they’d only fuck it up.

    I thought this had to be an “Onion” piece when I first saw it. Surely they wouldn’t fuck with Vonnegut’s masterpiece… for television.


    (so it goes…)

  4. Mooner's Cascading Rivulets says:

    Squattie. I guess my desire is to have it be a MASH comparable wherein the “expansion of the themes” of the original are well done. But how?

    I’m gonna lose weight for you this time, Billy.

  5. Mooner's Cascading Rivulets says:

    Beej. My psych therapist says that it is because I’m stubborn that I make new words with which to expressorate. She feels that I think I can say it better with my own inventions than the millions of existing words. While I never say, “Fuck her,” anywhere other than right on up in her face, if thoughts were daggers I’d be jailed.

    Having carefully read your response herein above, I’m growing concerned that you have catched my ADD. And to even suggest that I might get a quantity discount on professional mind fuck sessions… Well, my sliding scale heads the other way. Dr. Sammy calls it combat pay.

    OK, before I forget. I want to start a program if Alabama elects Roy Moore. If so, I say we work hard to keep sports recruits from going to Alabama schools. Get those kids mammas to knock some sense in their heads. Show how that backwoods, Bible misinterpreting Bigotry will rub off on ’em. Which brings up a point to me. How could a smart and well reasoned person move to Alabama by choice?

    Fuck Walmart and all Roy Moore voters!

  6. Mooner's Cascading Rivulets says:

    Bella, baby. OK, I just wrote that “baby” right there and I wondering if that qualifies as harassment. I didn’t mean it to put sexual pressure on you and it certainly has nothing to do with my power over you. But as a man who has been slapped many times, with but a few of those starlit experiences understood by me, I realize I do need to ponder what the rules should be.

    Maybe I should hire a woman to hang with me as an interpreter for any occasion whereat I’ll encounter any other women. I can tell her what I want to say and she can then say it in womanspeak. Let her get slapped.

    And yea, self-determination is the key to a healthy-headed endgame.

    Please, fuck Walmart, and again!

  7. well Mooner, I don’t mind being called “baby” … I’d really love to be somebody’s baby actually but things aren’t working out well in the love arena for me. I guess I just need to find me an ole dog…these young whipper snappers are just liarsliars and even they fail to light this ole gal’s pants on fire! ha! 🙂

  8. Mooner's Cascading Rivulets says:

    Bella. Must be something wrong with the whippersnappers over to your place. Also, I can’t get the image of what it must be like when your pants are on fire.

    And let’s all give America’s greediest retailer a hardy holiday Fuck Walmart!

Leave a Reply