Archive for the ‘A Life Lesson’ Category

Macabre Thoughts And Other Distractions; Looking For Mr. Goodyear

Thursday, December 7th, 2017

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!

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Thanks, Harvey Weinstein; Forcing Open Eyes Wide Shut

Thursday, November 16th, 2017

So. I’m sitting here to the keyboard writing because the weather has fucked my day all to Hell and back. Ever since getting diagnosed with the ass cancer I’ve made changes to my daily routines designed to improve both my physical and cognitive health, and to hopefully improve my attitudes towards Life, the big L life, and likewise designed for me to be more tolerant of lives, as in life forms. I decided that when facing the Big C a man might ought to rearrange his orders, and alter his cadences, so as to march forward into the fog. When setting my new schedules I included an early morning dogs walk, time at the gym, reading time, meditation time, study time for poker improvements and then use of that knowledge to make money up to the big casino across the Red River, time slots for meals and rest and social intercourse.

In the rambling run-ons above, notice I said nothing whatsoever about having allocated slotting for social intercourse of the sexing it up variety. As I see self-manipulation in much the same way as I do any other body cleansing activity, like blowing a snotty nose, rather than an event requiring specific time allocations masturbation is a matter of either convenience, or inconvenience, as each individual among us can choose to see it. I will say, herein, that I have seen aging as an interesting modifier of opinions as it relates to self-love. It seems that a month doesn’t pass that I hear someone unlikely speak of masturbation, and usually they are of my general age.

Additionally, as there are no actual sexing partnerships hereabouts, if and when opportunity should arise I’ll be required to slice time from other allocations already having been made, practiced, and accepted.

Hearing myself say that, I’m guessing sexing time should come straight out of exercise allotments. As out of practice as I am there will certainly be much physical efforts required.

That said, and before my ADD sinks this boat faster than Titanic’s iceberg, you’ll notice that I mentioned not any time slots for writing. And why isn’t it “icebUrg”, with a u and not an e? When I started writing my thoughts down to share with you guys all those years ago, it was done strictly as a much-needed therapy to ease the pressure inside my skull and also as a method to avoid another stay over to the loony bin, and not for pleasure—mine or yours. Ever since our divorce, my psycho therapist and first ex-wife, the lovely and charming Dr. Sam I. Am Johnson, has used threats of extended stays over to the crazy house as a means to manipulate me into doing what she wants me to do. While many of you might read that last sentence as a sign of my lack of understanding as to how psycho therapy supposedly works, I’ll herein inform you that for starters, fuck you, and as a finish maybe after 35-years of intensive theraporizing, you too might see things from my world view.

The reason that I’m writing rather than dogs walking is that quite simply put, my therapist isn’t the only important female manipulating the ever-loving shit right on out of me. The following early morning conversation shall provide for your enlightenment.

Me: “OK kiddies, let’s harness up…Let’s lock-n-load your furry asses, let’s rock-and-roll. It’s time to walk, hoochie-koo!!!”

The Squirt: “Fuck you.”

Me: “Huh?”

The Squirt: “I said, fuck you.”

Me, after thinking if I had forgotten some promise made to the small, brown puppy: “Why the attitude little lady? It’s 8 am and time for your walk.”

The Squirt: “What part of ‘fuck you” is confusing you, buddy boy? I’m not walking in this fog.”

Me: “It’s not that bad, sweetie pie, I can almost see the sidewalk from the front door.”

The Squirt: “Who gives a shit, asshole, there’s coyotes and skunks running the neighborhood and I’ll not walk under the threat of an attack. And there’s been a bobcat sighting. I’ll die by my own hand but I will not be eaten alive by some giant fucking cat! And don’t you dare ‘But, sweetie,’ me.”

So here I am, and that reminds me that I’ve been thinking a thought that you need to fully hear-out before deciding whether or not I should be re-placed in confinements over to the loony bin. Think what I’m about to say all the way through before committing either your mind, or me.

I might believe that having elected Donald J. Trump as President could be the best thing for America since the repeal of the Volstead Act. Enacted in the same year as women got the vote with the, I think, 19th Amendment, the year 1920 AD, I firmly believe that the ignition and repeal of Prohibition was way more important in starting and ending the Great Depression than any other single factor. I think cutting us off from our drinks depressed us, and giving them back had this huge yoyo effect, and affect, upon our economy.

I mention this only as a modifier to my Trump hypothesis and not as an effort to belittle any other historical facts with which a scholarly debate on importance might be based. Me, for my part, I think the outlawing of adult beverages was a powerful blow to public psyche, and it’s re-legalization an even more powerful boost than even the wars since.

Again, my thought serves, herein, only as a marker to demonstrate the historical context of my premise. If you have confusion over that premise, imagine mine.

I think that the average American Joe will finally start to see the two-faces of conservative politics and begin to act more in line with their personal interests as results of current politics. I think the ways in which Republicans are talking out of both sides of their mouths is becoming so gaudily obvious that even the dumbest-most can see it. To see Hannity attack Hollywood sexual perverts while coddling Judge Roy Moore, the Alabalamba Senatorial candidate dickhead, is but the latest two-faced demonstration. Watching conservatives minimize the entire Russian situation after the Benghazi dealio, and now the tax reform plan that promised middle class benefits yet is nothing more than a rich-get-richer charade, might actually give white low-to-middle-class voters reason to rethink their votes.

To cinch the saddle tightly to my topical horse, I present you with Mr. Harvey Weinstein, serial sexual predator. As enough women have come forward to sink old Harve’s boat, likewise many more men and women have publically stated the sexual misconduct of other “Hollywood” types. And how have we liberals responded? With ridicule, denouncements, and expulsions. Once enough credible reporting has been made, we have marked those men as pariahs.

To a man, we have castigated them from their lofty positions and deemed them as unacceptable as is their behaviors. Correct responses if you were to ask me.

But how have the conservative Christians responded to Donald Trump and Judge Moore’s sexual predatories? Trump was a locker room talking boy who meant no harm, and those women who accused Trump and Moore are all—each and every one of them—liars. Moore’s own pastor quoted Bible verses that sanctified his deviant acts misusing Bible verses to portray Moore as if he were a prophet, and the airwaves have been jam-packed with Christian leaders twisting Biblical nuances to find ways to exonerate Moore’s evil acts.

I see the event of Harvey getting called out on the red carpet as the opening of floodgates against sexual oppression and perversion, and also as a watershed moment to define important differences between the general conservative and liberal sociologies of our country.

So Fuck Walmart, sexual deviants, and two-faced assholes, one and all!!!

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Confessions Of Honor; What’s A Booger Among Friends?

Thursday, June 29th, 2017

So. As before stated to the pages, herein, I have been doing some study work and practice on my poker game while not spending time attending to said and same pages. That is about to change. As part of my newly-started poker schooling, I have been required to commit to something not poker related, and writing bloggie postings are it. “Is it”, I guess are better said there, and it is going to be a task as I’m required to do this—per said commitment—for thirty minutes every day. Thirty minutes every fucking day.
When I told the Squirt that she and the goat dog will be required to leave me alone for thirty minutes each of our days she said to me, she bitched, “Who do you think you’re kidding, shithead? You’re the one can’t stop bugging us for for even ten straight minutes. How about we strike a deal where you leave us alone for thirty minutes per entire day, and you have to give us extra dinner when you fail?”
Thinking on that, I realized that my now pair of ten-pound puppies would weigh out at half-a-hundie in a month. I likely realize that any new readers hereof will be perplexed in just 300 words.
Additional thoughts on the thirty minutes subject led to an agreement. “OK, I get that I’m the problem. How about I close the blinds in the office when I write? That way you guys won’t be barking at everything that moves and I’ll be able to keep my eyes off the neighbor’s college-age daughter. Deal?”
Done deal. The neighbor’s daughter is quite the looker, I hope she’s of college age, and the words I’m now typing are the first words of the agreement and the first of my commitment. Which begs the questions: “Will having a forced commitment to write effect—or maybe even affect—the mindless drivel contained on these pages? Will I somehow be smarter, more erudite, or clever more? Will I manage to control my ADD, maintain a logical flow of thoughts, and make sense? Can my readers discern between the commitment and the agreement after suffering through this?
Which reminds me. Are there no hero women or men in the national Republican Congress anymore? Is there not one among them who will stand proud and say that this new health care bill is an atrocity? Not one who will say it’s unfair to cut health care to the needy in order to give tax breaks to our wealthy, or not a soul among them to say that knocking 22 million Americans off health care coverage does not make America great again?
Where is the guy who can stand tall and say his party’s plan is terrible for our country? Where’s that one of them who will act like an actual fucking Christian and say taking care of our unfit is what Christ would ask us to do? Is there not one of those pro-life fuckwads who stand so tall for the unborn that is willing to stand for those already born in need of life support?
These proud and patriotic Americans can’t even get fully behind investigations into the entire Russia scandal yet they now want to run up a big expenditure to determine if the former AG hindered the Clinton email scandal. Look boys and girls, you already did it, you killed Hilrie’s political career. Spend the effort doing something useful, like proving Obama wasn’t an actual American citizen, or maybe that the CIA bombed the Twin Towers and the Pentagon on 9/11.
And that reminds me that I also have agreed to start talking about my fuck-ups, out loud. A confession/absolution sort of dealio. I’ve done it a couple times and it felt almost good. Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson tells me that confession is good for the soul, should I were to have one, and that I need to do more of it. So here’s one. There’s this one guy over to the poker room that I really don’t like. He has BO, that tooth decay breathe kind of halitosis that incites your gag reflex, and he’s shitty and nasty to other players. I often address him when he’s out-of-line, but I know it does no real good.
So, I had a snotty nose the other day from some pollen or another, and blew my nose all the way to the casino, but I seemed to dry up in the conditioned air inside after sitting there to my seat. About an hour later, the aforementioned shithead took the seat on my right. When I was trying to get a read on this one young player who gives me problems, I was absent-mindedly trolling at my nose with the pinky finger to the asshole guy’s side of me, and I got a bite. Snagged a big one—one of those rascals I call a “comet” booger. You know, with a dried snot blob the size of a match head and a long sticky tail hanging off. The kind that—if, and when, you can manage to flick it off your finger it manages to land in precisely the wrong place—sticks to anything like rubber cement.
When I play poker I have this backpack with all sorts of shit inside, the contents too numerous to now mention, and I keep spare napkins in an open pouch in the back-bottom compartment. I reached around with the comet booger-laden pinky hand to grab a napkin for depository duty, and right at that moment the shithead reached down between us to grab his water bottle from the floor beside his, and my, chair.
I’m just glad he was wearing a long sleeve shirt.
I was distracted for a couple hours as my eyes tracked my deposit, the sticky comet tail drying to a crust on the arm of his shirt, likewise distracting was my internal dialog as to whether I was required to tell him, and should I apologize for the accident. It was an accident. Really. I haven’t intentionally planted a booger since maybe high school. I was lucky that those distractions didn’t cause me to blow through my chips, as distractions and lack of focus are my big leaks, a leak being otherwise described as a problem or weakness that causes a poker player to lose money dumbly.
While on a bathroom break, I finally concluded that mayhaps I ought to fess up for my actions, in itself an act of congruency with my confessions, and I committed to go straight back out and confess. I did decide to pretend I had just stuck my snot blob to his arm in an attempt to make the apology and my confession seem timelier, a lie, effectively, that I also would be disclosing herein, had it occurred. But, and alas, he was gone when I got back, and as it is the thought that counts, I figure I’m good.
OK, I’ve just spent three hours writing this silly shit and I’m good for the week! So:
FUCK WALMART!!!

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Hair Triggers And Hair Brained Cops; Ordering A Number 4.

Sunday, August 28th, 2016

So. I was over to the Firehouse Sub shop on Cerrillos Road, Santa Fe’s busiest local business street. Cerrillos Road is filled not with fancy jewelry stores, $200-a-plate eateries or cowgirl-centric boutiques like the downtown tourist areas. Nopers, our Cerrillos Road has your tire stores, Wendy’s and Kohls. Almost to a store, the big national retailers are there on Cerrillos Road, and my Subaru dealership as well. It was because I was headed to see if there were any add-ons for my little WRX hotrod that I could install without voiding my quite comprehensive warranty that I landed at Firehouse Subs. Sandwich shop is next to Olive Garden in a building it shares with one of the big cell phone stores.

There were not additional modifications under warranty, and when making my way back towards La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe, a hot sub samich spoke to me. I parked, entered the store, cringed to the shouted, “Welcome to Firehouse,” and grabbed a place in line.

I hate to be greeted that way by anyfuckingbody. Say to me, and politely at that, “Hey, man, how’s it hanging,“ or, “Come on in,” or, “What tha fuck you doing here?” But don’t have a counter full of seventeen-year-olds yelling “Welcome!” at my ass. If the sammies weren’t so good I’d go to Jimmy John’s place every time.

So I ordered my Number 4 medium combo on white—fully engulfed—and filled the drink cup and sat. Fully engulfed means with everything on it. While I waited, four—I think or maybe more—State of New Mexico Troopers entered to stand in line. Which brings up another point.

We Americans enlisted the English language from the Brits as our official tongue, then fought a war with them to solidify that usage. So why do we say, “In line,” when they say, “On line.” OK, and they say, “Queue,” which, when I spell-checked, showed to also be a crockadile, another point in the altogether.

One of the State trooper guys was in the street clothes I associate with an investigator, one was dressed like a Major, and two were in Patrolman outfits, one of whom looked like a giant flaming asshole. Big guy with a buzz cut, muscles showing, and his pistol in a quick-draw holster—you know, a hard case with no strap to hold it in, and way too fucking much handle showing. As I sat glowering at this guy I noticed two young men staring at his holster, but with a different look than mine. While I was pissed, they seemed interested, like, “Maybe I could pull that cannon from Shithead’s hip and shoot him before he could shoot me.”

I came quite close to saying something, remembered that I have yet to be arrested here to Santa Fe, and ate my Number #4. I finished, cleared my table and walked out. I drove around the building to enter Vegas Verdes Street, accelerated towards the light and was forced to slam on my brakes to avoid hitting a shirtless man. Skinny white dude clutching baggy jeans with his left hand and holding what appeared to be a cell phone high in the air in his right, and running hell-bent-for-leather at what appeared to be his full clip.

My first thought was that he held the phone high as a counterbalance, keeping him from falling because he couldn’t let go of his pants. My second thought was, “Holy shit, there’s five cops and two kids from the phone store chasing that dude. Run dude, run!”

A giggle was forming inside my head when the big cop with the quick-draw holster whipped his gun from his hip right in front of my car. This man had a look-to-kill plastered on his angry face and was yelling something at the shirtless man, taking aim as he ran. My brain told me this quick-draw cop was going to shoot an unarmed man in the back.

“Don’t shoot,” I screamed at my windshield, and one of the other cops seemed to yell at the gunman to don’t shoot, because he lowered his weapon and didn’t shoot. Dude was caught maybe thirty yards past me, wrestled to the ground and manhandled into cuffs. I watched as knees were jammed into his back when he must have resisted. Right, he must have resisted? I was getting honked at so I needed to move along. I was a mile away when it dawned on me that I should go back. I did and it was all over.

I witnessed just how easy it is to be unarmed and shot in the back by a cop. I saw the heat on the faces of those officers as they lay chase to some dumb freak who wanted a free cell phone. Were they so pissed because the kid interrupted their Numbers 5, 8, 3, and a second number 5, or was it excitement at the possibility to get in a little target experience? Does one of them have stock in Sprint, looking to save a few dollars for the bottom line?

In reflections, I realize just how lucky I have been in my life. I’ve been in some pretty tense situations with cops and guns, but the worst injuries I ever had were bruises and tiny burn holes from Taser spikes. I’ve had cops who I knew without a doubt wanted to shoot me, yet they contained their egos, anger, emotional ties and personal maniacies, and did not shoot.

And like that dude yesterday, the running man, I’m mostly white. What if that kid was black or brown or wore a turban? How might things have gone? What if he had pointed the cell phone at the asshole cop?  What if I weren’t white? If my skin was ebony black, I’d likely be dead by now, shot or beaten by some bigoted Texas lawman.

I witnessed a man in a potential death scene, a situation one wrong move from death. Death comes too easy these days. Too many guns in the wrong hands. Bad cop hands. Too much anger fueled by too much hateful rhetoric. And all too often it’s the wrong people getting killed. Unarmed people in the wrong places with the wrong cops. But there was at least one good man in uniform that day, the man who called the gunman down, so you didn’t see this story on your evening news.

Now I know just how fast, and how easy, people get shot by cops. And even though it’s inappropriate for me to say at this point, let’s all Fuck Walmart!

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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!

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Is It Too Late To Be A Better Man? Depends

Tuesday, May 3rd, 2016

So. We three musketeers have just returned from four days over to Arizona, and while I must say the trip was a gigantic pain in the ass, the resultant outcomes are quite satisfying. The drive from Santa Fe includes passage through New Mexico and Arizona high deserts—long, flat plains with interesting geological features, yet not the first sprig of doggie grass—then a ride uphill to Flagstaff, then down a twisty mountain highway to Phoenix.
The Squirt—a cute little shit with a quite small puppy bladder—will squat to pee maybe thirty times in a given day, bathroom habits we share. Her for the small bladder, and me for my age, prostate cancer and those pesky visits with the Great Radiator. Sometimes, and I swear this is true, our visits to pee are coordinated like you hear that women’s’ periods can be. There was this one time back to the 1990’s when all the women residing at The Johnson Family Ranch seemed to fucking meld their periods into the same eight days over six consecutive months.
I’m certain that said melding was the root cause for a divorce. Number seven, should my irradiated memory be operating with some accuracy and functional alacrity.
We’d already stopped five times between Santa Fe and Gallup, NM, maybe once per thirty minutes. After the next half-hour’s driving, Squirt started squiggling in her harness and softly whimpering—usual early warning signs of her need to pee—and then she asked me to pull over.
Me, for my part in all this, well I have a crystal clear understanding of my adorable brown doggie’s bathroom habituals and spend considerable in their thoughts. Not pissing on rocks, won’t pee on concrete, hard pan, hot sand or anywhere near a fucking cactus. Nopers, our Squirtie girl requires a clear area containing at least one blade of grass in order to squat. Won’t pee in more than an inch of snow either. (See previous postings)
“Pull over, asshole, I’m about to pee my pants.”
Having anticipated this request, I answered her with, “OK, little lady, you just show me where.”
Long story short, after taking a small measure of fun from her discomforts, I pulled a puppy pee pad from its hidey hole in the trunk, a stash I’d secreted there, again in anticipation of this event. I unfolded and set the pad in the patch of barren sand she chose for this pee event, and the wind lifted the edge and sent it floating away. We chased it, Squirt caught it and then shook the shit from it like she’d caught a bunny rabbit and was preparating her mid-morn snack.
“For shitsakes, sweetie, why’d you do that?”
“What do you mean, dumbass, I’m a dog. Now hold this thing down or I’ll have the goat dog shit in the cooler.”
She’d do that. “You’d do that, wouldn’t you?”
I did my best to straighten the shredded paper-covered plastic pad and got on my knees in a best attempt to hold its tattered remains in the wind. Knees on two corners and hands on the others, I’m guessing I looked as though I were playing leap frog there to the side of the road. The small brown puppy surveyed the pad for a spot where enough absorbent paper was gathered to hold her water, positioned herself beneath the arch that was me, squatted and peed. She moved off the pad and then kicked sand onto the pad and into my face.
“Not funny, rat dog. Not funny at all.”
She looked over her shoulder, lips curled in a smile, and kicked another cup of sand my way. Me, ever thoughtful of time, economic and ecological efficiencies, brushed sand from my shorts, unzipped and relieved myself onto the pad. As I was zipping up, it dawned on me that perhaps I might have faced myself away from the traffic travelling on Interstate 40, a busy road. Then, I thought that could have peed without unzipping, an action that might have allowed maybe fifty cars to pass without an absolute understanding of what the gray ponytailed degenerate was doing twenty feet off the side of the highway.
ADD and its big brother, the dreaded ADHD, are amazing and intricate maladies. The same leaks in synapses that cause Shiny Object Syndrome can likewise create an environment whereat an otherwise thoughtful, sane man will pee in public to the entertainment, maybe horror, of a hundred passing cars. Focusing on a task with such intensity, honking horns pass through mental processes with no more thought than, “Horn sounds,” when that same honking horn is usually all it takes to derail a good session of sexing.
When we got to Phoenix at 5:26 PM local time, it was 98 degrees and the heat did that mirage thingie where the air waffles the light eerily. I’ve never understood that natural phenomenon. I remember spending countless hours chasing up and down our Ranch Road as a kid, trying to catch those shimmers in a butterfly net. Gram told me she’d reward me with a five dollar bill if I caught and brought her some. Mother told me it would be a fitting end to her tortures should I not pay attention to what was light traffic back then.
Which reminds me of my now dead sister. I’m finding myself thinking of her with unusually strong emotions—wanting time returned to enable me to give her a do-over. I keep having flashbacks of childhood when she and Mother battled, and rather than seeing a spoiled brat making her mother miserable, I see a third, unwanted child terrorized by the caregiver who had no love for her charge. If Mother’s dementia hadn’t already consumed her honest remembrances, I’d pack my bags for Texas to give her a giant chunk of my anger.
Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson keeps telling me that it’s OK to be angry, but that I need to move on and forgive Mother. I’m not that big a man yet. I understand that there must have been things in my mother’s past that created the mentalities of her realities, that there are reasons for the selfishness and want/need to punish those around her.
It’s likely the same in my own case. I can’t blame all my idiocies on the ADD. Many of my bad decisions and hurtful actions have not been spawned from mental malady. And therein lies my rubs. I steadfastly hold myself accountable for my actions and more so as the years pass. I keep having these flashbacks of my life’s living and see things I did wrong. I’ve been convinced of the requirement to forgive myself before I can forgive others, but I’m yet to find purchase for that blanket of forgiveness in which I can wrap myself—cocoon and soothe and sheath my own damaged self.
It’s hard to share a blanket you don’t possess.
Anyway, the Squirt hated Phoenix, so that’s one crisis averted. “How can you expect us to spend our lives dancing the hot foot on bubbling pavement and concrete heated enough to fry eggs? What about Havana?”
Havana, indeed. Is it possible to endeavor to live a better life—work hard at it—and find the grace with which to forgive your own past transgressions? Will taking good care of my two puppy children make amends for not best fathering the human ones? Will cleaning dog shit from every imaginable surface make up for my inability to clean my father as he lay dying, his body slowly digesting itself and excreting seventy years of a good life into a Depends?
Am I a mess, or what? So, fuck Walmart!

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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.

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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!

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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!

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Flip-Flopped Floopage; Doing The Right Thing Hurts

Monday, January 11th, 2016

So. It’s January 11th and I have yet to provide a posting in the New Year. This lack of published verbiage is not due to my having not written to you but is, rather, that the several thousands of words spun from my brain have been ruined by the continuing, and still unsettled, situation with my little car.

Three times since the calendar flipped I have written a final chapter to my car saga, and three times conditions have changed—flip-flopped from good-to-bad and back again. It’s been like the line from that Harry Nielsen song. “Good/bad/good/bad/goo/ba/goobagoobagooba…”

At least that’s how I think the words go. One of my ex-wives let me know the status of our relationship with one of Harry’s songs. This is the ex I don’t write about for fear that she might reappear in my life. I’d get a phone call at work and answer to the sounds of, “You’re breaking my heart, you’re tearing it apart, so Fuck You!”

Which is how I have been feeling with the goings-on with my formerly beloved car. I miss Harry and I miss the good times I spent with my tiny hot rod. I write about how shitty I’m treated and then get a promise of restitution. Then the promise is broken after I write anew to rip assholes, and before I can publish a scathing review, another promise is made.

I’ve always hated the meat grinder big companies use to settle consumer issues—revolving doors filled with confusing policies, multiple layers and faceless voices that can’t be reached directly. Somehow we, as consumers, have royally screwed ourselves by allowing businesses to have these systems. We have somehow managed to make it more profitable for a big company to run us around long enough so that we settle for small recompense as compared to the company fulfilling their warranties and promises.

As a business owner my veryownself, I have always found that style of customer service to be wrong. Wrong in every way thinkable. I’ve always felt a fiduciary duty to people who give me money for my promise to provide products or services, and I’ve always done my best to quickly, and fairly, give what I promised. It’s all about integrity.

We’ve lost our integrity because nobody seems to be held accountable. Take our too-big-to-fail banks. They wrecked our economy eight years ago, no individuals were punished, and they are close to wrecking our economy once more. Fucking consumers and the common man has become blood sport for the economically powerful. Volkswagen has royally screwed their buyers and our Environment. VW will be slapped on the wrist with some fines, and the consumers of those bad products will pay the price.

But I’m old school both as a businessman and a consumer. I won’t demand anything more than what you promise, but you will deliver on your promises. Or pay a price greater than the cost of doing the right thing. A major auto builder is now choosing its course.

“Have protest signs, will travel.”

So Fuck Walmart!

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Mustard Gas And Smelly Ass; One Man’s Efforts To Socialize

Monday, December 7th, 2015

So. Another productive week from our Republican controlled Federal Congress. For the some-dozenth time a vote to repeal The Affordable Care Act, and less than two weeks after the terrorist attack on a Planned Parenthood clinic in Colorado, Republicans voted to punish the victim by defunding PP and, likewise, reward the lunatic terrorist by insuring he can purchase another assault rifle should he get released and choose to repeat his terrorist act against women.

And I call them “do nothing Republicans” and I take it back. I call them bigoted and greedy shitheads as well, but that one I’m not taking back.

In the wake of this most recent deadly attack on women’s medical providers, it was suggested that mayhaps, just possibly, Republican/conservative rhetoric might have motivated this monstrous act. In their defense, those who spread the lies created by the false, doctored video of a PP doctor’s words both continue to lie about the video and claim Free Speech as justification.

I guess they can sleep at night knowing that they likely stimulated these murders and maimings, as verified by their continued actions. And my critical thinking on the subject leads me to a modest conclusion that they are either one, pleased with the result as a by-product of their actions, or two, pleased because the murderous attack on a women’s clinic was what they desired.

Then again, with Carly Fiorina it might be both and/or the simple fact that she appears to be a heartless autocrat and possible sociopath. The level of negative concern for humanity she displays is one of the key traits of antisocial behavior.

Which reminds me. I’m soon to be posting, herein, either a story about uncommon customer service performed by a major auto manufacturer, or instead, a tale of egregious customer abuse by said and same car maker. In either case I will be performing upon a promise made by me to said automaker to become either the best salesman this company could ever have, or, in the alternative, possibly the most gigantic pain in their collective ass they have never imagined.

And that reminds me that I need to admit that I now feel fully comfortable in saying that I am officially a cranky old fart. I’m a wears the tee shirt, card carrying, don’t give a shit what anyone says about me cranky old fart. As an aside, I just spent ten minutes adding, subtracting, adding back and re-subtracting hyphens from that last sentence. My memory from Mrs. Boulaware’s English class is that Grammar’s dictates require ten such hyphens in that descriptive sentence, and all those dashes made me queasy when I read it. So fuck it and add your own shitty little dashes.

Then again, a second count indicated twelve hyphens would have been required to accurately depict meanings. Let me show you:

“I’m a wears-the-tee-shirt, card-carrying, don’t-give-a-shit-what-anyone-says-about-me cranky old fart.” Unless you were to remove the commas and add hyphens thereat. Then there’s fourteen.

Fuck me running.  How annoying is that? And how annoying have I become? All I do is bitch, all I seem to think about is what makes me bitch, and I’ve somehow managed to lose the last tiny bit of filter I possessed when in social situations. I’d be embarrassed for myself, and often, but I don’t give a shit. I’ve started speaking my thoughts out loud as a general condition, whether to others or just myself, I’ve not been diplomatic at times when diplomacy would be the call to duty, and just the other day I was standing in line over to the coffee shop Saturday morning when a giant gas ball attacked my already-bloated gastro-intestinal system.

When I say giant gas ball, I mean “ate a quart of pinto beans two hours ago”, and when I say already-bloated, I mean I’ve been bloated like a beached whale since January of this year. One of the two worst byproducts left over from my visits to The Great Radiator, my “intestinal distress”, as the TV ads call it, has been my constant companion. When gas makes sudden attacks with its full power—much akin to a Navy Seal seek-and-destroy action—making itself known with a sharp jab at my gut followed by cramps, it can be debilitating. The closer the cramps strike after the initial jab determines whether I can simply fart the distress away, or in the alternative, run like Jesse what’s-his-name to the bathroom before I shit my pants.

Knowing the difference is an important distinction, and why can’t I remember Jesse’s last name?

Anyway, since the cramps quickly followed the jab, I knew that a fart would provide a temporary respite from the pain. Normally I’d have paused life, moved myself away from other human persons, farted, and only then continued with my life. My other life not consumed with gastro-intestinal distress. As this type of gas comes from my inability to properly digest raw, and some cooked, vegetables, the coffee shop fart was full of the robust aroma of a breakfast burrito with extra garlicy salsa, refried pinto beans and tomato. As the Squirt tells me my farts smell worse than dead fish, I make extra effort to put space between my ass and the asses of others.

That is to say that I spaced asses until last Saturday. Saturday I’m standing in an already too long line with half a dozen folks in front of me and a like number behind. The sharp jab punched my liver and the cramps followed within fifteen seconds. This “it’s OK to fart, you won’t shit your pants” signal led to the following, abbreviated internal conversation between my conscious and subconscious selves:

Me: “Uh-oh, here it comes!”

Me: “Fuck-a-duck, not now. I’ve already stood in line for five minutes and I can’t be late for another appointment.”

Me: “Ask the nice lady behind you if she’ll hold your place in line while you go outside to fart. She has a kind face…go on.”

Me: “I would but the guy behind her is the same asshole that bitched at me on Thursday for taking too much time deciding did I want a mocha or just a regular coffee. Man didn’t much like getting thumped on the nose. I really should think before acting sometimes.”

Me: “Then just stand here and let the gas leak out and act like you’re offended by the smell. Ask the asshole back there if he did it.”

Me: “OK.”

I haven’t farted a silent fart in twelve months so why did I think I could do it on demand. Just as I heard the nice lady behind me say, “Please, sir, would you step outside, I’ll hold your place,” I made a noise that sounded like an elephant sitting on a Whoopie Cushion, and released a cloud of toxic gas.

I’m looking for a new coffee shop and I’m lucky Santa Fe is over-stocked with options. Oh yea, it’s Owens, Jesse Owens was the black American who ruined Hitler’s Olympics. And Fuck Walmart!

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Post War Rememberies; Modern Physics For the Insane

Tuesday, September 15th, 2015

So.  Have you guys ever noticed that you are crazy?  Totally, lock-me-up-to-the-Looney Bin crazy?  Has it ever dawned on you that you might just be the missing link in a Darwinian chain of counter evolution—the member of your species containing that initial flawed chromosome that spawns the regression of all mankind, marching the Homo Sapiens Sapiens genetics backwards to our knuckle-dragging beginnings?

Have you ever wondered to yourself, thought out loud, “Mooner, what, inthefuck, is wrong with you?”

Our boy Bert Einstein famously said that to repeat the same action, repeatedly, while expecting differing results, is the absolute definition of insanity.  If you agree with the famous scientist on this matter, then E=My Insanity Squared, and Insanity is my middle name.  Me, I keep doing things, saying things, which I have high hopes will change some particular situation—make a positive impact not previously made, influence another’s bigoted ideas, or change my own flaws.

Take, as an example, my New Year’s Eve resolution for 2015.  Drunk as a skunk and stewing in my own mushroom saturated juices as the dogs and I sat in front of the TV waiting for the Ball to drop, I made my resolution.

“Well kids, I’ve decided that I will not flick anyone on the nose or ear this year.  That’s a childish response to conflict and I always end up in trouble as a result.”

Speaking of dropping balls, have any of the rest of you noticed how your balls drop towards your ankles as you mature?  Much as a woman’s breasts reach towards the center of the Earth with age, a man’s testicles tug his scrotum ever downward.

My own balls often need to be moved so I can put on my socks, and don’t you younger guys go getting all excited about enlarging sexual organs.   This isn’t enlarging I’m addressing, like where things grow in mass.  Nopers, here we’re discussing more of a stretching thingie—think of a rubber band.  First time a new rubber band is stretched it goes a little and springs back.  Next time it stretches a little farther then springs back with slightly less enthusiasm.  Keep repeating and eventually the rubber band stretches to ten times its original distance and has no spring left.  Stretch it one too many times and it breaks.

I’m concerned that my scrotum has reached its breaking point.  I can see the sunlight through it when I’m drying after a shower, and the blood vessels look as if they’ll expose themselves to that same sunlight.  Can a scrotum drop off?  Like a skin tag on your neck that you twist out of aggravation until it stretches too far and breaks off at the skin line.  God knows I’ve twisted and tugged and abused my scrotum over the years.

I bought this book from the back of a girlie magazine when I was in junior high school—“Party Tricks for Lovers” is what I remember it was called.  One of those cheap paper, eight-page flimsy publications so very available for $5.95 plus postage.  Had all these twisty maneuvers you could do with your pecker and balls to make silly shit.  Like balloon twisting, you could make animals and shit with nothing more than the simple instructions in the pamphlet and a matched set of pecker with balls.

If my tired old memory serves me, twist your junk a certain way and backlight it in a dark bedroom, and you can cast an image of Winston Churchill smoking a cigar onto the wall.  Mother caught me practicing this one time, mistook it for masturbating.

“You’ll end up in Hell for sure, you ingrate.  I’ll never, and I mean NEVER, understand what I did to deserve you.”

Me, for my part, often wondered what it was that I could have possibly done to deserve her.  Sometime during that same junior high school year I took my Sex Education Class, wherein I learned precisely what it was she did to deserve me.  One of my most vivid childhood memories is when I told the entire Johnson clan the specificities of how Mother deserved me.

Sitting at the dinner table at The Johnson Family Ranch back to those days required the following of my mother’s routine.  As a public educator, Mother mandated that Sister and I each elucidate that school day’s events in some detail and be finished before the plates were cleared.  While I can’t remember what Sister’s conversation entailed, and she always went first as ladies always go first, I can remember the contents of mine.

“Well…” I started, “Coach Pepworth whacked me with his 2X4 because I kept hitting the two hole instead of the three hole, but that was Jimmy Simpson’s fault.  Jimmy kept blocking the wrong way putting the halfback in the wrong hole, and I wanted to knock the shit out of Ronnie Peters.  Linebacker’s job is to knock the shit out of the running back even if he comes through the wrong hole.  And don’t even get all up in my ass about saying “shit” because that was Coach Pepworth’s word, not mine.  Coach also said, “Knock him totally fucking senseless, Mooner,” but you guys notice I didn’t say “fucking” as I can still taste Ivory Soap from last week when I asked Mrs. Browningwell what a vagina and clitoris was in Sunday School.  First chapter in Sex Ed was all about vaginas.  Chapter two was peckers, except they call peckers penississes.  Like Mississippi, but with a “p” at the start.”

(Editor’s Note: Please excuse the improper use of quotation marks in the prior paragraph.  It is somewhat simpler to write this explanation than to correct that.)

“Anyway, I continued, I solved a mystery for you, Mother, something you said you’d never, and I mean NEVER understand.  You deserve me because you let Daddy stick his pecker all up into your vagina and you rubbed it back-and-forth until Daddy ersaculated.  Wait, immaculated, maybe.  Daddy’s pecker spit out some sperm—millions of those little suckers—and one of um managed to get to your eggie.”

Deep breath. “I never knew you lay eggs like a chicken, Mother, even though Daddy says you cackle like a damned hen, but the egg turned out to be me.  Why didn’t you keep my shell? I’d like to see my shell. Must have been the same thing for making Sister.  Teacher says sometimes people practice having babies for fun, but she laughed and said that was a joke.  You deserve me because you incorporated with Daddy.  Teacher says a lot of adults don’t know as much about sex as I will when class is done.  Maybe you can ask me your sex questions because I already seem to know more than you.  OK, it wasn’t immaculated, it’s ejaculated.  And the other word sounds like incorporated but with a couple.  Maybe you couplerated.  Back to that whole deserving thing, tomorrow we study masturbating, you know, beating off.  Teacher told Ricky James he was crass for saying that, then Ricky asked was jerking off less crass. It isn’t. But Teacher said, and I asked her twice if she’s sure about this one because it’s pretty important to me. Teacher says I will not burn in Hell for masturbating, nobody does because everybody does it, beat off I mean, and, well, then everybody would burn in Hell. That simply can’t be because some folks get to go to Heaven, right, and if everyone goes to Hell for masturbating then there’s nobody left to go to Heaven.”

My ADD aside, Mother still thinks I’m burning in Hell and, well, I flicked the off-cell-phone ear of this teenaged twat standing in line over to the Starbucks.  Prick’s arguing, loudly, with his mother about skipping school. I ask him to zip it or go outside, twice, he gets louder with my requests so I give him a little flick, he drops his phone and starts whining, loudly. I’m asked to leave without my coffee and he gets poor-sweet-babied by this cute barista.

No justice in this crazy world.  So, Fuck Walmart!

 

 

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Mooner Johnson Is A Big Fat Liar; Self-Caught Fabricator Turns Self In

Wednesday, May 20th, 2015

So.  After having confessed as to my falling victim to the absurd concept of Luck, I now must make a second confession.  My having connected the dots between viewing tire skid marks on an overpass with poor results at the poker table required me to have placed faith in some supernatural power.  Believing in luck, by its very definition, is to place faith in something unknown, and as an atheist, faith is something I profess to lack in any measurable quantities.  Having faith in a supernatural being is the very foundation of most religions, and we atheistic personages lack the Blind Faith Gene.

I say Blind Faith Gene (BFG) herein, when referring to your basic religious types, because as I see it, the hereditary propensity to exhibit blind faith has much to do with the perpetuation of religion.  A handed-down sort of dealio.  That, and the simple fact that my very own mother seems to feel that I have some sort of genetic defects for not blind faithing her precious Jesus, which, when coupled with the ADD and ADHD, allow me to be both a heretic and an ungrateful son to my now demented mother.

“I must have done something terrible as a child,” Mother told me when Sister and I were kids this one time.  “You can’t sit still for one minute and your sister won’t wear a dress.  It had to be a sin of the heart for God to punish me so with the two of you.”

“I’m sorry, Mother,” I told her.  “I’ll try to do better.”

If I had a nickel for every time I said, “I’m sorry, Mother, I’ll try to do better,” as a kid, we’d have had us a nickel shortage back to the fifties and sixties.  In truth, it typically took less than a minute before some shiny object or meandering thought inside my skull would distract me from a stern motherly lecture and get me into my next scrape with Mother’s martyrdom.   Mother was a teacher at my school—a professional teacher well-respected among her peers—and she was required to routinely deal with my transgressions in the classrooms of her coworkers.  This one time, I lost my mind and was blowing spit wads through a long plastic pea shooter straw in Mr. Arnold’s history class.

The pea shooter was a gift from Daddy—one of the many secret gifts my father gave when Mother wasn’t looking—and “Swats” Arnold was one of those teachers who both believed in, and joyfully administered, the corporal punishments back to when I was in Junior High.  Swats, for those younger readers, were the individual whacks on your ass with a paddle administered in the Principal’s office by the particular teacher offended by your behavior at the given time.  The typical punishment at my school was between three and ten individual swats, said specificities determined by the severity of your offense, your propensities to earn swats, and the designated teacher’s level of fed-upness with your rangy, inappropriate ass.

Why I say I’d lost my mind and blew spit wads is because old Swats Arnold had already reached his max fed-upness with me, and I’d had so many swats from different teachers that year that I’d attained new heights in the Swats Match Play program installed by Mother.  Swats Match Play, SMP for shorties, was the secondary punishment stage administered by Mother upon returning home after my having been swatted at school.  My personal SMP plan included a baseline of a doubled number of motherly whacks, plus what I always thought of as a totally arbitrary number of add-ons.

This particular school year—I’m remembering it as the seventh grade—I had reached the level of requiring a minimum of seven swats for any swattable offense.  However, using the above mentioned school swat determinations, old Swats Arnold decided to mete out the maximum, and did so with glee.  Mother’s SMP program was to have us pull our pants down and lean over the kitchen table, and offer all in attendance the chance at the tender flesh.  The offender would first get double the number of swats applied with one of Daddy’s dress belts, and then Mother would carefully explain what you did to her to deserve the add-ons.  Any of you who have received swats at school can verify that ten consecutive swats were a painful bitch, and, likewise, anyone having been whipped with their father’s thin leather dress belt to their bare ass can testify to the uniqueness of that form of punishment.

This time, my butt was already so sore from the swats that I asked (read begged) my mother to give me a day or so to recover before administering SMT.  Politely said, Mother yelled at me to assume the position, which I did.  I already had welts and bruises from the swats and was cowering, and I never cowered.

“Who wants to go first?” Mother asked.

No one made a move to take the belt , they just sat and looked at their place sittings.

“Will none of you support me?  Don’t you understand what this little heathen did to me at school today?  The humiliation.  The embarrassment.”

Mother waited for a response but no response came.  This heated the anger already there.  “OK, looks like I have to fend for myself, as always.”

And she flay me four times with the anger of the offended before Daddy could stop her.  He grabbed the belt from her grip and chest bumped her all the way to the sink.  I stood bent to my perch, hands squeezing dents in the oak table, legs frozen in place, and tears streaming down my face.  Mother had hit me so hard that the leather had ripped my skin, made me bleed.

But I didn’t cry.  I teared-up like a mother fucker, but I did not cry.  I would…not…cry.

Gram came to my aid and washed me with a wet, cold dish towel, cooing to me as she worked.  I can’t remember the actual pain because I was now so mad, mad enough to look hard at the serrated bread knife sitting within my reach and thinking of my mother’s icy cold heart.  Sister saw my interactions with the knife and moved it out of reach.

Why I’m associating this incident with telling a lie escapes me.  Maybe it’s the other time I was bloodied by my mother with a belt—the time I told a whopper of a lie and was punished—that spurred this bit of history.  And I think that is one of the reasons I don’t lie.  I have always thought that my integrity is integral to my personage, but maybe that terrible spanking has something with which to do on that subject.

Anyway, I lied to you about having but the one superstition re: poker.  I was dressing to head to the casino Monday and reached into my undies drawer for a pair.  On top was a white jockey style, so I moved it aside and grabbed a black boxer-brief.  I always do better in black undies.  I then pulled one of my lucky shirts from the closet and put it on.  I walked over to my jeans, started to put them on, pulled my left foot out and took off my shirt.  I do better at poker when I pull my shirt on over jeans already in place.

I placed exactly one Immodium caplet, one prostate relaxer pill, and my poker pack of Stimu Dents in the shirt pocket.  I always do better with a pack of toothpicks designated for poker only.

I am so sorry for lying to you.  I’m sorry for lying to me.  To think that all of these inanimate object have power over me is disconcerting.  Next thing you know I’ll be standing in front of Saint Joo-Joo’s Catholic Church waiting for it to open so’s I can give a confession, take wafer and wine.  I’ve always thought blind faith Life’s most slippery of slopes, and this luck shit is a banana peel.

I’m sorry once, and again, and I’ll try to not do it anymore.  I forgive my mother for all of it, so maybe I can forgive myself.  However, Fuck Walmart and unrepentant liars.

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Maggots To Monarchs; A Macabre Look At Life

Wednesday, May 13th, 2015

So.  As a retired person, I’m finding my life so coagulated with personal efforts requiring allocations of time that I need a prescription for Coumadin of the Clock—a thinner for the pitiful remaining Life’s blood of an aging old geezer.  My retired guy’s time of relaxation and recreation has become a workaholic’s dream.  Confusing literary functionaries aside, I find myself too busy doing so much differing shit that I’m doing a shitty job with all of it.  As a younger man I’d have done a Ben Franklin Evaluation of all my involvements—that tried-and-true, methodical decision making tool—and pitched the lesser-valued involvements to the curb like so much leftover Brussel sprouts casserole.

Howsomever, being an aging old geezer prevents me from pitching out even my dirtiest, most tepid bathwater for fear that many of my babies might catch cold.  With but limited life remaining, I want to do every fucking thing I can do, yet all I want to do is take a nap.  I’ve so many things I want to do, my internal time conflicts resemble the political/religious interests of the Middle East.  My Sunnis are in constant battle with my Coptic Christians to gain control of my worktime, while my prostate is warring my ADD over control of my playtime.

Confused?  Me too.

Background.  Salvador Dali is my favorite artist, and Dali had a fascination with bottle flies as they relate to the birth-illness-death-decay-birth recycling dealio that is Mother Nature’s ashes-to-ashes population control plan.  The bottle fly is both the harbinger of a pending death and the first provider for Nature’s composting machine that turns our dead carcasses into rich, life generating earth.  The fly identifies a sick animal, tends it carefully, and then plants its eggies when the time is right.  Timing is the bottle fly’s strength, because timing is integral to the bottle fly larvae.  Too soon to hatch, there is no viable host to supply needed nutrition.  Too late, and the host is dried out and unfit for larvae food.

In Dali’s mind, the bottle fly’s part in life is mystical, a sentiment I too hold.  As a composter and non-believer, I see flies as tiny prophets—miniature beasts who buzz their excitement at finding a place to settle their manifest destinies.  Flies lives are fully dependent upon their hosts’ death—an irony that might be Life’s biggest irony of all.  Flies are symbolic of a certain stage of life—that point that marks whereat an animal has entered end-of-life stage. Illness, or the inability to move, are the symptoms flies seek in their animal charges.  I have often wondered if our infirm bodies send off a fly beacon, some sort of signal that attracts them.

And flies are prolific, planting 150 eggs each day, each egg hatching a larvae within twenty-four hours.  According to my math, one fly couple can produce generations of offspring within two weeks totaling in the millions, if all eggies hatch and all larvae make it to adult flydom with fertile mates.  That’s quite a lot of fucking flies, and those millions of flies can be a major problem at a composting operation because they have so much fodder with which to work.  If it weren’t for state laws requiring an operator to mitigate fly populations, I’d have made fly infestations a routine part of my composting plans.

Hell, I’d have imported Spanish bottle flies and raised the little shits.

Now, some of you are already saying to yourselves and maybe out loud, you’re asking, “Jesus Christ, Mooner, what in the fuck are you going on about this time?  Your ADD is totally out of control!”

And I’d answer you, I’d say, “First, what I’m going on about IS time, and second, of course my ADD is out of control.  That’s what I’m telling you.”

I got all serious about my life when experiencing the newness of my prostate cancer and daily visits to The Great Radiator.  At the end of one particular week of treatments my side effects were severe, so I swallowed an entire bottle of Gram’s special prostrate mushroom tincture and sat with the dogs out back in the snow.  The dogs were bundled under the heavy blanket, each lying beside me with their heads in my lap, and I was fully-covered except for my face.

If it seems many of my recent stories include snuggles with the Squirt and Yoda, that would be because we snuggle often these days, a byproduct of the subject upon which I now ramble.  Sensing the love and warmth of my adorable puppies is a thing I desire to fully enjoy.

OK, I wasn’t fully-covered since my face was exposed to snow and cold, but who really gives a shit?  As I held my face to the drifting flakes, the mind-altering aspects of the mushroom juice eased my physical discomforts and opened my intellect to think upon Life.  My Life.  I realized that having cancer was my bottle fly moment.  It fully dawned on me that the last stage of my life is here, harbingered by the cancer, and what that means.  I didn’t freak out though, I instead felt the relief that comes from knowledge, acknowledgement and acceptance.  As most of us do, I think I had never really looked at the reality of my future death in its totality until that moment.  I was in denial and it seems have always been.  I’d never cogitated the completenesses encompassed therein, and I must say that I’d prior been uneasy with my death.

Now I’m not.  So let me chase to the cut.  Or, better said, let me chase to the prick.  As an acknowledgement that I have cancer, and as a reminder that I need to fully-enjoy my remaining life, I got a tattoo of a bottle fly.  I wanted to place it in a spot on my body that I would look at most often, and since I think that getting a pecker flesh tattoo installation would kill me, I put the half-dollar-sized fly on my left hand.  Dili Dali—I named her Dili Dali for Salvador—sits on that Vee of flesh between thumb and index finger.  In addition to all the times I see my hand in a typical day, since I use my left hand to peek at my poker cards, the inked fly gets extra exposures.  And since I’ve decided to play more poker as part of my “maximize the pleasure from remaining time,” Dili Dali and I are quite well acquainted for the two weeks we’ve been buddies.

This one Catholic guy that plays poker asked me, he said, “Is that a fly on your hand?  Why would anyone tattoo a fucking fly on their hand?”

I told the entire story to his disgusted countenance, he asked if I was a pagan, I said, “I’m worse than a pagan, I’m an atheist,” he snorted at me and called another player’s bet.  He won the hand and thanked his God and did that “cross-your-heart” Catholic dealio.  A few hands later, he called my all-in bet for about $140.00 and he lost.

He cursed, but not at his God, and I asked him, “What’s your God’s name?”

“Huh…What do you mean?” his response.  He seemed quite confused.

“I can’t thank your God for my win if I don’t know His name.  It’s obviously His cards skills that beat you, not mine.”

And unless they are using them to incarcerate Texans, fuck all Walmarts!

 

 

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Red Tape And Bloody Scrapes; Memory Loss For Dummies

Thursday, April 9th, 2015

So.  The box was sitting inside the front gate when I arrived back to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe yesterday afternoon sometime after three.  I had a Mini trunk loaded with the monthly haul from Costco, as yesterday was the day in April chosen by me to make the trip to the ABQ, whereat the closest Costco abides.  Actually, it was the planned arrival today of my son and his somewhat new bride that spurred me to Spring clean, said and same cleaning is what spurred the Squirt to get all up in my ass to leave the house.

“Take a fucking break, shithead, the sound of that vacuum is driving us batty.”

That was the adorable brown puppy remarking on the racket made by my Shark cleaning machine—one of the best purchases made by me in recent years.  The one downside is that its motor whirrs at high revolutions, which in turn generates high-pitched air modulations that drive the dogs nuts.  As I hadn’t run the little plastic dirt eater for a couple weeks, the accumulated and hidden hair encrusted dust bunnies were more common than eggs at a Baptist Easter Hunt from back to the 1950’s.

Asshole child that I was, the entire Easter Bunny-Easter Eggs and Baskets-Resurrection of Jesus scenario was totally beyond my grasp.  I mean really—Peter fucking Cottontail?  Really?

“I don’t understand it, Gram.  Rabbits crap out these little brown balls—not eggs—chickens lay eggs.  I’ve seen it.  How does the Easter Bunny carry all those eggies and baskets?  Santa Claus is supposed to have a sleigh and I don’t see how that dealio works either.  You showed me how to dye eggs and that was messy.  Peter Cottontail will have stained fur and be too tired to carry all those baskets.  And eggs are heavy and they break.  I think you guys are lying to me.  And you told me Uncle Henry was dead and I’d never see him again because he’s fucking dead.  Isn’t Jesus fucking dead too, like Uncle Henry?”

That’s when my Gram gave me my first dosing of the mushroom potion she titled “Yer too young ta ask that question, ya disruptive little shit”.  I got a dose often from that first year of questioning authority until I was old enough to ignore Mother’s demands to attend Baptist church.  Developed a taste for mushroom juice that lingers still.

My monthly trips to Costco are for all our hard liquor, paper products, coffee, free trade sugar, tennis shoes for $19.95, and any other stuff Costco carries that I need.  Or want.  I tripled-up on toilet paper this trip—what with my digestive system still hyper-activated from radiation bombardment, I’ve a two-rolls-per-day habit.  Oh, and the industrial size of baby wipes—unscented.  Chaffing was a mentioned side effect from my pre-treatment readings, a condition I can fully support.  And, I always try on the new shoobies to insure proper fit, and chose to wear yesterday’s purchase while I shopped.

As I arrived back to the house with my Costco goodies, I could hear the dogs yapping to get out.  The Squirt squeals like a little piggy to get outside after a few hours of confinement.  So I grabbed two of the six bundles of TP under my arms and a bottle of Hornitos in each hand.  Put one of each to the ground when I reached the gate, opened it and walked through where I promptly tripped over the box and skinned my palms on the gravel that is my front yard.

“Mother fucker!” Grateful it wasn’t a mugger who tripped me, I was still pissed.  “Who, inthefuck, would leave a box there?”

Simple answer, “Oh, its UPS.”

The UPS label was pasted onto the white butcher paper box wrappings at an awkward angle, and the package looked as though it came from a war zone.  The wrapped box was the size of a copy paper carton, was dented and scraped, and it was sealed with bright red duct tape.  I didn’t need to read the label to know from which wench it came.  The red tape is my Gram’s trademark—matching reds with her Ferrari—and she slathers it on with reckless abandon.  The dents and scrapes are also Gram’s mark as she can’t seem to get any addresses written with precision, and her packages often take side trips before arriving to their destinations.

This label said:

Mooner Johnson

2501 XXXXXX Street (Maybe 3677 an maybe YYY Drive)

Santi Fay, Over to New Mexico north a Jarez

(it’s tha one with tha brown wall anna shitty old dead tree out inna front)

I’ve been tempted to print a bunch of shipping labels for her, but I figure UPS needs to earn their keep.  This particular package seems to have put them through their paces.

I gathered all my Costco shit and the box, stacked them by the front door, and opened the house to find the dogs sitting quietly, each beside a fresh pile of poop.  The one I call Squirt had a smile on her face.

“You know better, shithead.  How many times do I have to tell you to park the car, let us out and only then do whatever it is you might think is important?  Huh?  How many times?”

I had to think.  “OK, I’m guessing too many.  But this wasn’t my fault.  The UPS person left a box from Gram right inside the gate and I tripped over it.  Here,” and I showed her my skinned hands, “I messed my hands all up when I hit the…”

“A package from Gram!  Let’s open it!”  The little brown puppy spun in circles as Gram’s packages always contain something for the dogs.

“I hope its pig ears again.  We love pig ears.”

Now, the both of them are spinning circles around me, and in an effort to move inside without entanglements, I stepped in Yoda’s shit with my newly-purchased Costco $19.95 sneaker.  The heavy waffle tread of my new right shoe had gooey dog crap mashed in a dollar bill-shaped mass.  Normally, this would send me into a tizzy, but I deserved this one.  It’s not nice to make anyone wait to use the bathroom—a condition I have recently learned in its complete width and breadth.

I removed the sneakers and put them on the front porch and then placed the package on the dining room table to open.  It is for these present openings alone that I allow the dogs onto the table.  They jumped up and started sniffing the package and Squirt said, “Smells like piggy ears to me, Yoda.  What do you think?”

The white puppy mill refugee sniffed and snorted his wispy voice.  Squirt told me, “It’s unanimous for pig ears.  Hurry up, asswipe, and open it!”

I ripped the red tape and white paper to reveal a shopworn legal storage file and more red tape.  Mountains of red tape, an appropriate allegory for a legal storage file in my eyes.  Maybe it’s better said as a metaphor, but who really gives a shit?

I pulled enough tape aside to get the top open to reveal a giant plastic baggie of pig ears, several dozen brown glass tincture bottles wrapped in bubble stuff, and a note written on a ripped chunk of the white butcher paper.  The note was written in crayon on the slick side of the paper:

“Ears er fer tha dogs.  Call yer crazy fuckin mother”

I gave each dog an ear and they headed to their “quiet spots” to chew and contemplate life.  I started unwrapping the bottles.  There are twenty-nine in total and they come from two batches of Gram’s potions.  The first twenty-eight I unwrapped are called “Pecker pain be gone!” and my assumption is that it treats my side effects from radiation treatments.  The hand-scrawled label informs that, “Contains a touch a snot from yer fucking pig.”  I’m grateful it didn’t say pig blood.  Gram and Rush Limbaugh the pig don’t see eye-to-eye on much of anything.

The last bottle—number twenty-nine—was different.  The bottle was a different shape and color and was slightly larger.  The label was faded and my grandmother’s handwriting less shaky, more legible.  It read, “Daddy’s cancer kin kiss my ass!”

My father died of cancer eighteen years ago last month.  I let the day pass without a thought, and for the first time since he died.  Had Gram’s package been properly labeled it would have arrived just before that March date, and provided me with a potion to toast in his memory.  I’m toasting late this year.

Fuck Walmart!

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Prefix, Suffix and Crucifix; There’s Just Some Shit That Don’t Make Any Kind Of Sense.

Sunday, March 29th, 2015

So.  Here we all are on Palm Sunday, one of Christendom’s most sacred days.  If my memory serves me right, this is a celebration of the day Jesus made his way into Jerusalem amid great pomp and circumstance, and a massive public demonstration of support.  Seems that my memory also recounts several celebratory hymns in the thick Southern Baptist Hymnal that sat in the wooden tray screwed to the backs of Baptist seating arrangements.  Again, if memory serves, the Jesus songs use the word “triumph” or derivations of triumph, like “triumphant”.

And why isn’t it “Christiandom”?  The reason I bring this up at all is that Santa Fe—the locale chosen by the dogs and me as a retirement scene—is a hugely Catholicized place.  Catholic stuff is all up in your face, and these next couple weeks are some of their stuffiest time of the year.  OK, does a bunch of stuff make you “stuffier” and would that most amount of stuff create a stuffiest scenario?

And, in full disclosure, I’ve already lied to you in the first 200 words of this missive.  The actual reason I’m writing is because of the Squirt.  We were having our Sunday morning cup-a-Joe and reading today’s paper when the adorable bundle of brown fur and pissy attitude got all up in my ass.

“It’s been a month since you wrote anything and gotten shit off your chest, and you are driving Yoda and me to distraction.  Sit your ass down at the computer and write something.  You’re not any fun.”

This was said as I sat in my reading chair attempting to read the paper.  Squirt jumped into my lap, pushed her cute nose under the paper, and planted herself on my chest.  Looking into my eyes from maybe three-inches away, she added, she said, “And don’t write about your fucking prostate, shithead.  That’s not what’s really bothering you.”

She’s right about that.  I’ve completed my visits to The Great Radiator, my side effects have swelled and are now seeming to wane, and I’m in that waiting game stage to see if any pesky cancer cells raise their ugly fucking heads over the next year.  As I don’t play the waiting game well, I’ve decided to forget about that shit until it’s time to address it with the Doctors.

OK, that would be a second lie.  The BPH symptoms that are one of the side effects of radiation therapy are an absolute and total BITCH.  Imagine, if you will, that a person you do not like even a little bit is pinching your urethra two inches inside your body cavity with one hand, and squeezing your seemingly always full bladder with the other.

I now understand the moans and groans and howls old farts make when standing at urinals.  I’m taking the max-dosage of FlowMax allowed under law, and I’m ready to self-catheterize my own fucking self with a garden hose.

And I have ADD.  So, Jesus triumphantly conquers Jerusalem on this one Sunday, and before the week is up, He’s Judased (Judasified, maybe), has a final meal with His boys, He’s charged, tried, convicted, sentenced to death, built His own wooden cross, dragged it across town and up to Crucifixion Hill, been nailed to said cross, slowly asphyxiated as crucified persons do, tells His daddy it’s OK, died, and been buried.

Who would have built the cross if Jesus had not been a carpenter?  If He’d been a plumber would they have drown Him?

Busy week for one semi-man, and a ton of capital “H”es for one sentence.  But Jesus is the Son of God, so He manages to handle it.  And here’s the part of this entire scenario that pisses me off.  Pissed me off back to the Seventh Grade when Mother still had enough power over me to enforce attendance down to church and the attendant Sunday School as well.

See, Jesus was born for this job.  His Daddy, The One and Only God, impregnated a sweet little Jewish virgin girl to bear His seed, birth, and raise Jesus for the purpose of having this last week’s activities.  The only reason Jesus existed was to be tried and executed.  In God’s infinite wisdom, He decided that He would absolve every human’s sins—wash those nasty fuckers right on away—by having the only child he would ever conceive by any method murdered by those same humans He wished to forgive.

God could have required everyone to attend a confessional once a week for a cleansing, but no, desperate measures for desperate times.  No simple solutions for such a complex situation.  No siree, the all-powerful God had let this entire Earth dealio get totally out of hand.  He decided to have the earthlings kill His only begotten Son, and somehow in God’s infinite wisdom, this murder would absolve them of sins in totality.

Me, I never got this concept.  This basic precept of Christianity was, is, beyond my mental grasp.  I try to imagine the conversation God is having with Gabriel up to Heaven when this idea first sees the light of day.

God:  “Well, Gabe my good man, here’s what I’ve been thinking.  The Ten Commandments just are not working for me.  Ever since Moses died their power is just lost on those damned Earthlings.  I need to figure out a new way to keep those silly sumbitches from going straight on down to Hell.  That, or I’m going to need to build me a bigger Hell.  Don’t want old Lucifer to get a big head, so that option is out.”

Gabriel:  “What you planning to do, God.  Thinking about another slaughter of first-borns?”

God: “Naw, that one didn’t work for shit either.  Me, I’m thinking of having a son, having the humans murder Him in the cruelest way possible, and telling them I’m doing it to keep them out of Hell.  Show them how much I love their mangy asses by letting them sacrifice My own Son for their sins.  Why in the total fuck did I have to go and invent sins?  Dumbest thing I ever did.”

This entire concept didn’t sit well with me from the first time I could understand it, and it still doesn’t.  But what set my Seventh Grade brain afire on that particular Palm Sunday was that little affair that happened shortly before Jesus expired.

There he hangs on Calgary’s rocky point, battered and bloodied and breathing His last breaths.  His destiny—the only reason God sent Him to earth—is about to be fulfilled.  He is to die, hang around in a cave for a couple days rejuvenating, visit a few friends a last time, and then ascend right on up to Heaven.  Again, this is what Jesus was destined to do, ordained by God the Infallible, the reason He even had life.  As God is incapable of making a mistake, God is dancing and partying up to Heaven to have His Master Plan for the Salvation of all Mankind finally reach fruition.  Right?

Wrong.  Nopers.  Infallible God actually questions Himself just as Jesus is ready to die.  That entire “…Forgive them father for they know not what they do…” set me off like a bottle rocket in Sunday School all those years ago.

“Wait just a minute, Mrs. Browningwell.  God had this big plan of His all worked out to save me from my sins and then He changes His mind at the last minute.  That’s just shitty, if you ask me.  God doesn’t get to change His mind.  I’ve got too many sins to forgive and this is scaring me.  I don’t like getting burned.  It’s too hot in August and Hell sounds worse.  This is a load of crap, and you know it.  Gram’s right, this is all about the money.”

Every way I look at it, the basic pretext of the Christian religion is not only nonsensical, it’s total bullshit.  I mean really, what thinking human with half a brain would buy that load of crap?  OK, silly question.

Anyway, I need to pee.  Fuck Walmart!

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Don’t Pray For Me Argentina; Reviewing The Devil’s Bug Zapper

Wednesday, March 4th, 2015

So.  It’s been snowing here to Enchantedland and the billowy, wet flakes have deposited into an eight-inch accumulation.  An egotistical writer of ADHD-addled prose might tell you how he’d used his nine-inch pecker to measure and how the snowfall didn’t quite measure up, but I’m working hard to rein my ego into check, and the women of my past would encourage me towards honesty.  Having said that, I realize how often I say, “ADHD-addled.”

What if I start using, “ADHDdled,” save us some time and maybe make it into Webster’s’ New Abridged.   Pronounce it “Ad-had-ld”.  OK, I’d need to spell it “Adhddled” for it to become an officially-approved actual word.  From the many prior submissions made by me to the dictionary Gods, they allow but the one large letter per word, said big letter positioned up front—Capital engine pulling its little-letter train.

Maybe I should print my own dictionary.  Make a little scratch for retirement and change some lives.  Maybe I can take submissions from youse guys to help fill it.  Maybe then we could write a book using all the new words—sort of a self-help, how-to dealio.

This was a wet snow and we have most of a week more in store.  Needed moisture in our drought-stricken state.  And that reminds me that I’m now down to the last couple weeks of daily visits to The Great Radiator.  What that actually means is that after the next couple of weeks’ treatments, I’ll have but a year to endure the temporary, cumulative side effects of the radiation poisoning inflicted upon my ungrateful fucking prostate, and then whatever lifetime after to endure whatever of those short-term effects decide to linger.  Maybe it’s better said to say, “..whichever of those…”

Got to be “whatever” lifetime and “whichever” side effects, right?  My whiches and whats have given me consternations since I was a child, a lingering side effect of grammar school.

And speaking of whitches, I’m reminded to tell you about my recent visit to Los Portrillos, our town’s best Tex-Mex café, located but blocks from La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe.  I always get either the Fajitas Plato, or Plato con Enchiladas.  Why the menu puts the plate in front of the fajitas rather than behind, in proper Español where it belongs, eludes me.  Maybe it’s because fajitas isn’t an actual Spanish or Mexican word at all, but an invented word, developed by an American chef much in the same way as I do mine.

Same sort of thingie as when a Mexican chef invented the Caesar salad and used an Italian name.  In that case, Ensalada de Caesar became Caesar salad.

Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson was in town for some shopping for herself, and some face-to-face theroporizing for me, and I took her to Los Portrillos for a leisurely dinner.  I find the more time I keep her distracted from my issues the less of my money she consumes when visiting.  We ordered the fajitas plate with added jalapeno peppers.  For those of you unfamiliar with fajitas, it’s basically grilled meat, onions, green and red bell peppers served on a sizzling platter that sits on a wooden serving vessel.  Comes to the table all smoking and sizzling and splattering, making a louder entrance than a drunk Sarah Palin.

Anyway, portrillos are ponies—young horsies—and the place was packed.  When they brought our food to the table, it was really smoking.  Apparently the jalapenos were extra hot—and as hot peppers tend to do when cooked, they released capsaicin into the air—and the acrid smoke was spicy enough to burn eyes, make your nose run, and cause you to cough.  And this plate of smoking hot jalapenos was enough to produce those effects on the entire restaurant.  It’s twenty-degrees outside and they open the front and back doors to let in fresh air to stop the coughing and wheezing.

It was fantastic!  Half-a-hundred people hacking and wheezing and rubbing their eyes.  When we finally could see well enough to make tacos with the contents from the smoky plate, they were so fucking hot they made us laugh, and cry.  It was a great experience, and mindful of the many past times when my lovely ex-wife and I would try to “out hot” each other.  We both like spicy food and each can tolerate the heat in differing ways.  She puts enough dry pepper flakes on her food to kill a horse, and I do fresh peppers the same.  I was thinking that, perhaps, this little past revisited might spark her interest to revisit other aspects of our past as well.  But, and alas, sex was not on her mind.

“You need to spend the rest of the evening reflecting on your mental health, my dear ex, and stop worrying over your sex life.  If,” and here she giggled, “you have any sex life left.”

“Oh, that’s empathic,” I replied, but with a giggle of my own.  “Maybe I need a sex therapist to help me through these dark days.  Possibly a sex surrogate.”

“What you need is a lobotomy, but I can’t bend the official criteria to fit your needs.”  She laughed some more.

And all of this reminds me of something else.  When will the bulk of the American masses come to realize that this current batch of right-wing conservatives are NOT patriotic, they are, instead, greedy religious fanatics?  Maybe it’s a rhetorical question, but really, what inthefuck is wrong with people, and that brings up another thing.

Many people hear that I have cancer and they tell me, they’ll say, “I’ll pray for you, Mooner.”  Me, as a thinker that prayer is actually nothing more than meditation with misdirected expectations, I would rather they make a donation to a cancer research fund, or assist me in finding a sexing partner.  A former business associate called me last night just before I went to bed to tell me she had heard, and told me she’d pray for me, so it was on my mind and must have stimulated a nocturnal visit from my God.

I’m actually starting to like saying, “My God.”  Helps me to segregate myself in a positive way.  So, I’m sleeping away when the Squirt nudges me awake.  “Wake up, shithead.  Either God’s here to see you or we’re making a featured appearance on The West Wing.

True enough, sitting to the side of the bed was Mary-Louise Parker—an attorney from that TV show and likewise star of Weeds, another of my favies.  “Hey, God…baby,” I told Her.  “You are looking good enough to eat.”  I was a little sleep drugged.  But Mary-Louise looked ravishing—disheveled hair framing her quirky-smiled and adorable face—as she filled out a black silk nightie.  “Slip under the covers and lets check my radiation side effects.”

God barked my shoulder with her knuckles, told me, “Mind your p’s-and-q’s, buster, or I change into Rob Lowe and let him check you for erectile dysfunction.  I’m here to give you some info on prayer.  For starters, let others have their prayers.  It helps them accept their lives without actually dealing with their deaths or other realities.  Most people need a calming respite from the calamity.  You get eight billion folks realizing that they make their own fate, and their death ends it all, and we’d have ourselves quite the panic.”

I thought on that.  “Holy shit, Ma’am, there’d be chaos in the streets worldwide.  And might I say you look totally fucking ravishing.  I guess I’d never really looked at Ms. Parker before.  But I’ve been thinking of how so many religious freaks speak of getting signs from their Gods—happenings that they think prove their Gods’ existences—I’ve been wondering if You might provide me with one.  Can you give a man a miracle?”

And here, and I swear to God this happened, God said to me, She said, “OK, big boy, you got it.”

With that, she reached under the covers, grabbed my night woody, squeezed and smiled.  “You still got it, lover boy,” She said, and vanished.

Upon awakening this morning, I started looking for my sign from God.  Actually, I was thinking of it as a “Sign from God!” kind of dealio, you know, a burning bush thingie.  I carefully examined my toast for an image of Mary-Louise Parker, watched the news to see if the Koch brothers had finally been indicted, you know, shit like that.  I even read every article in our Sunday paper to find my sign.

I always read the comics last and found myself somewhat disappointed at finding no signal from my God and I started thinking that Her visit was just a dream.  But when I got to the last thing I read every Sunday morning, the final full-color comic for the week, I got my sign.

It was Non-Sequiter.  My sign was in a comic strip.  Let me tell you something, folks.  My God has a serious sense of humor.  Find Sunday’s comics and check it out.

So, fuck Walmart in lesser ways than before, and give Hobby Lobby a gigantic bang for me.

 

 

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Is Psycho Therapy An Effective Method To Cure Dumbass?: Ducking Simple Truths

Friday, January 9th, 2015

So.  Anytime I think, feel, that I’ve made some modicum of progress as a rational, mature human man, I do something so incredibly stupid that I realize just how close my DNA is to that of a furry ape.  Anytime I think to myself, I’ll think, “Why look at you, Mooner Johnson, wasn’t that a very smart thing you did!  You made a decision to save greenhouse gas and walk for a week, and you’ll save ten gallons of fuel.”

Then, the day before the day I’m to start my smart week, I’ll leave the bag of groceries required to make a roast duck dinner siting in the back of the Mini, whereat said duckie will start Nature’s inevitable march to decay.  As the owner of a commercial composting operation, I can tell you with absolute confidence that a five-pound, locally produced canard—with giblets—can begin that decomposition process post haste, and with great alacrity of microbial activities.

The dogs were very excited to have a duck dinner as duck is the Squirt’s favorite and this duck was a beauty—freshly arrived from the farm, healthy, yellow-hued skin and but a few pin feathers stuck to wings, legs and plump duckie butt.  When I was younger those feathers drove me nuts when encountered on my poultry.  I’d grab the needle nosers and pry every last one from the bird.  Often, the damage done by me during said removals would create a carcass that could be quite off-putting in its own rights.  And just as often my favorite poultry part—said and same ass end—would be made inedible with all the ripping and tearing.

And why isn’t it “microbrial” with the added “r’?  OK, and why not a double-b in giblets?  Ought to be “gibblets”.

But I digress.  Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson came to town Monday late to stay with a friend and to minister at me face-to-face.  Seems she feels that I need extra assistance in dealing with my shit, so she’s psycho theraparizing me here to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe twice each day, and spending the money I pay for the sessions shopping with her buddy at Santa Fe’s trendy stores.  “I simply adore the shops at the Plaza.  I should visit your new hometown more often.”

As I both pay for these trips of hers and, likewise, endure the trauma that can be intensive psycho therapy, I’m basically wishing to cut back the visits.  When I mentioned this to her in yesterday’s afternoon session, she began scolding me, which brought out my “inner child,” as she described it, and I might have called her a bitch a couple of times.  A few times.

OK, let’s be honest herein.  She said to me, she said, “Look, asshole, you can’t only make fun about having cancer.  You have got to address the downside with a certain seriousness…An honest appraisal of what might happen, how to prepare and how you will feel/react if things don’t go well.”

Thinking that I’ve done a more than adequate job of those particular things, I told her to, “Bite my handsome, unkempt ass.”

She said something related to my lack of cogent thought practices, and I called her a bitch, she said something else to which I said, “Bitch,” and so on until, I said, “Bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch!”

Might have been one or several more bitches in my bitch, but you get the picture.  She called me childish, I called her a bitch once, and again, she said something else and I told her to go fuck herself.  I can only take so much verbal abuse from anyone.

She told me, she said, “I’m leaving now, you inappropriate sonofabitch, and I’ll not return until you first apologize, and then pay triple-time.  Double-time isn’t nearly enough to deal with your issues.  And next time I’m flying!”

“Fuck you,” my well-planned response, “I’m going to the gym.”

She stormed out.  I dealt with the Squirt chewing my ass off for acting like a shithead, then dressed and went to the gym to work out.  I’m trying extra hard to prepare my body for the endeavor ahead, and I’m told that better physical conditioning will limit the ravages of bombarding my guts with photon beams, or whateverinthefuck they bombard you with.

X-rays, maybe, but that seems so yester-year.

I worked out hard and long in an attempt to rid myself of anger, and what I guess might be a touch of shame at yelling at Sammie, finished and walked out to my car.  I love my little Mini Countryman in spite of bad reviews, and I admired the back end of it as I walked across the lot.  I was two rows away when I realized that Dr. Sam’s new Acura TL was parked beside the Mini, motor running.

This current TL is the third such in the series of autos purchased by me for the first of my ex-wives, mother to my children and main life antagonist.  I’ve way more room in the driver’s seat in the Mini than her Acura, but she continues to assure me that my comfort in her car has no import in her choices.

As I approached closer to her car, it looked like she was texting or playing Candy Crush on her phone as she waited to apologize to me for being such a bitch.  “How sweet,” I said aloud to myself.  “She’s never gone out of her way to apologize for anything she says in my sessions.”

I waved to her from where I thought she could see me in her rear-viewers, and sidled up next to her driver’s window.  When she didn’t immediately look at me I thought, “What the fuck, once more for the good old times.”

I pulled down the back waistband of my workout pants to allow me to jam a furry ass on her window.  I was careful to not expose myself to the rest of the parking lot, but insured that the resulting pressed ham was a really good one.  I left it there in anticipation of feeling the electric window ease down to the sound of her laugh and her pulling several hairs from my butt, the usual reaction in previous situations such as this.

Rather than feel the window move, I felt, heard, the car transmission hit reverse.  Not the expected response, I started laughing, pulled up my pants, turned and replaced ass with my shining face to the window.  “I’ve still got it,” I said into a face that was not my darling ex-wife and psycho therapist.  It was, rather, a thirtyish woman with the same hair as Sammie yet a remarkable scared/angry countenance.  She displayed the face of her phone with “911” in the window, and punched her finger to a button.

As I’ve been in quite similar situations way too many times in my past, I waited a good half hour for the cops to arrive.  But they didn’t show.  Maybe my handsome smile caused the lady to cancel her emergency call.  When I told this story at this morning’s therapy session, my brain doctor laughed her ass off.  Then she asked me to tell it to her all over again, from the start.  And she laughed her ass off all over, once, and again.

I really am a sick fucker and I don’t mean my ADD or my prostate.  I need help and just maybe if I pay triple-time, plus airfare and expenses, some of it will stick.  Ugh.

Fuck Walmart.

 

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Do The Clothes Make The Dog? Camel Toe En Francais

Sunday, December 7th, 2014

So.  For starters this morning, please allow me to say that the elation felt by me yesterday as to having reset the font choice defaultings here to my Windows 8 computer was a touch premature.  Like this one time when, as a young and eager lover, I arrived early to the party, I have celebrated making Times New Roman in a size 12 my defaulted font choices, prematurely.  Fucking right click did nothing but allow me to take two extra steps to make changes from the regular way.

Having said that, once my error was discovered, instead of taking my rubber mallet to my computer, I chose to further infuriate myself over to the Admin place for my bloggie.  I set this silly web site upon its feet before Blogger was invented, or at least before it was far superior to Word Press.  As my computer literacies would match those of your typical variety of garden slug, I lack the wizardry required to do even the simple most activities.

Just as I was ready to take said and same mallet to my Word Press Admin, I decided to ease the pressures and took a look at who was visiting me over to the Visitor’s Bureau.  The “Visitor Snapshot” I reviewed showed that I had 32 visitors, seven of whom (of which, maybe) were Bots.  Two things were, to me, remarkable about this snapshot.  First was their locations when visiting.

One each from Kuala Lampur, Putian, Latvia, Hostice, in the Cz, Malverna, Kansas City, Seattle, Dallas, Boston and Los Angeles.  Putian is in the Chenxiang Province of China, Malverna is near Valley Forge, Pennsylvania, and I’ll assume we all know enough about the other single-visitor locations.

The dozen other visitors were each and every one from the same place.  All twelve reside in fucking France.

“What’s up with that shit?” I asked myself, and aloud at that.  “Whatinthefuck are a bunch of Frenchmen doing looking at my stuff?”  Aloud, again, and somewhat confused.

I know why Boston, as there reside in that area many Catholics, and Catholics are a breed of person finding my words highly offensive.  The particular Bostonian caught reading this morning was reviewing some of the things I’ve had to say about his/her/its church and Popes.  At the snapshot moment I saw, they were reading this thing I wrote about how the last Pope and Queen Elizabeth were maternal twins separated at birth.  Same faces, same dresses and hats and gestures.  Twins, I tell you.

I can tell you with some assurance that many of the exotic locals listed harbor thieves who steal what I write and paste it into their blogs in their languages.  Why anyone would steal from me is a mystery, but those shitheads do it, and with some alacrity.  The Latvian asshole is almost a constant visitor—one whom I want to charge rent he’s here so often.

“But why so many Frenchies?” again asked of me, by me, and aloud.  Well guess what?  What might you guess all of those French personages were reading?  Stories of human interest?  Political ideologies expressed from a quite liberal slant?  Self-improvement ideas?

No, no, and nope, the French had no time for any of that trivial shit this morning.  The French have far higher and mightier desires for their edifications than do the rest of us.  Nope, each and every French viewer had punched onto the “Camel Toe” Category button over to the right of the screen, and all were reading about my experiences therewith.  Several had already been reading for more than two hours.

At first I was confused as to what there might be about camel toes that would so entice the French to visit me in such a way.  Then I remembered the only French woman’s camel toe I’ve ever viewed, and it hit me.

“Evelyn,” I exclaimed.  “They’ve seen Evelyn La Roush-Johnson-La Marque’s camel toe!”

The Squirt came running into the office and skidded to a halt on the pine-planked floor.  “You alright, shithead?  Did your prostate kick you or something?

“No, little lady, but thanks for the concern.  It was my memory that got me.  You haven’t met the ex-wife who was an opera singer—a woman who could fill-out the crotch of a pair of leotards like no other.  I’m guessing she’s touring France and showing off her crotch meat.”

“She was the French wife, right?”

My tiny brown dog was almost right.  “Not 100% French, but she was from The Algiers, and spoke French as her native language.  Attended schools in France as well.  I’ll show you some photos.”

The puppy thought for a second.  “Do I have a camel toe?” she asked.  “I’ve been told I’ve got a big tooter for my size.”

She does.  “You do, you adorable little bundle of piss and vinegar, and I’m guessing your lady package would be quite a bundle as well.”

“I wanna see!” she said.

After fifteen minutes of trying to deny her request, we started looking for appropriate clothing with which to dress her in such a way as to display her camel toe.

“Hey, what about that stretchy shirt of yours—the one you just put in the rag bag?”

I have this thin, stretch pullover shirt I wear when it gets really cold and had torn an arm socket out of it when I put it on last week.  We sat at the dining table with scissors, needle and thread. We cut a pattern from newspaper, and after several adjustments and fake fittings with newsprint, we thought we had it right.  Then we cut the shirt to the pattern and had started to sew it together when the phone rang.

“Hey, Sammie baby, how’s it hanging, girl?”

Sammie is Dr. Am-Johnson, my first ex-wife and long-term psycho therapist.  “You missed your appointed time again, buster.  What do you have going on that’s so interesting as to cause you to miss a pre-scheduled phone therapy session?”

I told her.  Why, inthefuck, did I have to tell her?  I could have said, “Oh, the Squirt and I were just messing around and shit and I forgot.”  You know, tell the truth without full disclosure.

There was a pause on the phone line and then a long, slow, deep breath taken.  The breath exhaled just as slowly and then, “Jesus Christ, Mooner, have you lost your fucking mind?  Do you know how stupid you are?”

Before I had time to formulate a proper response, she added, “Of course you don’t.  I must have lost my mind to be surprised at one of your stunts.  Please tell me you haven’t taken any photos.  Please…, dear God…, let there be no photographic evidence.”

“Well, we haven’t finished sewing it, and I want to get it right before I snap any pics.  We’ll post the best over to the bloggie.  We’re gonna dress her up like a French poodle to attract more visitors from over there.”

Except for the hissing of breaths taken and released, there was more quiet from the phone.  Then, “OK, big man, do as you will.  But do not call me if this lands you in jail.”

I was about to tell her something in response, but she said, “Dumbass!” and hung up.

Maybe you guys will take my word for how adorable Squirt looks and we can skip the photos.

Fuck Walmart!

 

 

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Thoughts On Give-A-Shit Day; We’ll Stop To Pee When Your Dad Says So

Tuesday, December 2nd, 2014

So.  I’m going to take a minute to address today’s Holliday du jour, The Day of Giving.  In careful examination of this day, we all know what a “day” is, so let’s move on to the gift, or giving part.  A gift is simply that—something given without getting in return.  I herein freely admit that as a younger man I felt the need to get tit-for-tat when I “gave” to a charitable cause.  I always wanted to see my name, or Mooner’s Compost Plant, listed in the donor documents of whatever charity I chose worthy to receive my donations.

Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson finally cured me of my ignorance one day when she asked me how I chose a charity for my company donations.  When I realized that my corporate gifting was saddled to the estimated exposure I got in return, I got it.  Now, I may ask you to donate to particular charity, but I’ll not ask you to do it in my name.  And I ask that charities not use my name as a giver.

OK, stop.  Is it Giving Tuesday or Day of Giving or Give a Shit Day?  I can’t remember the actual name.  But whateverinthefuck the actual name might be, my sentiments are unchanged, and unbridled, both.

I was switching radio stations earlier as I drove the mountains looking for a strong signal.  OK, let’s halt this nonsense once, and again, to say that I was driving the mountains for shits and giggles, and the looking was with the radio and for a signal with enough strength to produce audible noise from the speakers.  Having said all of that, I was also looking at the scenery, but not for scenery, and, alas and also with some alacrity, I was looking for a place to pull over to pee.

Those of you with age-swollen prostates infiltrated with cancer-filled tumors can understand a man’s need to pee.  For the rest of you, think of needing to pee when you get into your car for a day’s drive.  Drink three one-liter bottles of water.  Wait two hours.  That feeling, but repeated every thirty minutes after the last pee event.

I now call them “pee events”.  Nighttime pee events are the worst.  I’ll awaken from a great dream with that car trip urge thinking I might not make it to the pot before my bladder bursts.  Then I sit on the commode for fifteen minutes wiggling and waggling to maneuver into a position that will allow the pee to flow.  Or drip.

Anyway, I’m driving the mountains and one of the radio stations my radio’s SEEKER button stopped at was a conservative talk show.  Can’t tell you which of those assholes was the host, but he was yakking about all the “gifting” done by the wealthy individual and corporate Americans.  He bragged about the Koch Brothers and sited The David Koch Theater, mentioned ATT Stadium and The Staples Center along with various hospitals and university buildings, and stuff.

This airbag bragged about how those “gifts” clearly demonstrated the “good hearts” of the gifters.

Bullshit.  Bull fucking shit.  That would be advertising, you sanctimonious goat fucker.  “And now, from the David Koch Theater we bring you the Metropolitan Opera.”  That, folks, is advertising.

Give a bunch of singers and dancers (many of whom you feel are doomed to Hell due to their homosexuality) $50 million to produce operas and plays and shit without broadcasting your fucking name all over the god damned place and I’ll credit your spanky ass for a gift.  Otherwise, it’s business as usual, and this business is you seeking even more control over the Arts.

Give a real shit, assholes, and make some true gifts.  One idea would be to buy Walmart employees a bunch of protest signs that say:

FUCK WALMART!!!

AND HELP US

RETURN THE FAVOR

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