Archive for the ‘ADHD’ Category

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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Ramble On Ramblin’ Man; Major Dump Clogs Pipes

Sunday, October 22nd, 2017

So. It’s been so long since I’ve actually published anything I’ve been writing that the dogs and I have just finished a heated argument thereabout. The gist that was put through our argumentative grist mill is this: I, for my part, have taken the stance that anyone who might still be reading this shit in the first place has long since abandoned me in much the same way as I have abandoned the above-mentioned publishing, and the dogs’ position, as the Squirt so adoringly put it when she said to me, she almost yelled it, “Who gives a shit, Mooner, do it for us! When you cut yourself off from the outside world, you’re really insane.”
Simpler stated, the dogs want me to write and publish with more frequency, and I see it as a fruitless endeavor. Me, my idea was that much as when the tree falls in the vacant woods dealio. The small brown puppy took the position that by not writing and publishing, I’m harder to deal with and she and the goat dog must live with a harsher reality. Seems she thinks I’m grouchy-more having not posted to the pages herein.
Don’t you hate it when your kids have more insight than do you? While I have excuses for not publishing, those excuses do not include having not written. However, I haven’t published because the 40-50,000 words I’ve typed since my last publishment all sound boringly the same, and can be summed up in the following succinct statement:
“Trump is a dangerous asshole; Republicans are spineless, greedy bastards; and single-issue voters (here read Christians and fake patriots) are going to be the death of our democracy.”
If you can conjure to mind everything that has happened in the last six weeks related to those subjects, slather that heartily over a dry toasted bagel and then eat it without any follow-up liquid to rinse the bitter taste of a crumbling civilization out your mouth… That’s what I’ve had to say, and it’s difficult to swallow.
However, now that we’re started there is one thing I have to say. I was born and raised a Dallas Cowboys fan and remained so until Jerry Jones bought them. While I’ll not get into all the many reasons Mr. Jones has soured me on his team, please allow me to make this observation, an idea that isn’t just my own.
As you may know by now, Jura Jones has proclaimed that any Cowboys player who disrespects the flag in any way before a football game will not be allowed to play. Period. Any quantity of any disrespect and you don’t play! Peri-fucking-od!!!
Take a knee- take the bench. Raised fist- the bench. Pick your nose, pick your ass- it’s the bench for you! If you believe him, should his entire team take a knee, then Dallas will forfeit the game. As great as that would be, I doubt it will happen. I doubt that many NFL players, much less an entire team, think that a national anthem demonstration is worth losing paychecks. Plantation boss Massah Jones has fucking spoke.
But as big an asshole that makes Jerry Jones, that’s but half my point. The tip of my point lies in the choice of stands and standards Jones has chosen to take and what it says about him and his precious NFL. The Dallas Cowboys have signed or drafted a half-team of players who have been charged and/or convicted of criminal abuses against women—some terribly heinous crimes, say for instance like the defensive lineman, Greg Hardy. That almost 300-pound pussy-man punched, slammed and choked his 115 pound girlfriend before dragging her room-to-room and slamming her onto a pile of fucking guns. Not his only such offense, Hardy was convicted of two separate counts of domestic abuse of that defenseless woman.
Beat a woman senseless- take the bench? Nope. You, young man, will make a fine Dallas Cowboy. Suit up, big dog, we needs us a pass rush!
How ‘bout them Cowboys!!!
Like the simple fact that Trump, Jones and others of their greedy, bigoted ilk who think the Second Amendment is way more important than the First, the hypocrisy of this flag bullshit is nauseating to me. To put a legal civil protest action—an action sanctioned by the First and most important Amendment—a punishable offense that will cause Mr. Jerry Jones to take away your employment yet for him to recruit and first-round draft abusers of women, speaks more than anything else I can think of about character.
Choke a woman, slave master Jones says, “Hey, Cowboys will be boys.”
Stand up for black lives, it is, Jerry says, “Sit on the bench, boy. You gots ta know yo place, boy. You folks beat on ya women all ya wants, but don’t be disrespectin’ my stars n bars, er, I means stars an stripes.”
Would someone please remind me why I moved back to Texas? Fuck Walmart and the Dallas Cowboys!
OK, and now that I’m going, here’s one from the poker table. This way too fucking Christian guy was at my table wearing a shirt that said, “Pray for the Texas Hurricane victims.” This same guy had commented on the big earthquake that hit Mexico and the damaging Texas storm with, “These natural disasters are God’s will. He’s striking down the gays and atheists who are wrecking society. Decent people have no place to hide from that evil.”
As an aside to this shitball’s complaint, I wanted but did not tell him he could hide his head way on up deep in his own ass. But couldn’t hep mysef with the prayer shirt.
“So, uh, can I ask you a question, sir?” me to the pray for the victims guy. “I did hear you say that all these natural disasters—earthquakes and hurricanes and tsunamis and shit—are nothing more than your God striking down people who have offended Him? Right? I got that right, didn’t I?”
“Says so right in the good book, Hippy.”
As I’ve grown my hair long enough to keep it in a two-foot-long ponytail, some players call me Hippy, a moniker I’m quite proud to wear.
“Well, sir, if that’s your position, how dare you wear that blasphemous shirt?” two, three, four, five, and six.
“Huh?”
“Hell, man, maybe you need to go stand in the parking lot before God decides to strike down your blasphemous ass. Your good book is just chock full of smited shitwads going against your God’s desires and I wish to not be your collateral damage.”
“Huh?” his second such response. I’m guessing “Huh?” was the best he could muster.
I told him, I said, “Seems you might need an Old Testament translator, sir. You claim that God smote down the people of south Texas as was His will against terrible sinners, pillars of stone and all that shit. Yet you pray for those same offenders? How dare you go against God’s will and wish them well when He obviously wants them to suffer. Shame on you, sir.”
It took him a couple hands for him to first, understand what I had said, and second, to formulate his response. “Well, Hippy, that’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”
I folded my hand and looked him in the eyes. “Exactly.”
Fuck Walmart once, and again. And that reminds me of this. Am I the only one who thinks the massive “hack” of personal information from one of the three credit companies was orchestrated by them, their veryownselves? I saw an estimate that more than 100 million individuals will go to each of the three credit bureaus to “freeze” their credit, an endeavor requiring patience and an average of $18 per individual.
I know the facts of this because I spent the requisite ninety minutes doing it for myself. I arrived at my conspiracy theory when listening to the listings of maximum allowable charges for freezes for each, individual state on one of the websites, because different states have different maximum charges for a freeze. If you take the population of each state times that state’s charge and then divide it by the number of total persons, you get an average charge of $9 per person per each company. Since Equifax allowed the “hack”, it has graciously allowed you to freeze their account for free. Until January first.
So, following my logic, the nine buckers for each of the remaining two will cost an average of $18 per person, at first blush a small cost to protect your credit against this “hack”. However, should 100 million of us effect these freezes before the end of the year, the three credit giants will gather a windfall of $1,800,000,000. Otherwise called one-point-eight-billion-dollars, this is a sum we are required to pay huge conglomerates to effectively protect ourselves from themselves.
Me, I see this as no different from when Guido muscles into the pizza parlor in Brooklyn, or Chin and Cho intimidate the Korean grocer in LA, demanding “protection” money. “Pay me to keep me from burning your store to the ground.”
Motherfuckers. Mother-fuck-ers. All right, now I need to wipe.

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Tits For Tats; Ink-A-Dink-A-Doo

Monday, August 14th, 2017

So. There we sat, once and again, in the midst of summer heat, pondering the meaning of Life. The three of us—Squirt, Yoda and I—had mowed, or perhaps mown the grass, weeded the flower beds, harvested from our little garden a variety of tomatoes, hot peppers and two heavy cantaloupe, devoured BLT’s decked out with thick slices from one of the ripe Cherokee purples previously mentioned, and slurped a bottle of icy cold Carta Blanca each.

 

And before you animal rights shitbirds get all up in my ass, while the three of us drank three beers, the dogs got but one full saucer each, a fact much distasteful to the Squirt.

 

“So why is it you get most of three beers and we only get thimblefuls? I can barely catch a buzz from what you give us and how would you ever tell if the goat dog has had too much to drink? That goofy dog always looks half in the bag.” The tiny brown mixed breed puppy named Squirt stared at me as I drained the last of the three beers. She sneered at me and snarled, “You’re an asshole!”

 

She’s right, of course, but I am trying hard to be a good parent to my canine charges. I made so many mistakes with my human kids that I feel these late-in-life children deserve my best shot. I’ve been told by many good parents that their kids give meaning to their lives, so I’d decided to make my best effort to use that day for personal fulfillment. As the BLT and tasty Mexican cerveza was our breakfast, I told her, I said, “How about this- we’ll have another BLT and beers for lunch, and I’ll mix a big pitcher of Margaritas for dinner. We’ll keep a mellow fuzzy buzz going until bedtime. Does that work for you?”

 

It did, and as we watched the day’s temperature rise through a full stomach and beer haze, the Squirt brought up the dealio with the Catholic Cardinal now facing criminal charges for inappropriate behavior with kids. “Answer me this, Mooner. When a man has forced sex with a woman you call it rape, but when the same fuckball rapes a child you say he molested the kid, or abused her? Makes no sense. It’s like you humans see attacking a child as less horrible than with an adult. Makes no goddamn sense.”

 

“You’re right, kiddo. I’ve been saying it for years, what with having been raped as a child myveryownself. If you ask me, I think it’s because men do most of the raping and women can speak their minds aloud. Kids usually don’t even speak to their attacks. Using “molest” and “abuse” makes it sound a lesser offense, something akin to the animal abuse suffered by the goat dog at that puppy mill up to Oklahoma. But I’ve gotta tell you, in my mind any unwarranted attack is a rape of sorts, but specifically forced sex is forced sex, period. That’s rape.”

 

Which reminds me. Now that we live 40 miles from the Okie border, mayhaps we can locate the former owners of the aforementioned puppy mill, pay them a visit. The Squirt has threatened to snap their balls off if she ever sees them and Yoda has promised to eat the resulting mountain oysters in the raw. Would that be a molestation, or a rape? As for my own rape, my birthday next week will mark the 56th anniversary of that horrible event. While my rapist wasn’t a Catholic padre, he was of the same ilk—Baptist Deacon, local business icon and Boy Scout Troop Leader—using his credentials to bad intents.

 

OK, let’s do a current events refresher so as to put a harsh patina on the lens through which adult humans in civilized communities must now view life. Two world leaders, each with the smug and pissy demeanor exhibited in the stereotype of a spoiled, rich thirteen-years-old teenaged boy, are in a pissing match over which of them has the less small dick. My fear is that the blue-stained out-of-focus images of world instability we now see—much akin to a documentary filmed on a cell phone with a finger-smudged lens—will turn into those equal to a cheap horror film where fake blood is splattered onto the camera to bring the evil closer to home.

 

I don’t know what to say anymore as it relates to the immature person who is our president. What words haven’t been said to describe the negativities and possible negativities that are, and can be resultant, of Trump’s childish demeanor? “But, but, huh, he said what, what a moron, doesn’t he realize, ah, ah, ah, whatthefuck?” don’t seem to cut it anymore. Me, I’d never want to be in charge of the nuclear codes. What with the ADD, pot smoke and mushroom juice I routinely ingest, my occasional childish outbursts are inappropriate for presidential decision making. Then, and once more again, my drug-mellowed mood would make me less likely to anger up an order to nuke Venezuela, so maybe I am actually presidential material.

 

Which reminds me. As the years have worn down since March of 2010, so have the comments, and commenters, to the pages herein. As I stopped writing daily, then weekly, and settled in these intermittent scribblings, my readership and the attendant comments have subsided. My good buddy BJ is the last of those Mohicans, a steadfast and thoughtful correspondent presenting responsive fodder to my printed ramblings. And speaking of Baptists and commenters brings about another thought.

 

There’s this fuckball Dallas pastor named Robert Jeffress who tends the flock of right-wing Christians congregated in a north Texas mega church. The good pastor is Trump’s “evangelical leader”. This fine Christian man said yesterday that Romans 13 gives President Trump the divine authority to, “Take out,” North Korean Trump wannabe Kim Jong Un. I looked up Romans 13, and give it to you as follows:

Submit to Government

13 Let every soul be subject to the governing authorities. For there is no authority except from God, and the authorities that exist are appointed by God. Therefore whoever resists the authority resists the ordinance of God, and those who resist will bring judgment on themselves. For rulers are not a terror to good works, but to evil. Do you want to be unafraid of the authority? Do what is good, and you will have praise from the same. For he is God’s minister to you for good. But if you do evil, be afraid; for he does not bear the sword in vain; for he is God’s minister, an avenger to execute wrath on him who practices evil. Therefore you must be subject, not only because of wrath but also for conscience’ sake. For because of this you also pay taxes, for they are God’s ministers attending continually to this very thing. Render therefore to all their due: taxes to whom taxes are due, customs to whom customs, fear to whom fear, honor to whom honor.

Love Your Neighbor

Owe no one anything except to love one another, for he who loves another has fulfilled the law. For the commandments, “You shall not commit adultery,” “You shall not murder,” “You shall not steal,” “You shall not bear false witness,”[a] “You shall not covet,”[b] and if there is any other commandment, are all summed up in this saying, namely, “You shall love your neighbor as yourself.”[c] 10 Love does no harm to a neighbor; therefore love is the fulfillment of the law.

 

Now me, I’m no Bible scholar, and I’ll not waste your time translating the simple-minded concepts in this Romans quote. But I’m seeing some pretty significant broken branches in the First Baptist of Dallas preacher boy’s logic tree. Then, again, this is the same dickhead who’s built a giant Texas cult of doomsdayers by claiming the end is near for many years. Little Bobby Jeffress has been attempting to manipulate every global event into the final signal for Armageddon. And now he’s the lead religious counselor to our president.

 

Yea for us! So, since the end is so near, please pardon my wordiness and let’s all get together and Fuck Walmart!!!

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A Welcome To New Readers; I’ll Have One Of Those Hot Dogs On A Pretzel Bun

Friday, July 14th, 2017

So. I’m again writing as both part of my commitment to spend thirty minutes each day writing and also my agreement to disclose those of my behaviors that are “call out” behaviors. For those of you new to the word jungle hereat mostly confined, please know the following: my psycho therapist is the first of my several ex-wives and mother of my kids (and, likewise, the arbiter-in-charge of the confessional call outs); my late-life children are two mixed breed mini dogs named Squirt and Yoda (aka the goat dog); my loony old mother is mostly confined to a memory loss home (the reason behind my recent move back to Texas) and; I seem to lack most of the thought filtering devices for socialization common in civilized persons; I’m an atheist and dislike most religions and all religious bullshit; I’m socialistic politically; I’m an ADD-addled fuckbrain, and as the Squirt has grown fond to say when she tells me, she’s been saying, “Mooner, you’re a hot fucking mess.”

 

Run-on sentences aside, using the above information as the colored shards to fill the round box out to the end of your kaleidoscopes, please spy through your lenses with guarded responses at whatever it is that follows. OK?

 

As it’s now full-blown summer and our lawns are lush and full, the Squirt has an unnatural fear of flies and the goat dog chases himself dizzy as he spins and jumps to snap the winged buzzers dead with his mouth, and having dogs who shit in the grass breeds fly colonies who, whom maybe, like to nest in grass, deep breath…we’ve got flies. Every kind of fly known to inhabit the habitats of similar habituaries to ours. Big horse flies, fruit flies, house flies and everything between. Having tried every possible fly catching or fly killing or even the scare-your-flies-away dealios, nothing actually worked as desired.

 

OK, let me break here to say that while we do have Dragon Flies, they are not subject to our rancor, nor of our ire, as instead of hunting them down with evil intents, we have planted some bushes in specific design to attract them for their beauty.

 

Also in the name of disclosure so as to not appear to be in conflict with my own beliefs, in response to a buddy’s question that if I hate flies so damned much, why do I have one tattooed on the tender patch of skin that lies between the thumb and forefinger of my left hand, an inking of extreme visibility in my everyday life. The answer to that is simple. As flies are the first visible evidence of pending death in the animal kingdom, I placed a Spanish bottle fly on that patch of skin as a reminder that I have cancer. And saying that requires the clarification that I actually have two cancers.

 

The first are the skin cancers that have visited my skull starting from when I was forty, cancers that have required scalding and freezing and scalpelling in successful efforts to fully remove them from my person. I’ve had dozens of those things removed over the last twenty-eight years, and as long as I keep them removed in a timely fashion, none will threaten my life. The second of my cancers lies inside the walls of my traitorous fucking prostate. No details here, but suffice it to say that it could not be removed to prevent releasing its cancerous cells into the rest of my body, so I got the treatments designed to shrink it so small as to make it a non-issue for my future health.

 

I put my Salvador Dali drawn Spanish bottle fly tattoo there to my hand  because I had started playing poker more seriously after my treatments by The Great Radiator, and I wanted a constant reminder that while I have no specificities thereof, the numbering of my days was in final countdown. Maybe most people don’t require so visible a reminder of pending mortality, but what with the ADD and all, and memory requiring at least a modicum of focus…

 

Anyhow, we were stymied as to our fly issues until my good buddy BJ from middle Tennessee told us about the “Bug-A-Salt” fly killing machine. As a complete hater of any sort of gun, it was difficult for me to buy-into the purchase of even an air rifle to make the life of my pets better. But after watching the company video and reading Beej’s description of his fly killing successes, I got one. Other than birth control, the single best purchase of my life.

 

OK, so what the Bug-A-Salt rifle is, is a plastic, pump action air rifle that looks like a mini assault gun, which uses ordinary table salt to kill flies. And it is quite the efficient fly killing machine.

 

When we were watching the company video depicting the operational effectiveness on the I-net, I asked the dogs what they thought, I asked them, “What do you guys think? Will that work for us?”

 

After some seemingly careful consideration, the Squirt looks up and tells me, “You’ll put our eyes out, dumbass. You’ll be hunting flies and start thinking about that car waitress at Sonic yesterday, and, well, you know how that goes.”

 

The small brown puppy who is my oldest late-life child was speaking of the quite comely woman—in and of itself an anomaly roller skating around at a Sonic—who had the quick wit of a comic and the long limbs with delicate hands I find so attractive.

 

What with my hating guns attitude, it took me awhile to learn how to effectively operate the damned thing, but I’ve now been proven to have killed 68 flies with a recent 72-shot whatchamacallit of table salt. OK, help me, you don’t load ammunition for a gun into a canister or a box, you load it into a_____. A something not called a cargo hold, and not the spare bullet detachable thingie kept in the pockets of those cargo pants that mass murderers seem to like, said detachments serving as a personal arsenal when some shithead decides to shoot up a nightclub. I’m talking about the internal ammo-storing container actually a part of the gun. In a revolver I think they call it the drum, right?

 

Anyone still with me? Anyway, you fill your whateverthefuckitis you call the thing that holds ammunition on the actual person of a gun with table salt. Ordinary table salt, and I get Kroger branded generic table salt that was on sale for $0.49 recently at the Kroger over to Loop 288, you know the big store. The regular price is $0.98 but I get the discount with my Kroger card. The manufacturer says you can fill the storage thingie in your Bug-A-Salt with an 80-shot load of miniature mini balls, but I can’t get 80 shots loaded without spilling another 80-shot load all over the place. So, my average load is 72 shots. Okay, perhaps my average is 71, but who really gives a shit? Whom either?

 

We three-that is to mean the dogs and I–say we’re going on safari when we make a trip to the outside to shoot flies. I’ve got a cammo safari hat to keep the skin cancer from re-infesting my head, and the dogs creep stealthily beside me as we hunt the pesky critters down. OK, should it be better said that we hunt down the pesky critters?

 

Which reminds me. Has anybody else noticed how many of the mega-church preachers have started cozying-up to the Trumpster? The Prez was in Dallas last weekend meeting at one of the local gigantic religious industrial giants, and the sound bite from the asshole pastor was, “Trump is the last hope to make America great again!”

 

How can a true Christian cozy up to Trump, a question the answer for which I just now realized in the simple act of writing the question. And should the previous sentence end with a question mark as it contains a question or end with the pointed declaratory period? Don’t know, don’t really give a shit to the punctuation question, and the other one seems simple.

 

Hypocrisy. Telling me that the man who wants to grab your wives and daughters by their pussies is America’s last hope is hypocritical bullshit, just as little Jimmy Baker fucking around on Tammy Fae while fleecing the minions of millions on a family values platform.

 

Dammit, it isn’t the chamber because that’s where the bullet goes to be fired, right? Anyway, got bugs? Wanna have some fun? Buy yourself a Bug-A-Salt rifle. Googlate it.

 

Fuck Walmart!

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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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Anybody Scared Yet?; Votes Matter

Wednesday, May 10th, 2017

So. It’s been an interesting few weeks of collecting events upon which I shall, and will, report to you on these pages, hereinafter presented. Having spent considerable effort in debate with the dogs about what (which?) order these various events should (shall?) be presented, the Goat Dog and I have voted a quorum over the Squirt.

“Looka here, dumbass,” the Squirt told me upon hearing the final ballot tally, “Nobody really gives a shit what order you use. My money is that you have already forgotten half of what you were going to say, because you can’t remember what you did five minutes ago much less the chronological order of random occurrences from the last two weeks.”

“Wrong-o, Chuckalita. I’ve been practicing memory tricks from that book whatshername gave me, you know the one with the blue cover that I left over to the hamburger joint last week. Those memory exercises have helped remind me that I have the dreaded ADD, which, in turn, has assisted with rememberating to put vinegar in the dish washer before I start it.”

A quarter-cup of cheap vinegar will add years to your dish washer’s life, your dish washer being mechanical or carbon-based either way. Yoda and I voted on a chronological ordering of the things we wished presented for your reading pleasure (displeasure) and the Squirt wanted them mentioned in ascending order of their importance in our lives. Upon further cogitation, it seems, mayhaps, that the best efforts will be to mention what events I can remember as they come to mind. Starting with what I’ll call “grocery wars”.

Item one: I was over to the Kroger—the big one out on the eastside on Loop 288—shopping for the ingredients for mint julips to be sipped as we watched the Kentucky Derby. Having decided that we needed a new family tradition, the dogs voted for the Derby against my wanting to add the Texas spring football game to our familial traditions. Never having had a mint julip, as my beverage preferences are strongly tilted to not-sweet drinks, I was somewhat at a disadvantage on this shopping spree. I knew I needed bourbon, which I had, and I was reasonably certain I needed mint. It was that whole “julip” thingie whereat I remained flummoxed while searching the aisles. I was surveying the book aisle for a drink mixing tome when a quite pleasant looking lady caught my eye as she glanced at me—from askance—as I studied the bookshelves.

“Are you alright, sir?”

“Who, me? I asked. “Why I’m better than maple surple.”

Where, inthefuck, did that come from? Wasn’t it my dead sister who couldn’t say syrup, in much the same way one of my sons called the Nickelodeon TV show “nick-a-noke-a-nik”?

Must have been something in the sweet countenance of the woman. I turned to the nice lady and noticed she was scooting sideways toward the magazines farther (further?) down. “You seem to stir fond memories in me, Miss. Might you be interested in a cuppa Joe, or maybe a mint julip?”

Turns out she had no time in that her mother is in hospice and in need a final batch of reading materials to fill her last hours.

Remembering I needed a jar of tomatoes for some sauce for our Derby dinner, I left the reading section to find canned veggies, and upon entering that area I encountered an elderly couple—she on a walker and he holding her elbow as encouragement. Moving at a snail’s pace as they blocked my entry to the wide pathway, I debated walking around to get to the far end of this aisle where the jarred to-maters sat shelved. But the tenderness of this couple’s saunter struck a chord in me, and I chose to watch them amble, then stop at the canned peas and beans area.

They did a swinging gate maneuver—a slow-motion affair that would have gained the affection of any marching band director—and after a few minutes left room for me to pass. I walked around them to the tomatoes, stooped, and found that the choices had expanded. Having additional choices is both a good and bad dealio for me. I like choices, but choosing can be problematic, so I must have spent quite a while stooped because the couple had managed to matriculate from peas and beans to be situated into alignment with me—her at my back and him at her side. They toddled to where her walker almost touched my shoulder and they stopped.

I heard him ask, “Do we need Depends?”

The old girl giggled and sniffled a snotty nose, and then I heard a sound that answered his question in a strong affirmative.

“Pppshlooop!”

When my father lay on his death bed, filled with caustic chemical drugs and the cancer that was consuming the last vestiges of his life, his bowel movements had a unique odor. I started having another flashback, this one to the time of Daddy’s death as the smells settled over me from the ass end of the woman. The acrid odor of Daddy’s death clung like that time I ran through a blackberry thicket that was infested with a fresh tent caterpillar infestation. I was covered with sticky webs that only further grabbed skin and hair and clothes as I tried to get them off.

As the smells of the woman’s movement blanketed me, tears filled my eyes—not from the odors, but the memory. She managed to trigger my sense of loss for my father and my sister. I wasn’t quite blubbering crouched there in front of the tomatoes, but I did manage to re-catch the eye of the lady from the reading aisle when she turned the corner and came my direction.

The dogs and I had Manhattans as we watched the horse races, and beef tacos instead of the planned pasta with tomato sauce for dinner. Squirt won the fifteen dollars we wagered on the Derby and she told me she would use it to buy me another book for my memory.

A next event mention started with a comment from the Squirt. Seems she’s been steering my life with increasing frequencies. We have been debating what to do for a vacation this summer and deciding as well do we even want to take one. “This might be the last time I get to take a vacation, Mooner, she told me. “If my back goes out again…”

We then started talking “what if last times”. What if the next vacation is our last, next birthday last birthday, last dance, last kiss, last cow leg bone to gnaw on, last icy cold Carta Blanca beer to swill on a last summer night? Talking about lasts made me weepy. I started tearing up over memories of past lasts and then started bawling when considering future lasts. Since then the three of us have decided to not let the last of anything important have already happened.

In this morning’s psycho therapy phone session, Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson told me that it is likely some stress that is triggering the sorrowful memories. “Anything stressing you out?”

Duh!   “Can you say “President Donald J. Trump?” my response.

Fuck Walmart and every single Trump voter!

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Ramblings From The Blue Period; Whatever You Do, Don’t Light A Match

Thursday, April 13th, 2017

So. I was on my back in bed with the covers tucked under my pillow, pulled over my face. The Squirt was stuck on my right hip and the goat dog had jammed himself under my right arm pit, his head resting on my bicep and us two sharing the same four inches of breathing space under the covers. I’d made what I call garlic shrimp for dinner—a large sauté panful of tasty crustaceans consumed by man and dogs alike all the way the surface of the skillet, wiped clean with the accompanying loaf of crusty French bread.
One pound of shrimp (I like the big ‘uns, deveined but with shells still stuck tight), one large and hot Jalapeno, one sweet red pepper, a bunch of spring onions cut in little discs, one julienne-cut zucchini, lemon juice and zest, and one (or a couple) full heads of garlic, diced. Sauté the peppers in olive oil first, add garlic and onions for something like thirty seconds, add the shrimp ‘till the first side pinks-up, flip the shrimp and add a quarter-cup of white wine and cover for another half-minute, and turn off the heat.
Spoon a big lump of the jasmine rice you remembered to cook into a big soup bowl, sprinkle chopped parsley, lemon juice and zest, slather a bunch of olive oil on the entire mess, then serve with some crusty sopping bread. As we like it garlicy and I had recently purchased some processed garlic that had each head cleaned and vac-packed in plastic, I used three packets. I worried that whole peel removal and plastic storage would allow sufficient flavor to fly away to require an additional dose.
It was great. Squirt told me when I mixed with her kibbles it was, “Better than caviar.” Yoda displayed his desire for more by staring at me forlornly for the next four hours. Squirt told me, she said, “He says he’ll eat the shells if that’s all that’s left.”
Little shit would eat the shells, the plastic bag and brown paper wrapper the shrimp came in, and likely the frying pan as well. Did I ever tell you guys about the time my favorite wooden spoon went missing? Thick, long handled sucker with a broad head with an edge worn flat from stirring. I loved that spoon. Had darkened areas showing the outline of my hand from use.
Found it two days later when I was picking up dog shit before mowing the grass.
If you’re a garlic eater like we are, you know the subsequent gastro-intestinal drill. You start burping after maybe forty-five minutes, then your stomach gurgles and grumbles, and then blue gas buildup begins slipping out at the four-hour mark, which was just about bedtime. If we’d spent the evening drinking beer and cutting up, the three of us would have been sitting out back on the porch lighting garlic farts and cutting up. Last night, however, as we’d been drinking beer and shooting flies with our Bug Assault gun, we hit the sack early. Spring has sprung wet and full of flies.
At 2:36 am I awoke from a dream, drowsy and confused. I dreamt I’d been locked into a filthy dumpster ripe with the smells of rotting seafood and garlic. When I banged on the sides of the metal container and yelled to be let out, my mother yelled, “Trump won, asshole, you lost it. You’re people didn’t vote, ha-ha-ha! Mr. Rice failed!” then someone opened the dumpster door and threw in a match. Somehow I managed to wake before it exploded. Or did I woke before it blew up? Awakened maybe? Fuck it, let’s go with when I woke up.
Reality was that the little white puppy and I were sharing garlic breath, each breathing in-and-out in unison in a comforter cocoon. Three hours of our garlic farts had cast a blue haze in the bedroom as thick as mist, and I was worried someone was going to going to actually light a match. Foggily, mournfully, I thought, “Mr. Rice failed.”
Back when I was in high school over to William B. Travis High, our Senior Civics Class teacher was this giant, affable guy at whom other teachers looked toward askance. What many of my classmates called mulatto, Mr. Rice looked like one of my son’s best buddies does today—offspring of a white Texas father and Kenyan mother. My own mother thought him a communist—actually a modest thinking in view of some others’ minds—and many students’ parents asked the man be fired for his subversive teachings. It wasn’t that Mr. Rice ever suggested that communism was a solid form of government or socialism either, nor did he advocate efforts to overturn any American governmental system.
What this man did was attempt to drive deep into his students’ minds the concepts of questioning authority, demanding actual truth from elected and appointed governmental authorities, holding them accountable for their words and actions, and finally he demanded of us that we participate in our Democracy.
Oh yea, and that whole critical thinking bullshit that we subversives use to undermine our great country’s religious and thin white-skinned institutions.
“If you don’t participate in your Democracy—if you don’t volunteer to run for office, any office, if you don’t question authority, if you don’t think through all the information you get and find the truth of it, and if you don’t vote…—you’ll lose your Democracy, your freedom,” Mr. Rice said at the close of every class. I remember his words same as I do the Boy Scout Motto and each with quite different memories attached.
As this was the mid-1960’s, Mr. Rice used Hitler and Nazi Germany as his lesson plan for what happens when Democracy gets lost. And maybe because Mr. Rice was a man of visible mixed-race heritage, he used America’s slavery history to bring home the images of ultimate loss of Freedom. And he used the American Revolution and Reverend King to demonstrate the extent people must go to be free. Since Jim Crow was still flying high at that time, we spent considerable class time discussing voters’ rights.
“You must demand truth from every elected official and you must question their words at every turn. You can’t let them get away with any lie just because the lie suits you. Only liars lie. And because greed is such a powerful force, and American corporations so large, those corporations have the power of thousands of votes, maybe millions. Before we, the People, can truly control our elections, every single American needs to be allowed to vote, and every American needs to vote.”
Mr. Rice was an outcast. The only teachers who sat with him in the faculty lounge were the choir teacher—a suspected “homo-sex-u-al”, as Mother spoke it, and the art teacher. Mother said that the art teacher was a slut, and, “Well, you know what they say about black men.”
Mother actually used the word Negro, which considering her Virginian upbringing was a huge accommodation in 1966. The semester I took Civics Mother daily questioned me about every day’s Civics lessons, drilling me for punishable offences committed by Mr. Rice. At that point in my life I was astute enough to not give her anything she could use against another human. How Mother punished Sister and me for our indiscretions was not something you willingly shared with others.
I believe the dumpster dream symbolic of where electing Trump has put America—in the dump. I believe that men like Mr. Rice no longer teach Senior Civics classes. I watch as our country’s elected Republican leaders gag on Trump’s filthy swill but swallow it just the same, and I still can’t understand why none of them has come forward to say, “You, sir, are a liar and a thief and likely a traitor.”
OK, so I just farted for the first time since awakening, and I’m thinking I might have colon cancer. Long, noisy sucker that bellowed like some guy with elephant lungs blew through a wet douche bag. Ever smelled something that stank so bad it made your ears ring?
Ugh. Fuck Walmart, liars and theives.

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When A Portal Isn’t A Patio; Patience Is A Four-letter Word

Wednesday, February 8th, 2017

So. The dogs and I have now been back to Texas for three months, and we’re finally settled in. Our little Texas ranch-style abode required little for us to successfully, comfortably live, save and except, for the addition of a cover for the back patio and a new fence, and notice that rather than call it a “portal”, it’s a “patio”. The grammartizations of logistical differences between New Mexico and here to Texas can be important. The cover is to provide protection from the hot Texas sun—not Santa Fe’s cold—and also to provide shelter from the rain so the Squirt isn’t required to get her dainty feet wet when she goes outside to do her business.

“Shove it up your ass, shithead, I’m not getting my feet wet,” she told me the first time it rained after moving in. “You start crapping in the shower and I’ll consider it.”

As a compromise, I’ve let her use the covered front porch as her outhouse. Since I park in back and don’t use the front door for anything else, we’ve had the side benefit of not having any salesmen or religious nuts buggerating me. There’s maybe a dozen various churches surrounding our neighborhood, so my street is prime hunting ground for new parishioners.

And that reminds me of this apartment I rented this one time back to college—the one I got just before Streaker jones and I got the house over on 45th Street. It was half of a one-car garage. Seriously. You’d open the front door that swung into the left wall where a single clothes rod hung to serve as closet. The single bed was immediately on the right. The rest of the space was filled with a modular steel kitchenette featuring sink, two-burner stove, tiny oven and storage space, all-in-one, which sat opposite with a ship’s style head.

The bathroom consisted of a rotted green shower head that sprayed directly down onto the commode, and a too-small drain in the floor that constantly backed up. What makes this story germane to the ramblings herein is the simple fact that this apartment was so narrow I could shit, shower, shave and cook breakfast without ever lifting my ass off the toilet.

Which reminds me. I was over to the Kroger yesterday morning to do some shopping. It was a nice day and the store wasn’t crowded at all. The wide aisles were freshly polished and brightly lit. Since I always start grocery shopping from right-to-left, in this particular store I began in the deli section in right-front with the fresh seafood and meat in the back. I selected my just-baked sandwich roll, some Swiss cheese and a whole chicken in near-record time, buzzing through the area without impediments. As this store is oddly arranged, I had to pass around the wine and beer section at the back of the next three aisles to get to the veggies, which are located at the front of the store, but not back-to-front. Or front-to-back.

I needed some asparagus, tomatoes, lettuce and limes. This store is new to me and I stopped to survey so as to best utilize my time. There were maybe a dozen shoppers in produce and they were all clustered in front of the organic lettuce and asparagus, save—and likewise except—for this one gigantic woman who had obviously read “Kroger” and seen “Walmart”. The woman was maybe 5’6” in height and was absolutely that wide. She had two kids in tow—one in-basket and the other was tethered to the dirty, twisted tail of her “Make America Great Again” tee shirt.

OK, while all I could read from the tee shirt was, “Ma/mer/aGr/in,” as the red cotton fabric folded in-and-out of her folds, mayhaps I jumped the gun as to her political leanings. The four of them—woman, kids and basket—somehow managed to take up the full aisle in front of the citrus on the one side, and the organic cherry tomatoes I buy this time of year on the other.

Because I’m practicing the fine art of Patience for the improvement of my poker game, I stood, silently, awaiting an opening. After five minutes the large woman moved on, without choosing a single thing. I commented silently to myself about that one, and moved behind her for my tomatoes, required to squint my eyes at the smell of moldy arm pits and shitty diapers. After inspecting each of the thirty-one clear plastic tomato pints, I managed to not find one suitable. So, I spent a couple minutes mixing-and-matching from six buckets, and did manage to make myself happy.

Having completed tomato hunting, I turned back towards the lettuce and asparagus only to find the Walmart woman entourage filling that space like too much silicone caulk oozing in blobs and blurbs the way it does when you seal the tile surround on your bathtub. I took a deep breath (from twenty feet away), asked myself if I really needed lettuce and asparagus, decided I did, and then made another decision to shop elsewhere first, then return to produce. There are times when retreat is a viable option.

I headed back through the booze area to find a quite attractive lady setting up a wine tasting. Never one to let an attractive lady go un-shopped, I stopped to see what was up.

“It’s a wine tasting, silly. Like the sign says.”

After sampling a snifter of her six choices, I bought one of each. Some women appreciate a man’s fine taste, and my hopes were that this was one of said. Moving on without a scheduled date, I decided to get some Thai noodles. I found the right aisle, turned my basket into it, and ran smack dab into Walmart Woman’s cart. It was parked cross-wise in front of the Thai noodles, with Fat Ass and Snot Nose filling the remaining aisle space.

When I attempted to get by and my cart lightly tapped hers again, she whirled to face me, and with this incredible sneer, she yelled at me, she almost shouted, “What are you doing? Can’t you see there’s a baby in that basket?”

I started to tell her exactly what I was seeing, instead said, “Sorry, ma’am,” turned and headed back to veggies. I got my remaining vegetables and decided against Thai noodles and chose to have pasta for dinner. Pasta requires the proper pre-cooked tomatoes this off season, so I headed that way for a glass-jarred, two-cups of tomatoes.

As karma would have it in for me, Whale Bitch and the Spawn of Orca were blocking the full width of bottled tomatoes aisle. “Oh for Christ sakes,” I murmured, “does this woman have no concern for other shoppers?” Then I said to the lady, and no, I didn’t quite shout it, “Walmart is down the block, asswipe!”

I’ve never before been asked to leave a Kroger, and luckily it was a temporary ban, so I guess I’m making progress with my patience. My ADD usually takes up all the patience I’ve got.

So, Fuck Walmart and some Walmart Shoppers!

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Is That A Set Of Eights In Your Pocket?; Life Lessons From Actual Life

Tuesday, January 17th, 2017

So. Having admitted that I cannot stop writing my thoughts and publishing them to the pages herein, and, likewise, admitting that those same actions are pertinent to my long term positive mental health, I find myself woefully underperforming, said and same efforts causing both consternations—consternations herein used to mean two of its synonyms, “alarms and worries”—and, additionally, backups in the pipeline of subjects which, with consternations, I wish to confer with you. In real world terms of analogy, it’s like having the constipation only a two-pound wedge of cheddar cheese can create when packed into the last several feet of your colon, that blocking the exit of two dozen sweet bean tamales slathered in my Gram’s habanero salsa.

Something’s gotta give.

Having said that, just how many synonyms does consternations have? It’s like saying you have the dreaded ADD and having the uninformed ask you, they’ll say something like, “You don’t act like my neighbor’s kid. That little shit can’t sit still for ten seconds.” Then you spend a couple hours in attempted educations to the subject only to be ignored for the efforts.

Like Wednesday. Before my mental backups and consternations explode in a conflagrated mash of gibberish, mayhaps some background might be required, so allow me to produce some. As I have decided to spend more time playing poker as a source of income, I’ve taken to studying the endeavor by enrolling in courses taught by the one poker teacher I trust. So as not to influence other poker players I’ll not say who this teacher is. I will say that since starting the classwork sixty days ago, I’ve almost doubled my hourly win rate. As your win rate is the most logical measure of financial success as a player that is a good thing, and, likewise, testament to the coach.

As practicing is a major part of any performance-based education, I decided to go over to the Choctaw Casino and enter a couple WSOP Circuit events after a lesson on slow playing big hands to trap an opponent. That casino is an hour-and-a-half from here rather than the half-hour trip to my new home casino, Winstar. I left Wednesday at 9:30 am after I had gone to the gym, shit/showered/shaved, insured the dogs were happily boarded, and packed. As the dogs are never happily boarded, I’ve just told the first lie of my day assuming we ignore the one where I said “Good morning” to the Squirt when she stomped on my full bladder to awaken me at six am.

“Wake up, shithead,” she told me as she did her morning ritual organ stomp from bladder-to-spleen-to-liver. “It’s three minutes after six and I’m starving!”

This daily exercise typically ends with her sitting on my chest and breathing morning dog breath in my face. Her fresh breath is maggot-gagging and in the morning it can peel paint, likely the why answer for this daily program.

“They eat dog meat in Manilla, you know. I can buy you a ticket to the Philippines that fast.”

My threat must have sounded more like a love poem because it got me a smelly face slurp. Maybe I need to get a face tattoo so I can get some respect.

I left at 9:30 Wednesday because the event started at noon. As I was driving my Chevy SS, I managed to trim three-minutes-twenty-seven-seconds off the estimated trip time, and arrived exhilarated from accelerating across southern Oklahomaburg. The adrenaline rush that comes from highway passing a Prius—dropping down two gears with a mash of the right foot—in less than three seconds, is almost more than I can stand. To hear that LS-3 burn a full gallon of fuel in a rush from 65 to 90 MPH, to feel the car’s body jump with brute strength…

I arrived at Choctaw, early, checked-in for my room, then went to the tournament area to sign up for the Mega Stack event. Like big motors, mega stack events have special drawing power, so this tournament had 1,096 entries. And like providing the petrol for a big motor, keeping your body and mind fueled for the grind of one of these events is a challenge. We started at noon, and I was knocked out at 1:00 am in, effectively, 115th place, a finish that was in the money but a profiting of something like $7.68 per hour of play. While I was happy to have cashed, I was disappointed to have not lasted longer.

I had stuffed some energy bars in my backpack to help me keep up with the hours played and ended sharing with my tablemates, information pertinent to the game but not to my point. I also packed my several medications which I whipped out at 4:00 pm, my ritualized medication schedule.

“Damn, old man, that’s quite a pharmacy you’ve got there!”

This from one of the young guys you can see playing on TV as he is a successful player who travels the circuits. During this day, I played with six guys you see on TV and one of the game’s greats, TJ Cloutier. TJ is still a strong player well into his seventies and is a truly fine man. As his home casino is also the Winstar, I see him a couple times a week.

“What’s all that stuff for?” the young gun player asked as I swallowed the entire fistful of pills with one swallow.

“Well,” I started, taking the next day’s assortment from my blue plastic four o’clock pill dispensary, “these two are for the side effects of having had routine visits with The Great Radiator for my prostate cancer, this one here is to replace the minerals that the first two deplete in order to work, and this one here—the red one—is because I’m crazy. The red one is speed for my ADD.”

Kid looked at me like I’d told him I’m a gender transplant. We played a few hands with him watching me from the corners of his eyes and I could tell he was formulating a question.

“Spit it out, son. You aren’t experienced enough to hurt my feelings, so just ask your question.”

“You don’t act like my neighbor’s kid. That little shit can’t sit still for more than ten seconds. You’re driving me crazy, but you seem to sit still OK. You don’t have ADD, I think that’s your excuse to be a gigantic pain in my ass.”

I peeked at my next hand of cards, took my usual four-and-a-half seconds to ponder their playabilities, and folded.

“You, young man, suffer from the misconception that ADD and ADHD are the same, precise thing, and they are not. Allow me to elucidate for your edifications.”

And I did. For the next fifty-five minutes I described the various types of ADD, how they differ, how they affect the sufferer, and gave many examples. His education was cut short when I knocked him out of the tournament where I smooth-called a flopped set of eights through the turn, he hit top two pairs on the river and I called his all-in bet. He flipped his hand over with youthful exuberance and declared, “Sorry, old man.”

As he prepared to scoot the pot his way, I laid my two cards face down, tipped them over while still back-to-face to show the Eight of Hearts. Then I took the index finger of my right hand and tapped them apart to reveal the Eight of Spades to match the eight on the board.

The guy’s happy face did that slow melt to terror we’ve all seen when a person realizes they’ve misread an important situation. He looked at the tabled cards then at me, back to the cards and then again at me.

“What the fuck?” he asked. “How could you slow play a set with the flush draw on the board?”

“Uh,” I mumbled as I raked and stacked his entire cache of chips, “I was distracted?”

He stood tableside after getting knocked out staring google-eyed at his bounty sitting in front of me. When we finished the next hand of play, he said to me, he went, “You sonofabitch. You set me up!”

Some of these young guys are brilliant players, people with the skills to figure out even the most complex situations. Which said, brings me back to my point.

I want to write more and I need to write more. But with my schooling and practicing and spending the required time to properly parent two precocious puppies, my decision is often to write, or to sleep. If you’d ever witnessed my countenance while sleep deprived, you too would vote for sleep.

But there should be a gap between this poker course and the next, and I intend to fill it with more scribblings. So why don’t we all cheer a hearty “Fuck Walmart!” and plan what to do in the stead of Friday’s inauguration.

 

 

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A Bikini And Six Tiny Reindeer; Xmas Cheers Too All

Friday, December 23rd, 2016

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

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Insights; I Call Your Epiphany And Raise You Three Fates

Tuesday, November 29th, 2016

So. The last month has been a blur. Blurred hours either racing past or passing so slowly as to be nearly motionless; blurry decision making caused by both my own indecisivenesses, and the desired and not quite so desired, inputs from others; fuzzy thoughts swirling through the often disconnected synapses of my fevered brain; the disjointed confusion of not clear intentions of others—loved ones, friends, Mother.

The blur of second-guessing. Was it time to move? Did I choose the right place? Did America really elect Donald J. Trump as our next President? Really?

OK, here’s some facts for you. I moved back to Texas to be in more of a position to assist Sister in caring for Mother. Original intentions were to move back into the family homestead there to Austin, a ninety-minute drive to Mother’s dementia-filled side. After a weeklong visit headquartered in Austin, the daily trips to San Antonio proved too much for me. Not the commutes, the visits. I enjoyed the Hill Country drives racing to-and-fro, but daily contacts proved to be an overload of my mind’s few family circuits not previously ravaged by the maternal relationship.

Then, with an overloading of fresh mushroom juice, a strain of pot named “Cherry Bomb”, and a case of icy Carta Blanca beer drunk whilst sitting dockside with my best buddy, Streaker Jones.

“Don’t need ta come all tha way home, Mooner. Come back in degrees or you’ll go nuts.”

Yesterday, I was walking the dogs around my new neighborhood here to Denton, Texas—the best thing found that resembles my beloved Austin of thirty years ago. Two-college town, twenty-minute drive edge-to-edge, two Hilary signs per each Trump banner, and quite nice people. In two weeks I’ve met a rainbow coalition of neighbors and the puppies have settled in nicely. Yoda and I have already started our territorial marking of the smallish, fenced backyard, and the Squirt came within an inch of grabbing a squirrel’s tail.

“I hate those snittering little fuckers, Mooner. Wait ‘till I get ahold a one.”

We drove back from Thanksgiving down south Friday morning after a mixed-results holiday, and found many neighbors putting out their Xmas decorations. The Guatemalan family on one side have what must be a thousand lights strewn about walls, bushes and lawn. Good thing I’ve got blackout drapes in the master. Many of his bulbs are the old fashioned, larger incandescent type that sound like a 22-cal rifle shot when slammed into concrete.

One of my worst whippings came after getting caught stealing those lights from the elaborate Xmas display of a west Austin mansion. Got caught breaking them on the loading dock over to the downtown Post Office building. Now Travis County Sheriff Woozie Wozniack was my accomplice, and that shithead got off all punishments by blaming everything on me.

Was my idea, we drove my car, had smoked my pot, and my choice of the well-patrolled Post Office building to finish our act of vandalism. Got caught, however, because his fat ass couldn’t break twenty seconds in a ten-yard dash to an open car door.

Oh, and speaking of cars. A couple months ago my left hip started hurting—a ball joint already afflicted with arthritis was starting to ache with mind-numbing intensity. Long story shortened for reader’s sake, it was the operating of the clutch pedal in my hot rod Subaru causing the new pains. Seating position required me to lift my hip off the seat to shift gears, motions that un-naturally angulated the use of that joint, causing routine grinding of soft tissues and hard alike. “Get a new car or suffer,” was the prognosis.

Replacement is a Chevy SS. Look it up:  http://www.motortrend.com/cars/chevrolet/ss/2015/2015-chevrolet-ss-second-test-review/

OK, the ADD is starting to take control more intensely than the traction control button in my SS. We were walking the neighborhood sidewalk circuit yesterday, dogs on long leashes and my thoughts fully untethered. I was thinking about a hand of poker I played at my new casino, an establishment located thirty minutes from locking our back door. I slow-played a set of sixes and lost to a runner-runner flush, a fate fully deserved by me for letting a loose player stay in the hand for free. I’ve decided to look at poker as a profession and am working to get my game repaired.

We’d stopped to let the Squirt growl and bark at a tree rat while I examined my dumb actions at a house with a yard-full of those molded plastic Xmas scenes. Toy soldiers, nativity scene, Three Wise Guys, wrapped packages—you know, that sort of puffy plastic stuff. I was, I guess, in a poker evaluation fog.

“Hey you, what the fuck? You, standing in my grass there with the dogs!”

Huh? “Huh, you talking to me? I asked.

“Yea, you. Your fucking dog just pissed on baby Jesus!”

Dogs got extra treats upon our return to Johnson Family Denton Central Headquarters, and my head cleared somewhat. It started to look like this neighborhood in this town was a good place to safe harbor for at least the next few years.

“This was a good choice, Squirty girl. I think we’ll be happy here.” A long walk can refresh your thinkings.

My sweet brown puppy jumped into my lap, a dead serious look on her face. “You know, Yoda pissed on that plastic on his own. I didn’t say one word. I was figuring a way to climb that tree and snatch that jabber mouth by his throat. I know I can catch them if I can get high enough. I’m thinking you can build me a ladder, and…”

Tis the season to Fuck Walmart!

 

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And Now For Something Completely Different; Going Home

Thursday, October 6th, 2016

So. What a month, and I’ve missed communicating with you and spewing my nonsense. Packing, planning, selling—wait, no leasing—wait again, selling. OK, selling what was previously leased. Buyers of a leased home forcing me to face the separate realities of a life lived wishing to be separated, yet drawn back by familial necessities. La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe will soon be renamed to suit the enjoyments of its new owners, and the dogs and I? Well, we’ll soon be back to my boyhood home, deep, deep, deep in the tainted heart of Texas.
Travelling to Texas to visit—revisit—seeing family, friends, ex-wives. Explaining—why, when, really, you’re leaving Santa Fe?—what the fuck is wrong with you? Struggling—words, concepts, desires, emotions. Smelling—dense garden smells of rich earth created by me, sharp odors from the compost made from rotting waste, the sweet, sweet aroma of fully-ripened Cherokee Purple tomatoes fat, and so plump they bend thick stems to break.
Staring—a gay pig and his ostrich lover—Laurel and Hardy in feathers and boar bristles slow dancing to Johnny Cash’s last CD, my Gram climbing into her bright red Ferrari with the mega-watt smile of a sexual predator, the stacked-rock marker that marks the spot of Dixie’s final repose. Staring—into Mother’s hazel eyes, deeply, seeing there but tiny flashes of the searing disappointment that once flared like the ass-end of a Titan rocket fully loaded for a moonshot. Sensing Mother’s judgements more than hearing them. Listening, carefully, for a thread of cogent thought not the repetitive patter of dementia.
Staring, sensing, thinking, planning, struggling, grasping. Staring—blankly into the giant Texas sky, wondering what has happened to my life, will happen. Wondering—the sharp blade of a second-guess slicing thin wafers of imagery to fix upon glass slides to reflect, refract, recombinations of decisions made, not made. Adjusting—focus, light, angles, hypothesis, conclusions.
Listening—hoping—searching for a sign of acceptance, the eager prospector panning words for a thoughtful nugget—but finding no golden speak, not even the fool’s gold of false praise. Wishful—not hopeful, as hope remains a four-letter word, its nastiness reinforced by the short, bitter proclamations of an old woman’s ire. Smells—old people confined, disinfectant, bile—the pungent stench of parental disappointment assaulting to even not delicate senses.
Thirsting—dry mouth, grainy eyes, parched soul probing for just a sliver of approval. Cursing—her, me, the fucking Baptists. Mostly me, myself and next the fucking Baptists. Might I have done more to please, had I not been raped would it matter? Should I have? Could I have?
Differentiating—reality/fantasy, want/need, love/hate, family/other. Reflecting.
The Squirt says Mother looks as healthy as ever, but tells me if my maternal unit asks one more time, “Where do you live now,” she’s bringing her final days pill stash for a dosing of Mother’s afternoon hot chocolate. “I’ll put a handful of those downers in her cup.”
OK, let’s reset. First I leased the Santa Fe house, then sold it. After the sale contract was fully accepted, we took a trip back home to see what would be required to resettle there. What I found is that four years can be a very long goddamn time. My psycho therapist, Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson suggested to me that maybe I should let my mother go without any care from her adult children.
“Give her a few months without any familial support, Mooner. Make her ask for your help. You three stay in Santa Fe and live a good life,” was the suggested advice.
“I’d have to hogtie Sister and kidnap her to New Mexico, Sammie. You know she can’t allow Mother to suffer no matter how our mother feels about her.”
My sister is killing herself for a woman who despises everything about her own daughter. Tells her caretakers what an abomination Sister is when Sister sits in quiet repose at Mother’s side. When Mother “Sun downers”—the actions of a demented person to freak and try to escape whatever it is the feel captured in, happens each day as the sun goes down—it’s always Sister she calls, screaming and crying, to save her. Every fucking day, and sometimes many times a day.
Now, I’m substituting myself for Sister in Mother’s care, and I don’t know what to do. I’m a morose sonofabitch and troubled to find even a flicker of light in my tunnel. I do not have anything of what it takes to nurture a batty old woman who blames me for ruining her life.
“I could have been a dancer on Broadway if it weren’t for you, Mooner! You ruined my life!”
Fuck Walmart.

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Maybe, Baby; Resistance To Maturities

Monday, August 15th, 2016

So. On this fine Sunday morning Santa Fe has awakened to crisp 51-degree air with crystalline skies serving as a canvas for the flat clouds of grey moisture typical of this season. For our part, the puppies have shit-showered-shaved and eaten their first meal of the day, and I’ve been awake long enough to have consumed three cuppa Joes, played two quickie poker tournaments on the Inet, walked the perimeters of La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe in search of flies, killed three of said flies with my salt-filled air gun custom-made for fly killing, and still, and at that alas, and had no fucking Sunday newspaper.
My paper always arrives before five in the am, except, heretofore, on those rare occasions when the press breaks or it snows so much the delivery personages cannot get about. That consistency of delivery result results in certain expectations in me, said expectations counted upon within the confines of the obsessive/compulsive regimens woven together into the fabric that somewhat controls my fevered ADD-addled mental processings. It is the morning structures of event stringings that carry the most weight in my attempts to wrench control of my focus and concentrations from Mr. Evil, the madman who lurks deep within my psyche.
Said another way, I have specific routines, which when properly followed, assist me to spend less of the day that follows in the State of Fucked. Having said that, those of you who know me have a clear understanding of what my day does, and will continue to look like, now that I’m visiting the State of Fucked while under the controls of Mr. Evil. I hate visiting the State of Fucked, and as I have aged, Mr. Evil’s presence has become more aggravating than you can imagine.
“Hey Mooner. Yoo-hoo Mooner! Hey you, fuckbrain, stop writing and look over here at me…You know you can’t ignore me, your newspaper is late!…No, look over there…Did you turn the burner off with that last cup of coffee?…When was the last time you saw an actual nekid woman?…Did you hear what Trump said?…Ali McGraw on your left!”
There’s another reason for my consternations in spite of this beautiful morning. We put La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe on the market for sale—what I thought a solid yet unremarkable effort made by me to appear concerned about my family back to Texas—thinking there would be no sale at my price and I could say, “Sorry, Gram, sorry Sister, I tried but the real estate market is too soft here right now. I’ll try again in 2020.”
Two showings, two contract offers. The first was less than asking price and I rejected it summarily. The second, well the second was for full price, which forced its acceptance, and we’ve had two more showings wanting to know if the contract falls off. A Christian would look at these events and say, “That’s God’s hand, son. He works in mysterious ways.”
Me, for my part in all of this, I realize that my understanding of the housing market has surpassed my knowledge and I’m unlikely to have any reasonable excuse for not moving back to my family in Tejas, home of Guv’vy Abbott sans Costello. Nothing funny about that prick.
The Squirt and I were talking about this conundrum Saturday night as we sat with cold beers, smushed avocado-not guacamole with chips and handmade by us salsa, and pain pills. The pain pills were in response to Squirt’s reoccurring spinal condition wherein she loses operational benefits of one, or both back legs, and the beer was Stella Artois—both situational events out of my control. As a Carta Blanca drinker since birth, it aggravates the shit out of me to not find it, and as a father I’m sad to the bone I can’t help my puppy live forever.
I was mooning and fretting and whimpering on, and on, so Squirt told me, she says, “Stop fretting, dickwad, there’s good news in all of this. You’ll get fresh veggies from Gram’s garden, SAC Ellen still lives in that little place over on the Fifties, and you can spend more time with Mother.”
“Not comforting, sweetie pie. Santa Fe has a great farmers’ market, the last time I saw SAC Ellen she locked the door in my face, and as for Mother…”
“Jesus, but you’re a half-empty Bozo. OK, think of this. My back will be better in the warmer climate.”
Can’t argue her points, but I’m still not more happy than not happy. Then, again, maybe I can gain comfort in the fact that I’m making a major decision based upon the needs of others in my life and not on my own whims. Maybe this is the first ever time I’ve done so and therein lies my rubs. Maybe sacrifice for others is such an uncomfortable garment because I’ve never fitted it to my frame. Maybe I can’t find pleasure because I’m too conceited and center-self’ed to have joy in helping others.
Maybe I’ve never matured as a man, or grown to know the value of putting others first. And maybe I’m an ADD-addled fuckbrain who can’t get out of his own way. And maybe we should all:
FUCK WALMART!

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The Party Of Lincoln; Critical Thought For Dummies

Friday, July 29th, 2016

So. Today is a new day in my life. Today shall, and will, be a full day filled with personal reflections, familial considerations and in the end- decisions. The fulfilling of the filled fulls of this day are the culmination of a years-long mental pilgrimage from full enjoyment of the isolation afforded by refuge here to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe—the walled compound within which the dogs and I can enjoy that special sort of nekid peace and reflective solitudes–and ending the journey feeling isolated by those same separations, having allowed said full enjoyments to be cycled, and recycled, through the fevered mind of an ADD-addled fuckbrain.
And, while these writings, so far, seem reflective of Old Abe’s Gettysburg addressings, it only seems seven and scores of years in reflection. Reflections. It would be plural and I’m guessing Old Abe popped into my head because we were over to the hardware store the other day and this nice lady was attempting to assist us with a paint purchase. “Does the color sky blue ice or blueberry shake better match?” I asked her.
I held a swatch of leftover fabric from the spare bedroom curtains to the color charts. The dogs spend much of their quiet time when I’m out of residence nesting on the bed and staring out the bedroom’s window. Because of their connection to the room, I try to defer to their wishes when decorating.
“Squirt here, she likes blueberry shake—says it picks up the color from the feathers in this guy’s tail,” I told the nice lady while pointing at a Blue Jay’s fat ass on the swatch. “Me, I’m thinking we should go with the Oriole blue rather than the Blue Jay, don’t you? I think the Oriole is one of the prettiest of all birds, don’t you? And Blue Jays are a menace, don’t you think?”
I took this sales training course years ago and was taught that it is smart to end questions or declaratory statements with what they called a “tie down”. Tie downs would be words that obtain tacit agreement from even an unwilling prospect, like “don’t you”, or “wouldn’t you agree”. Or “You’ll go to jail if you don’t”. Those sorts of dealios.
“Look, sir, we’ve been through this before, or don’t you remember?” The attractive woman advised, “Trust your dog’s judgement. Her taste seems far better than yours. Honest Abe.”
I was struck with both a flashback and likewise with wonderment if “don’t you remember” and “Honest Abe” were tie downs used therein.
“Honest Abe? Really, Honest Abe?” I said to her. “I haven’t heard that phrase since junior high school when Gloria Ledbetter used it on me when I had trouble taking “No” for an answer. Me, I thought we’d make a great pairing for the Spring Prom. Gloria- not so much.”
“No, no, no,” Gloria had told me, and I now told the paint lady.
“Honest, Gloria? You’re tall for a girl and I’m thinking you’re ready for some slow dancing.”
“Look, Mooner. I asked my mom and she told me you’re a bucket of trouble. Remember when you set the girl’s locker room on fire?”
“I did,” I reminisced to the impatient hardware store lady, “and I told Gloria it was an unfortunate accident. Wrong-place, wrong-time to be playing with cherry bombs. Was it my fault the trashcan spontaneously combusted?”
Gloria told me, “My mother said she’d put me in a nunnery before she’ll let me date Mooner Johnson. Honest Abe, that’s what she said.”
“But you’re Baptist, Gloria, we Baptists don’t have nunneries. And wasn’t Lincoln the guy who freed the slaves and saved our Union so that you and I can slow dance?”
The nice, attractive, foot tapping paint helper lady called for, “Assistance in Paint Department,” then asked me, she said, “Look, sir. We don’t want to ban you from the store, so why don’t you go now and come back for your paint at Noon.”
The three of us moved here not to get to, but, instead, to escape from. While New Mexico is The Land of Enchantments, for the dogs and this knuckleheaded loony, our adopted state offered us refuge from the harsh politics of Ted Cruz, Texas Governors Perry and Abbott and their ilk. Said another way, we didn’t move here because Santa Fe is so great, instead we came here to feel less oppressed by the political climate in Texas. Not that we don’t like it because we do.
OK, and I really needed to put a little space between mother and son.
In the four years since the move, we have realized that we are no different from the millions of refugees who have been either forced from their homes at gunpoint—like Palestinians from the West Bank—or those fleeing from violent, oppressive forces such as the refugees in flight from Syria. While the circumstances of our exodus are far less oppressive than of those unwilling travelers, the pulling desire to return to our homeland is, I’m thinking, just as strong.
Which reminds me. What is it about giving something up that makes it all the more attractive, inviting, desirable? Never has a woman been more enticing to me than when she divorces my ass. Just the knowing I’ll not know her mysteries again pegs my pecker meter to full stop.
And that reminds me that I have one thing to say to anyone who claims that our Presidential election is a choice of lesser evils—Clinton or Trump, the lesser of two evils. You folks remind me of Paulie Kraspar, a kid whose father was KKK and jailed for raping a black girl back to when we were in junior high.
We were studying WWII and Hitler’s atrocities when Paulie stood tall and told us with some rancor, “Well, FDR, that asshole, he was just as bad as Hitler. They were both evil.”
When quizzed by our quite confounded teacher as to the logic of his comparison, young Mr. Kraspar responded, and here I’ll attempt to put the words back in his mouth when I quote him, he said, “My daddy says FD-fuckin’-R was a womanizin’ drunk who put innocent Germans and Japs in prison just ta keep ‘em from talkin’.”
For some reason our Media have decided to pit twenty-four years of unproven allegations against Hilary against the known, proven lies and bankruptcies and failed ventures, racism, bigotry and treasonous behavior of Trump. False equivalences at their worst.
So, to you “lesser evil” dumbasses, please allow me to say, and with considerable gusto, “Either pull your heads out your asses, or: Fuck you and Walmart too!”

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Can You Tabu? The Scent Of Early Risings

Friday, July 15th, 2016

So. I’m up at 3:15 am, again, and it seems to be a new habitual. Before today, this time of awakening was for me, as said in Spanish, “Tiempo de perros.”  Most times when I’m up too early it is dog related. And for those of you wondering why I speak so often of my hounds I say, “You, sir, need to pay attention.”

This morning, however, it wasn’t the dogs who awakened me, it was my own fevered brain. True enough, the Squirt was doing her adorable snurffle-snuffle snore dealio, a complex cacophony of puppy sleeping noises that puts a smile on my face and a lump of love in my heart. But it wasn’t that or Yoda’s constantly severe halitosis that awakened me today. It was my own spinning brain waves that kept me wide awake.

My issue, according to Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, is that I have a guilty conscience about something, with said whateverthefuck something remaining a mystery to me. The often insightful psycho therapist and former Mrs. Mooner Johnson seems to believe that my early risings are all connected to something about which I feel either embarrassment, or guilt. Because I feel guilty, ipso facto, I can’t sleep.

“It is proven medical science, Mr. Loony Bird. Most insomnia is either anxiety or guilt driven, and in your case, my money lays nine-to-two it’s guilt. You need to spend some time in self-reflection, Mooner. There has to be something you’ve done that’s laying heavily on your crazy mind—you obviously feel embarrassment or guilt over something. Lord knows you’re always doing something that embarrasses me.”

When my psycho therapist say shit like this I start to wonder which of us is the nutty one. “Have you lost your mind, Sammy? It’s gotta be five-to-two, worst case. I haven’t been embarrassed since back to junior high school when I slow danced with an actual girl not Gram or Sister the first time. Accidently dry-rubbed against the silk and taffeta prom gown of who’s her name, and received both pleasure and a slap. She had one of those corsage dealios that girls used to wear on their wrist and I can still see how the air caused the baby’s breath to blow off her wrist as her flat hand headed for my cheek.”

Enjoyed the thrills too much to be embarrassed in the moment even with the slap, but paid the price next day in Sunday school. Offended young lady had to tell Mrs. Browningwell the story with added allegations. True, I did get a boner, and true as well that I left it pinned to her front halfway between her belly button and soft, budding breasts. But I wasn’t moaning. I was counting my one-two-three-fours under my breath so’s not to step on her tootsies. That was the only way I ever danced through an entire song without tripping over everyone’s feet.”

Who’s her name was far shorter than was I, and I was humming my numbered steps with my mouth closed. In reflections, might have sounded like moaning to her virgin ear plastered to my chest, spray-fluffed hair in my face. Oh, and I just remembered that she wore Taboo perfume except wasn’t it spelled “Tabu”? God, rememberating the sights and smells of young first encounters is exhilarating. Remember the first time you sniffed a lover’s sex smells? Intoxicating.

For those of you questioning my grammatical choices, I purposely used  “who’s her name” rather than “what’s her name”, and speaking of dry rubbed, my Gram called me last night to complain about her sex life. OK, she actually called to see if I’d come visit and, as she put it when she told me, she said, “Git yer fuckin’ pig ta stay tha shit out tha garden.” But as always, my Gram’s conversations will hit sex talk at about the ninety-second mark, as in this conversation when she ran out of steam complaining about Rush Limbaugh the pig eating all her squash.

“… fuckin’ Rushie Limberhog ate summer squashies an’ tha Zukkies too. So, there’s this Texas student working down ta tha church—nuclur engineerin’ or sum such a major, an’ doin’ tha Lord’s work with tha kids fer Pastor Browningwell—an’ he says ta me, ‘Mz. Johnson, that’s a mighty nice car you drive.’ An’ afore I can git tha door open to hop him on in, fuckin’ Leticia grabs tha boy’s arm damn near out tha socket. Yanked tha poor kid hard enough ta snap his head off, what with him eyeballin’ the Fee-rarie an’ all.”

And that’s twice now that Mrs. Leticia Browningwell has bothered into a Johnson’s sexual activities in four paragraphs of this word swill. Maybe I can’t sleep because that old bag had so much influence on my life. She’d have boiled me in oil had we lived back in the days of such, and then fed me to the pigs. Told me just that this one time. Maybe that’s likewise why I own 400-plus pounds of piggy meat on the hoof.

Folks ask me why I’m an atheist and moments with Leticia come to mind. In my world, no actual God would allow her to influence so many young lives. Then, and again, no God as a deity exists in my world excepting for my own, quite personal God, a creature of my own divining.

I often wish for a Divine all-knowing, all-being God, as that would make it easier to live life. Using a third party with a God’s power can justify any action one might choose to make, as abdication of our bad deeds to the edicts of a cult grants a pardon to some. No guilty consciences when you can confess your sins to your God for absolutions.

“Dear God. I’m so sorry for being a greedy and bigoted racist lying fuckhead, and if You make me President I promise I’ll be better. Ah, er, well ah, might You also consider making this current bankruptcy go away? Amen. Oh, and the lawsuits.”

Fuck Walmart and Donald J. Trump as well.

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Rememberies Of Future Present; Racism’s Caustic Spittle

Friday, July 8th, 2016

So. I’m sitting here to my desk at 5:15 in the AM wondering what went wrong. I watched the live news coverage of the black man shooting Dallas police—apparently an insane reaction to recent police shootings of black men—and this morning I’ve been at this mental endeavor since I got out of bed at 2:17—three hours and two minutes ago—when the Squirt had finally had enough of my fidgeting and nudged me out of the bed.

“Jesus Christ, Mooner, get up and go do something productive,” the small, brown-furred bundle of piss and vinegar almost growled in my face. “Get up and leave us to sleep or I’m telling the goat dog to start licking your face.”

While I do sincerely love both of the little Chihuahua-mixed puppies that are my companions, the Squirt is a pain in my ass, and Yoda’s spit is so corrosive it can dissolve the silver coating off a plated serving spoon, and smells bad enough to drive a pig off a bucket of swill. These things I know as facts.

“Well now, Mr. Johnson, just how might you know those tasty morsels of information to be, as you say, ‘facts’?”

“Well, Missy Tamara (Tamara is who the name tag claims her to be), the spit part was learned when I used this old serving spoon—a silver-plated jobbie whose matching knife and fork had long ago disappeared—to slop a blob of peanut butter onto a toasted English muffin. The peanut butter was organic from the bulk aisle over to Sprouts, and the muffin from this nifty bakery down to Austin, Texas. As the Squirt was in the other room watching Oprah with Gram and Streaker Jones, Yoda got both first and second dibbies to lick the remaining thin smear of goober spread off said spoon.”

Missy Tamara looked at me like I’d lost my mind and said to me, she says, “And?”

“And nothing. I put the spoon over to the counter next to the sink with intentions to hand wash it, hand washing a needed action after the goat dog’s tongue touches anything you wish to reuse, like dishes, flatware or faces. Little shit licked my underarm to get me to roll over in bed this one time and I got a dreadful rash right there where the bottom part of every shirt sleeve rubs. It was very uncomfortable.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“The spoon, Sir. Did you have a point?”

“Oh, that. Forgot to wash it until the next day. I remember my Gram getting all up in my ass about it. ‘What in all God’s green pastures is this here?’ she asked me. The spoon looked like I’d dipped it in a vat of acid. It was all green and florescent and shit, and you could see the cheap pot metal showing through the silver coating.”

I love Trader Joes, I truly do. Their staff is always so friendly and interested in you. I’ve had several of these pleasant conversations with Tamara as she checked me out. And she always makes naughty innuendos when it’s time to insert my chipped credit card into the slot of the reader.

“It’s time, Mr. Johnson. Steady, straight and gently. Push it all the way in and then don’t touch it until it tells you what to do next. If you move it too soon you’ll have to pull it out and do it all again.”

Tamara has short, curly hair, light brown doe eyes, and a fearsome grin. And a girlfriend. Why is it that I’m so attracted to lesbian women? Put me in a dating mixer with a hundred interested straight women and one lesbian who doesn’t actually like men, and I’m making time with the lesbian in six minutes flat. What’s up with that shit? I love lesbians so much I forgot to tell you the pig part of my puppy’s spit stuff. And what’s up with my focus?

Did I tell you I have the dreaded ADD? I mean recently? I sat down now three hours and forty-five minutes ago to tell you that I think my country has gone all to Hell, and back, and I still haven’t told you about the time Yoda licked all over the galvanized tub used to feed Rush Limbaugh the pig. First and only time I saw that hog turn his nose up at food.

OK, and way back up there when talking about the spit and the spoon, I used the personal “whose” when referring to the spoon’s former mates. I really wanted to use “which’s”, as I feel with absolute certainty that it is Spoon’s mates which whom are missing. Then, again, maybe there are times when inanimate objects can take on human qualities. Like this one time when my Gram’s mushroom juice caused my Boy Scout pocket knife to carve the miniature Jesus off the faceplate on Mrs. Browningwell’s Sunday school lectern.

The term “He Is Risen”, painted in gold leaf above the carving, sort of fell flat after I’d whittled a crater where that old bag’s precious cherry wood Savior had once rested. Speaking of that entire “He Is Risen” dealio, a person close to me recently told me that she has figured out the entire set of mysteries revolving around Jesus dying on the cross, getting buried and then coming back for a farewell dinner with his boys.

“He didn’t die,” she told me with a look of sheer delight plastered all over her face. “They didn’t have modern science to check if he was actually dead, did they? There were no stethoscopes back then, they didn’t know to put a mirror under his nose to see if it fogged.”

Maybe I haven’t yet gotten to my point because I’m so frightened of it. America is this close to electing a racist, bigoted, braindead and greedy misogynistic failed businessman as President. Racial tensions are as high as they’ve been in my lifetime. America has enough military-styled rifles on its streets to arm the French Army. And representing our fellow citizens in public service has become one of the ten highest-paying jobs you can land, and the highest-paying job with no requirements for intelligence, integrity or common decency.

We were headed in such a good direction coming out of the Sixties and into the Seventies. Now we’re at the “Last Days of Pompeii” stage, where our hate, greed and gluttony are consuming us.

It hurts to say this, but my best effort to fight back is to simply say:

FUCK WALMART!!!!

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

Monday, June 27th, 2016

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What the Hell are YOU talking about?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So Fuck Walmart!

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Condone, Condoned, Condoner; Conditioned Responses For Bigots

Thursday, June 9th, 2016

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

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Pickled Peckers; An Atheist’s Prayer

Saturday, May 7th, 2016

So. I’d promised a Johnson Family update some weeks past, yet, as of this date I’ve been unable to string enough cogent thoughts together re: said family to create writings that might provide any useful information, thereof. Maybe that should have been, or better said, “…provide useful information, thereabout.” And now, having spent the last eight minutes cogitating over the proper placement of commas in that last sentence, I find myself wondering if I have enough mental alacrities to cogently speak to any subject.

OK, do you speak cogently “to”, “of” or “about” a subject? And while we’re stopped in grammatical reflections, allow me to pre-apologize for my ADD.

With alacrities used herein to mean quicknesses, take, for example, last names. I’ve been forgetting people’s names and mostly their surnames. The worst memory faults are coming with last names of people with simpler first names. Like Bob, or Jim, or Barbara. Or Anna. Yesterday I was speaking with this nice lesbian couple over to the line to purchase Powerball tickets at the Chevron station. I was maybe third from the back of the line and they were in front of me. As the line was slow moving, and I’d overheard the nice ladies talking about their pending wedding, I interjected myself into their conversation.

I caught that they are from Austin, visiting Santa Fe as a sort of pre-honeymoon scouting trip, and that they were having difficulties identifying an Austin venue for the actual wedding. Me, always the helpful sort even when unasked, inserted myself into their conversation.

“Pardon my interruption, ladies, but my sister and her woman were married out to the dock at our place there to Austin. Anna did all the party planning and I bet she’d be willing to help.”

The one woman looked at me like I’d just shit on her head, but the second quickly moved between us and said to me, she says, “It would be really helpful to speak with someone who knows the town. We just moved to Austin and are yet unfamiliar. We have joined the local community, but haven’t made friends yet.”

“Well,” I started, “Anna’s a big wig with the Austin Lesbian Club, or whatever it is they call the lesbian confab that meets on a Thursday over to Guerro’s Taco Bar, and she can help you with that as well.”

That caught the interest of the other lady, and she says to me, she asks, “Anna who? What’s Anna’s last name?”

“Ah, uh, ah…” I was flummoxed.

Took me maybe thirty seconds to say, “Oh yea, it’s Johnson. Anna Johnson.”

Now, the new readers hereof might not think this such a big memory thingie, but it actually is. See, Anna was born Anna Johnson. Then she married me—the third of ten suffragettes—and divorced me to marry my sister, Sister. Having completed the surname trifecta, Anna Johnson-Johnson-Johnson is all Johnsoned up, factual information that should make the remembrance of her name a simple mental task.

I can’t figure what it is that’s causing these lapses of synapsis. Is it simply the process of aging and my olderating? Did The Great Radiator alter my brain functions as well as those of my alimentary tracts? Worse of all, might I be getting the starts of a genetic dementia passed from Mother to me?

OK, let’s stop for a second. I know with certainties that the alimentary tract involves the processing of solid wastes in our bodies. Is our urinary system also alimentary, or is it considered to be a totally separate tracting? Me, for my part, I consider that since both liquids and solids, and solids containing liquids, enter all through our mouths, then the two systems are conjoined at least from the start. A well-oiled digestive tract will remove the liquids to be used elsewhere then eliminated through the bladder, so I get that there are two separate spigots as terminus. But, does having differing last stops mean separatenesses in total?

It’s like a subway system to me. Two guys get on the train together at Broadway—one guy the swimming coach and the other is executive chef for the Dean of Women and both from over to Columbia University—and travel over to the Greenwich Village area, whereat the swim coach transfers to a train to Yonkers and the other guy keeps on to New Jersey. In comparison to the alimentary track analogicals, first guy’s a liquid rider and the second a solid. Both start at the same entrance, one—while still inside the hidden chambers and transportations of the system—exits the initial tracks to head to a not that unpleasant bedroom community, and the other, Mr. Solids, travels all the way to the end of the original tracks and into the shitter.

What I do know is that my personal solid and liquid waste systems have been fucked into dysfunctionalities since contracting the dreaded prostate cancer and having endured the attendant multiple visitations to The Great Radiator. Hell, one side effect is that sometimes when an urge to purge hits, and the hitting is with significance, I know I’d best sit for relief, as my body’s subway system sends conflicting signals to the tracts. You know, the sign says, “Yonkers,” but travels instead to Paramus.

Likewise, I can say with purity of heart that the occasional urgencies plagued upon the middle of my body will affect my mental stabilities and alacrity of thought with great effects.

Do not stand, or otherwise tarry, between me and a bathroom when an urge strikes. I’ll run your ass right on over and not stop to apologize. I’ll seek you later to make amends, but I’ll not stop, or even attempt a, “So sorry,” over my shoulder.

Anyway, having found myself with difficulties rememberating the last name of an ex-wife—said ex having my same lastie, and thrice times at that—it has dawned on me that maybe I’ve never been good with names. I can remember the color of the stains on the edge-worn white panties Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson wore the first time I personally removed them from her flanks (green from the grass in which she squiggled), and the first two words Sammie said when I eagerly placed my face where panties had formerly resided (“That tickles,”), and her first words after that first sexing (“Interesting,”).

But I can’t remember my own last name when it sits behind my third ex-wife’s first.

Ugh. Total fucking ugh! What’s next? What part of me will show its deteriorations next? Eyesight weakening, memory fading, prostate withered like plum to prune,  knees aching with Morning’s rise.

“Dear God, please don’t let it be my pecker. Please, pretty please. I swear I’ll make better use of it if you’ll just let me use it. Amen.”

So, while it’s still working, let’s all fuck Walmart with my pecker!

 

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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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