Archive for the ‘ADHD’ Category

Maggots To Monarchs; A Macabre Look At Life

Wednesday, May 13th, 2015

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

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

Confused?  Me too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

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Class Confusions; What’s Your Strength?

Monday, May 4th, 2015

So.  Today is an interesting day for me.  I’m caught cogitating between, or maybe I should better say debating between, two subjects about which to ramble.  As my skull is a-swill with myriad thoughts on each subject, to elucidate herewith without a deliberate debate as to which subject is most appropriate would send us all into word-and-sugar shock.  The conflict is that one subject is something I wish to speak about of my own devices, and the other is a subject upon which my God has asked me to expound.

My personal subject is one upon which I have been thinking long and hard to find a way to cogently state my ideas.  For several years now, I have thought that I have insights enough to formulate a theory, said theory having practical application and being worthy of publication herein.  As previously stated to the pages hereof, I see a marked likeness in 1968 and today.  The happenings in Baltimore relate directly to this theory and spurred additional thinkings on the subject last evening as the dogs and I sat out to our portal for our last beer and smoke of the day.

The weather was rainy and cold, so we were all sitting in the rocker covered with an old army style blanket.  The rocker is extra-wide so as to allow the three of us comfort, and the only part of the dogs that saw fresh air was their adorable, tiny snouts.  The only reason even their muzzles shown was to enable them to lick Carta Blanca beer from the pointy finger of my left hand.

Maybe that should have been “muzzles shown were” to enable beer slurps, but who really gives a shit?

I had fed my puppies several sloppy fingers of Mexico’s best cerveza from my left-hand digit before my right hand tired of holding the cold bottle.  Having switched hands with lit doobie and cold bottle, I fed the dogs another lick, then stuck the near roach to my lips for a pull.  The stench of acrid dog slobber stuck to my left finger overwhelmed the sweet fragrance of Raspberry Kush.

“That was pretty fucking stupid of me,” I told the three of us.  “Which of you has been eating cat shit?”

“Don’t look at me, I’m on a cat shit-free diet for now.  My butt still hurts from all those drizzle shits the last time I imbibed.  Yoda’s found a secret stash around the corner of the house—takes little snacks throughout the day.”  The Squirt added, she told me, “He says to feed him more and he won’t need the supplemental nutrition.”

“The two of you are already overweight, little lady, and I’ve been thinking of cutting back on your rations.”

The deep brown eyes gave me a hard stare, then smiled.  “You’ll need to hide all your shoes and put plastic on every surface of the house first.”

That was not a threat, it was a promise.  “Just tell him to stop eating cat shit, OK?”

I got no answer, but, rather, received insight.  “Sonofabitch!” I exclaimed and startled the dogs, who both jumped from beneath the blanket to bark maniacally.  “Son, of a, bitch!  I know how to say it.”

Squirt didn’t bother to ask me what it was that I knew how to say.  She looked at me disgustedly (not an actual Webster’s word, but the most precise way to describe her look) and slid back under the blanket.  That’s the backstory on what it is I want to say.  As for God’s issue, that will relate to later last night as I lay sleeping—deeply, I might add—when I felt the weight of another person sit beside me.  They sat near the goat dog, and because Yoda didn’t leap from under the covers to run, I knew it was God.  My God, not yours.

I didn’t bother to open my eyes when I said, I asked my God, “Hey, God, how’s it hanging, baby?  Long time, no see.”

God lifted the covers aside and snuggled in beside me, facing to look into my eyes.  “It got cold here today, Mooner, cold enough to snow.  It’s almost May…  You humans need to do something about global climate change or your clock will stop ticking.”

With my eyes still closed, I said, “Since you said, ‘May,’ and not ‘Three in the fucking morning,’ maybe a better simile would be to say, ‘If you don’t stop global climate change that our calendar will stop flipping.’…Is that why you’re here, ma’am, to convince me to stop greenhouse gassing?  If so, I’m going back to sleep—you’re preaching to the choir.  Head on over to the Koch brothers’ houses and let me get some rest.”

“I used a proper figure of speech, silly boy, to emphasize that you people are fucking things all the way up, and back.”

God reached a slender hand to my face and gently flicked my nose with a manicured finger.  I smelled the scent of rosemary and fresh lemon zest and immediately knew what visage I would encounter when I opened my eyes.

“You’re here as Cat Cora, right?”

I opened my eyes and sure enough, the ever-so-attractive lesbian chef’s eyes stared deeply into mine.  “Don’t even think about it, Mooner.  I only look like this to fulfill part of that fantasy and to get your attention.  Focus on my words or I’ll change into Sarah Palin.”

“Uh, well, er…  I’d be OK with that as well.  You know I did have dream sex with the Alaskan Governor that one time.”

“I said focus, big boy.  You need to write about hunger, Mooner.  People are starving and near-starving right here in The Land of Plenty.  I know you plan to rant about your comparisons between today and 1968, but don’t forget to speak to the issue of hunger.”

God kissed me with Cat Cora’s lips and poof, She was gone.  The covers hung for a few seconds, molded into the shape of Cat Cora’s body.

“Was She nekid?  Did anybody see if She was nekid?”  I’ve long wondered what Cat Cora looks like under those dowdy chef togs.  She has great lips I now know, and I’m thinking a killer physique as well.  Maybe I can invent sexy chefs’ clothing.

Anyway, before my ADD burns our cookies and over-whips our cream, let me see if I can’t find a way to combine God’s plan with my own.  Here’s what I’ve been trying to say.  America is at a tipping point again, a point of great upheaval.  We have once more become a class society of distinct and quite obvious differences—a three-tiered near oligarchy now manipulated by the upper class of super wealthy and too large corporations.  There’s the middle class of professionals, union workers, small business owners and our like—those of us with plenty of money to live comfortably yet not enough to pay for political or social influence as individuals.  Then we have our last class—our working poor, disabled and homeless, our hungry, and those with murdered motivations, who combine to make the class of Americans living paycheck-to-paycheck, or worse.  A class in the wealthiest society ever known that has millions of under fed, malnourished members.

For the sake of my argument, please accept that I see the upper class as 5% of our human population, the last class as 35%, and we in the middle as the remaining 60%.  Disagree with these numbers if you wish, but even Foxy Newbs puts my estimate at +/-10%, a margin fully acceptable in my summaries.  If you can accept my percentages as at least in some ball park not Camden Yard, you’ll be able to understand my theory, which is this:

“Humans fight with their strengths—simple mathematics always wins.”

OK, that was pretty lame.  Accurate to my intent, but lame all the same.  Let me try to elucidate.  Assume an upper class person wants something.  How do they get it? They BUY it.  A rich person’s real strength is money—not their numbers nor their willingness to get dirty or fight with their own hands, it’s their wealth.  So, when the rich get tired of paying their fair share and want to control government and influence public policy to lessen their burden, they simply fucking BUY it.  Rich folks don’t do work to get rich, they have others make the actual effort for pay.  Or payola.

The rich in America control the vast majority of our wealth and a few of them are using that wealth to control the rest of us.  For my example, let’s look at those kooky Koch boys.  Their plans are to invest at least $250 million to buy a president and to influence their rich buddies to contribute the remaining dollars to reach the $2 Billion total required to complete the purchase.  Simple math for the strength of the rich, and hold that thought.

The class most opposite the rich have no money to pay for their families to eat healthy food much less enough loose change to fund a US Senator to deny global climate change.  When a poor man decides to influence something, he might have his words with which to fight, but in today’s American politics, words and facts are worth almost nothing because the rich have purchased our media and constantly lie to us.  So, when a poor man gets tired of repression at the hands of the rich or powerful, he reacts in anger and frustration—his class’ strengths—and starts putting matches to shit.  Matches are free at every liquor store on almost every corner in his neighborhood, and one man with one tiny paper match can bring down an entire CVS Pharmacy and turn a rich man’s $5 Million investment in building and inventory into ashes.

Now for a poor man’s simple math.  Of the thousands of protesters in Baltimore, what if only 400 had a pack of matches and struck flame for their cause?  If each torched facility equaled an average $5 Million in ashes, the overnight tally in Baltimore alone would equal the Koch-fueled President-purchasing funding of $2 Billion.

In the middle, we middletons have the numbers, we are the majority and we have the votes to decide any political issue.  Should we desire to influence public policy, our voices can be loud and clear, but only if we can agree on things and actually VOTE!  We can’t buy our way into power, but we can vote it.  Our votes are our strength.  Our strength and mathematical power are simple to evoke, take the least amount of effort, and in the final analysis, are the most powerful class strength.

We need to awaken to the dangers of today and use our strength.  Put some efforts into regaining balance and civility in our society.  We need to stop bitching and start doing something.  We need to get involved and get out the vote.  Now.

Did that make any sense?  Fuck Walmart!

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A Question A Day Keeps Your Demons At Bay; Business Isn’t All Fun And Games

Saturday, April 18th, 2015

So.  I’m thinking it’s time for an update on the results of my treatments for prostate cancer.  A month has passed since my last attack from The Great Radiator, my side effect symptoms have waxed and are now waning somewhat, and the mountain juniper allergy season is going out with a bang.  Trying to not whine about my shit, let me start with the bad and move towards the good.

The reason I plan to go from bad to good is that I had a psychology class to college at The University of Texas at Austin back to when it was only known as The University of Texas.  Only one University of Texas in the entire universe, and Texas was a nice state in which to live, and the University of Texas a great place to matriculate into.  OK, in which to matriculate at for advanced educational studies after having, at least, graduated from high school, or, if likewise passing additional course loads at some other advanced-level educational facility—you being  one of those “can’t get too much education” shitheads.

Said, and same, psychology class was taken by me in an attempt to get somewhat closer to a young coed named Samanta Ignatius Amorogaretti—a dark haired beauty with whom I was enamored beyond personal controls.  Having bribed a student worker over to the Registrar’s Office to provide me with a copy of Sammie’s class schedule, I endeavored to place myself near to her at every opportunity.  Of her eighteen hours of course loadings, the only available slot for a C-level, Major-not-yet-classified slacker, was in Psychology 325- Advanced Business Psychology.

Of course, there were no slackers back to the 1960’s, only hippies, druggies and lazybones, of which categories all fit me to a Tee.  “You smell like pot and beer, Mr. Johnson.  Please move to another seat before I get a contact high,” and then, “Isn’t that the same shirt you wore yesterday?  I recognize the burning seed pop pattern on the pocket.”

That would be the now famous brain doctor, Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, on that day of the second week of classes all those years ago.  “University might be a joke to you, sir, but I intend to actually do something with my life.”

“Me too, cutie-roo.  I intend to marry you and have a dozen babies.”

Don’t forget that this was the Sixties and even we hippies wanted a VW bus full of family.

“And how would you propose to support that large swarm of heathens, Mr. Johnson?”  This, it seemed to me, a serious and promising question.

“Oh, that one’s easy.  I’m taking over my Gram’s magic mushroom business.  No need to worry your pretty little head over the money side of things, you…”

That was the one time in the last almost fifty years I said the words “pretty little head” in that order.  To the entertainment of the entire 10:00 am class of Psychology 325, I was lectured quite loudly as to precisely why I was to never utter those words again.  To her or any other female, at the penalty of having her find my scraggly ass and, and here I’ll quote my lovely first ex-wife when I tell you what she said to me, she said, “Or I’ll hunt your scraggly ass down and eat your balls with a knife and fork and shit their remains on your head.”

That’s when I knew that I was in love.

Anyway, it was about the third day of class—the day before the day when I was asked to withdraw from attendance by the professor—when I heard the lecture re: “Always give the bad news first in any business communication”.  It seems that I was learning that business communications must have a lot of bad news, and at least it seemed at that time, that peoples’ brains adjust to bad news more quickly when followed by good news.  Me, I was a great teller of jokes during those days, and “good news/bad news” jokes were quite popular.

I raised my hand and stood, waited and waited some more.  The Professor was acting as if I was disturbing him when he said, “You there, yes, you, next to Miss Amorogaretti.   Yes, you, the fidgety one.  Please stand still and what do you want?”

I stilled my nervous feet, put on my best studious student face, and took a deep breath.  This, I felt, was an important opportunity to impress Miss Amorogaretti.  “Uh, Professor Smithson, how does this theory apply to good news/bad news jokes?” I asked.  “Most of the funniest jokes tell the good news first, and I hear that businessmen are always telling jokes.  OK, wait.  Is a joke told in a business sitting even business communication?  Huh, me?  My major?  Uh, well, ah, I was thinking of Agriculture but didn’t want to go to Texas A&M because, see, Aggie jokes are my actual favorite jokes and Mother tells me I’m not yet mature enough to appreciate self-deprecating humor.  Did you hear the one about the Aggie moving to Oklahoma?  No?  You don’t like jokes?  Really?  You’ll love this one, sir, it’s really short.  Well, it seems he raised the IQ in both states?  Oh.  Really?  OK, well me, I think that’s some funny shit.  Oh, for fucksakes, Professor Smithson, shit isn’t a cussword.  I must have missed the part where you said no cussing.  Huh, can I please answer the question?  What, I asked you a question?  What do you mean by you asked me the question?  No, I asked the question. What question?  You know, the question I asked before.”

I wasn’t hurt when asked to resign from the course as I had already determined that Sammie was a high caliber student and would learn all the psychology we’d ever need, and it has just dawned on me that mayhaps my lovely first ex-wife and psychotherapist might should have taken some advanced studies in Attention Deficit Disorder.  Seems that thirty years of treatment have done nothing more than scrape the scab off that particular sore.

OK, but, and again, ADD and its big brother the dreaded ADHD, weren’t invented until the late 1970’s, early 1980’s, factual information having absolutely no bearing on the simple fact that I have distracted our attentions to the point of bewilderment.  It isn’t Sammie’s fault I’m an ADD-addled fuckbrain.  If I believed in the Christian God I’d blame Him, as He would be responsible for every fucking thing that happens.

I mean really.  What God in His right mind would inflict ADD on the world?  The Black Plague only lasted a couple centuries and killed fewer than 200 million people.  I get that a vengeful God might feel the need to cleanse our populace by 30-40% when we get off track.  But ADD?

And prostate cancer.  Every man alive will get prostate cancer if he lives long enough?  Fucking really?  My God categorizes prostate and the other cancers as, “Shit happens, Mooner.”  That I get.  Then again, my God seems to actually like me.

So, what was the question?

Fuck Walmart!

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Spring, Sprang and Sprung; Needlepoint For Beginners

Friday, April 3rd, 2015

So.  Spring has sprung and all my fruit trees are low hung with the colorful blossoms that promise a bountiful harvest of cherries, pears and apples.   Then again, our average last freeze is April 15th, and a hard freeze on that date will nullify that promised bounty.  Having said that, colorful blossoms hung without care brings to mind the phone call from Gram last night.  When my caller ID informed me that “Gram” was on the line, I punched the speaker button, and answered.

“Hey, baby, how’s it hanging?”

“Loose n low, shithead, like ya had ta fuckin’ ask.  But tha major dominatrix question here is how’s yers a hangin’?  Yer aint Hilda said she was reading somwheres as ta how them atomic blasters kin put a serious hurtin’ on that tiny pecker a yurs.  Makes yer shit shrivel right on up.  Do I need ta send ya one a them magnaphone spy glass dealios?  Hate ta have ya loose sight a yer manhoodie an’ get yerself all googlated.”

The chicken cackle giggle of my randy old grandmother filled my ears.  Filled my heart as well.  If there is a person breathing who can make my troubles go away with a simple laugh, it would be my Gram.  And her slaughter of the language brings extra joy.

She went on, “Er, maybe ya could tie a string on it an’ pin tha string ta yer zipper, cluck, cluck, cluck.  Yer pants zipper, not the pecker zipper.”  Her giggles were near maniacal.

The referred-to pecker zipper is a longish story that ends with me living my life since childhood with a chunk of the rusted zipper from a pair of men’s coveralls pinned in a small, twisted scar on my penis.  The fact that my Gram can poke fun and laugh at it makes her all the more endearing.

I tell her, I say, “Me, I’m hanging long and lean, old woman, and ready for action.  Two megatons of X-rays aren’t nearly enough poison to kill this Johnson’s johnson.  Can’t seem to stop peeing long enough to find suitable company yet, but that situation should change soon.”

“Why’nt ya call tha Sacster an’ have her bring tha stunner gunnie.  That oughtta git yer man meat started right on back ta work.”

Again with the sounds of happy chicken.  I’m unsure if I know another person, besides me, who says “man meat” in that context, and it always makes me laugh coming from her.  That thought hit me, and then I realized where the majority of my genes had originated.

“I love you, Gram, and I miss you terribly.”

There was a pause, and then Gram said to me, she said, “You OK, Mooner?  Don’t you be a tellin’ me tha fucking cancer came back.  I’ll kick yer ass if’fn ya still got tha cancer.”

“Nah, I’m OK, just missing your mangy old ass.  We’ll know in a couple months if the treatment worked.  Really, I’m doing alright.  Besides.  SAC Ellen likes her job and The US Department of Homeland Security does not even like me.”

“Well, if yer OK, why ain’t ya called yer crazy fuckin’ mother?”

Oh, for shitsakes.  I call Mother most days and sometimes more than once.

“Oh, for shitsakes, Gram.  Do I need to send you a phone bill to get everyone off my ass?  I hung up from Mother less than an hour ago.  Better yet, check that loony old martyr’s phone bill when you next go visit.  Highlight my numbers for her and call me in the morning.”

Dementia is hell when you are living with a loved one who has it.  OK, a mostly loved one in this particular case.  But imagine what it must be like to be the demented.  I freak when I misplace my keys, so I can’t imagine losing decades of memories.  Or the last ten minutes.  I’m looking forward to when Mother can’t remember who I am.  Then I’ll be, “That nice young Johnson fellow who calls all the time.”

Which reminds me.  Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson gave me the name of this acupuncturist lady who says she successfully treats the side effects of radiation therapies.  Me, I find myself quite reluctant to visit any alternative medical facilities, as having a witch doctor for a grandmother has created bias.  However, having the need to carry a gag and muzzle for myself those times I must pee in a multi-fixtured public bathroom, I was willing to try anything to ease my symptoms.

Arrived the ten minutes early I was asked so as to complete my paperwork, I walked into an empty reception area.  An open door to my left revealed sight of a skinny man in his undies, bent and twisted into a pretzel, and the sounds of his grunts were accompanied by the aggravating noise of his Germanic-voiced tormentor.

“Find your chi, Robert.  Passt auft, Robert, pay your attention!”

I stood and wondered, for not the first time, why “pay attention” sounds so like “pissed off” in German.  I walked to a chair and sat, and before I could ask that question aloud, Herr Zen Master stuck face around the door jam.  I was surprised to see a smallish woman’s face and not that of a six-foot SS officer.  “What you want?  Who are you?  What is your name?”

I had to think.  “OK…Ah, well that would first be nothing from you even if my appointment is with you.  I’m next the man who has a 10:00 appointment at this address getting interrogated by a rude person, and finally, name’s Mooner Johnson, man-about-town and general bon vivant.”

Pretzel man snickered, the head disappeared, door slammed and, “You tink dats funny, Robert?”

Later, as I lay on a table impersonating a victim of porcupine assault, I heard the sounds of one of those humming bowls humming and the terse German voice saying.  “Find your chi, Robert, and find eternal harmony.”

The yoga lady next door might be a terrific stretching and Zen teacher.  But for my money, I want my lessons in soft French vowels and sloppy consonants rather than the crisp, harsh German dialect.  “Lick my titties,” in German sounds like a scold.  Try it, say it aloud with a German accent:  “Kusse meine Bruste.”

Anyway, my lingual bigotry aside, I did the new patient intake, which from my perspectives was an outlay, and only made a few minor, yet intemtional, misstatements as to my personal habits.  I did tell the lady doc about my urination issues, but I’ve long ago learned that medical professionals lack the constitution to hear that one human can consume an ounce of weed, half-a-pound of magic mushrooms, and a case of Carta Blanca beer each week.  Doesn’t help to tell them that you aren’t a binger, that you pretty much enjoy average doses daily.  They all remember a bad acid trip from back to their college days and get all preachy on your ass.

But let’s not let my ADD get us waylaid even though a waid lay would be my first lay in months.  When the nice lady needle poker told me to get up and put my shoes and socks back  on after my treatment, I asked her, I said, “Did you get all the needles out?  Several spots still sting quite a bit.”

She gave me a quite sweet shit-eating grin, and said, “Of course, Mr. Johnson.  How amateurish would it be for me to leave needles in your person.  Acupuncture is powerful medicine.  It would be dangerous to you and I’d, well I’d never.  Those stings are the powerful chi working on your issues.”

Spent the rest of the day scratching the stinging itch at my right ankle and bitching to the dogs about it.  Then, when I had undressed last night and sat on the pot for a last pre-bedtime pee event, the Squirt came in to ask what we were going to do today.  This is our daily routine, as the little brown puppy likes to sleep on the next day’s plans so as to determine any alterations she might find suitable.

Instead, she stared at my ankle for a minute and then said, she asked me, “You have some stun gun sex today, shithead?”

“Huh?” my reply.  “What are you even talking about?  Gram mentioned it on the phone, but I took no actions.”

“Looks to me like you had some electrified sex and one of the barbs is still attached to your ankle.”

Sure enough, I could see the blue-green plastic top of an acupuncture needle boinging in the air as I bent to take a look.  I pulled the little fucker out—which action hurt—and held it up to see.  It was bent about 3/8ths-of-an-inch from the end where is was stuck in my flesh and twisted at a 90-degree angle by my sock.  It had been like that since 11:00 yesterday morning.

I’m leaving now to go apply for a refund.  Powerful medicine my rosy red ass.  And by the way.  Fuck Walmart!

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

Sunday, March 29th, 2015

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anyway, I need to pee.  Fuck Walmart!

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

Wednesday, March 4th, 2015

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

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Word Swill Of The Day; Can You Find The Hidden Message?

Thursday, February 19th, 2015

So.  For the first in a long time, I sit here to my computer keyboard not knowing what to say.  That doesn’t mean I have nothing to say, as my brain is literally a-swill with shit needing to be said.  Imagine a washing machine filled with a colorful assortment of laundry on the spin cycle.  That’s the swirling slop sloshing about in the bone-headed cauldron that is my skull.

The reason for today’s brain fritzing is a multi-functioned collapse of synapses caused, in part, by the simple fact that I am an ADHD-addled fuckbrain.   A second factor would be the small, brown bundle of piss and vinegar I chose to name Squirt.  I was reading the previous posted post to my puppy before posting it the other day—part of the editing routine for every pre-posting ritual—a requirement to reduce the addle contained inside my writings.  As editing is an important task here to the Mooner Johnson Bloggie, having someone who can unpack some of my dense prose is a partial blessing.

I say “partial” blessing because the Squirt’s help always comes with an attachment of pissy criticism.  “Look, shithead.  “’Whom’s’ is not a word, and when are you going to fulfill all the promises you’ve made to your readers?”

“Huh?” I responded.  “Whom’s needs to be a word, so I’m not changing it.  And what, inthefuck, do you mean I don’t keep my promises?  I always try to keep my promises.”

Squirt said to me, she told me, “Mangle the language all you please, bird brain, but you routinely tell folks that more will come on a subject and then you leave them hanging.”

Her words perplexed me.  “That’s perplexing, little lady.  Can you give me an example?”  She did.  I asked for another, and she did that.  Then, when I pretended to not care, she rambled on, and on, with other things I said I would do and haven’t yet done.

“Bitch,” I called her.

“Dickhead,” her response, as she snorted and shook her adorable head and walked away.

She was right, though.  Blame my ADHD and its little brother, the ADD, all I want, I routinely make promises of more to come on a subject that never materializes.  I discovered just how right she was when I started going back through my writings in search of broken promises.  Holy shit do I make a lot of promises un-kept.

Like a cracked Hollandaise sauce sitting on a white China plate, my broken words sit—curdled with runny grease—like primordial ooze on the pages.  Possibilities of ripened fruit no further evolved today than a swill of carbon-laden gas soup a billion years ago.  If it were up to me to move things along, we’d still be single-celled numbskulls not unlike some of these modern right-wing, conservative Christians.

Are you as fascinated by those shitwad’s inability to consider evolution as am I?  We have undeniable evidence that human tools were covered by a volcanic eruption 1.2 million years ago, and they hang onto a 6,000-years myth.

Which reminds me.  Today is Presidents’ Day, a day to celebrate our having Presidents.  Allow me to celebrate, herein:

“Whoopi-ta, yee-haw!  Presidents, Presidents, Presidents.”

I’ll finish this later.  Fuck Walmart!

***Editor’s Note: The preceding was to have been posted on Monday, Presidents’ Day.  As the editing process has slowed the cogs of industry here to Enchantedland, please enjoy the additives, hereinafter, contained.

So. It’s now Thursday, and while I have not fully vetted the 1,200 words written herein, above, please allow me to provide some elucidations as to the wherefores and wherethoughts as to just what, inthefuck, has been going on.  As a young man growing through the maturities from the first grade through maybe the tenth, I was mightily impressed with our country’s myriad presidents.  Maybe that should be myriad “of” presidents, but who really gives a shit, or, for that matter, for whom are actual shits given.

And while I’d have preferred to finish that last sentence with a question mark, it was, rather, a statement made by me and without any real concerns as to how you might have answered, had it been a question.  Confused?  Or better stated, confused!

OK, I am!  Confused, as it were.  As a self-reflective sort—one who continually questions his own motives—I find myself in quite a quandary.  Better said, quandaries.  We all at various times in life have experiences, or thoughts, that cause us to say to ourselves, we say, “Oh, now I get it!”  Like, for example, when we first had actual sex with another person.  You know, that sort of “OK, now I get it!”  Then you have sex with stun gun foreplay, and you say, out loud, “Oh, well then, now I really get it!”

An epiphany is what I mean, epiphanies better more said.  I have been having epiphanies lately, and they are truly monkey wrenching my works.  The Squirt thinks that some of the, as she so adorably calls them “radar beams”, generated by The Great Radiator and directed at my turncoat prostate, have managed to deflect or bend and waggle their way into one of my cortexes, the resulting brain zappings messing with my thoughts.  Among those messed thoughts would be an epiphany re: American Presidents.

In the younger years of my education, I was taught that Presidents were, are, great men of giant aspirations to make America a better place for its citizenry.  Men who desired to make remarkable improvements in the lives of the ordinary people whose dreams, desires and hard work made it possible for America to be the greatest nation on Earth.  Using the Constitution and Bill of Rights as their banner, the succession of Presidents made the tough decisions and took the strong measures to end slavery, fight the British off for a second time, and give women the right to vote.  Presidents, I thought, were men of highest moral character with little concern for personal advancement.

Then, when LBJ expanded the war in Viet Nam, I became aware that Presidents can make major mistakes.  Not that I figured it out on my own, but I took Daddy’s word for it.  His approximate words were, “Goddammit, Lyndon, you ignorant asshole!”

Soon after, Richard Nixon pulled the myriad stunts that marked the legacy of his rein, and I found myself questioning all Presidents.  The only President I fully liked since LBJ was Carter, and I have seen major flaws in each one since.

OK, let’s stop the presses and allow me to cut to the fucking chase.  Presidents are men and all men are flawed, an epiphany for the day.  That said, a second e-pif-fanny is, that until we have a woman or perhaps a gay man as President, we’ll not have a true President of the People.  If Hilary Clinton didn’t have Wall Street’s thumb up her ass, she might make a great president.  Lizzy Warren would actually make a great President, but since she doesn’t have Wall Street’s thumb up her ass, she’ll not get elected.  We won’t have a truly great President until common folks get pissed enough to fight back against the tyranny of money.

Ugh!  Some epiphanies are Ugh!-inspiring.  Once, and again, fuck Walmart!

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Magic Dirt For Sale; Adjusting To The Great Radiator

Thursday, February 12th, 2015

So.  It’s an overcast and drizzly day here to Santa Fe, Land of Enchantments, and the weather is quite a tight match for my dietary system.  As I sit here to my computer in the small bedroom that I made my office, I can see the light rain gather on the corner of the adobe casa, where it grabs and pools into fat, rubbery blobs, hanging on for dear life, before it gathers enough surface tension resistance to run—lazily—down the walls’ length to the ground.

Again, today’s moist weather enjoys a perfect harmony with Nature, the weather a  perfect antonym—the mirror image, if you will—to a personal health dealio that might drive me totally bonkers.

Background.  As of today, I am precisely one-half way through my treatments for prostate cancer.  While The Great Radiator hasn’t yet killed me, it has brought me to the edge of wondering if conversion to a radical Islamic sect, and Fatwaing my way to a boatload of virgins, might be in my future.

OK, let’s stop once more and background the background.  Until I learned of these silly globules of cancer packing the walnut-sized bladder that is my prostate, I have been the model of good health.  While I do have a slight spare tire, my blood pressure, cholesterol and organ meats all generate quite near perfect testing results for an old geezer of my maturities.  Great oxygenation, and all of that.  As the nurse over to the Cancer center told me when they did the physical to screen me before zapping the shit out of me, she told me, she said, “Why look at you, Mr. Johnson, you’re the picture of perfect health,” two, three, and four, “uh…well…er…of course, except for the cancer, and all.”

After pronouncing me fit-as-a-fiddle, except for that pesky little army of killer cells hiding inside my semen sack, Nurse Sandra handed me a thick folder titled “Preventive Program for Patients Receiving Radiation Therapy to the Pelvis and Abdominal Area”.  Inside this forty-page tome are held interesting facts about radiation therapy, potential side effects, and methods to ease the burden of said side effects.

And whyinthefuck are they called “side effects”?  For starters, it should be side “affects”, as the distresses, upsets and disturbances are way more emotionally bothersome than are they belongings, or possessions.  “Yes, doctor, I’ll have the radiation treatment with five sides, please.  Oh, and might you hold the rectal bleeding and nausea?  Last time I had rectal bleeding I ended up in jail.”

Actually, I had picked a fat ingrown hair from my scrotum—and we all know that scrotums bleed way more than even faces—and the resultant bleed-out landed me behind bars.  And why is it that, as I older grow, I seem to constantly be holding my balls?  I’m sitting over to The Great Radiator’s waiting room yesterday—wearing nothing but a blue cotton hospital gown and socks—reading a Womens’ Day magazine held in my left hand, and I’m hanging on to my balls with my right.  Room full of other patients and I’m jamming my hand under my gown to play with myself.

One important side effect is diarrhea.  As defined by Google, diarrhea is, “More than five bowel movements per day of liquid stools.”  While my now personal experience shows this to be a weak descriptor, it is an accurate depicter of the changes in bathroom habits one endures when encountering The Great Radiator.  Between visits for number oneies and twoies, I’ve considered attaching one of those portable latrine jobbies straight onto my ass.

A second, important side effect is changes in urinary habits, including, “…more frequency, extra urgency, difficulty starting and stopping…,” and something the brochure calls “leakage”, and, “…the tendency for BPH symptoms to exacerbate significantly over the course of treatments…”

To narrow for you the calamities engendered under this side effect to better more elucidate, you pee more often, more (and less) volume, you dribble after you think you stopped, and it fucking hurts sometimes.

Take a moment to read all the synonyms for exacerbate, signify them, and call me in the morning.   You want proof that the right-wing Christian God is a myth?  Be a mature man with mild BPH and have those symptoms “exacerbate significantly”.  No loving God would willingly put a man through this.

Which reminds me.  Last year, when Seattle won the Stupid Bowl, many of the team’s players went above the call to thank their God for the win.  “God did it for us, it was His will” was one quote.  Why didn’t they blame God for making the stupid most play call in the entire history of the NFL to end this year’s game?  If God is responsible for all good, then He’s likewise responsible for the bad.

Which, of course, means that the Christian God has willed and created all the Islamists Satans.  Which, in the half-closed eyes of blind-following Christians, also means that their God created my God.  For which please allow me to say, “Thank you.  Thank you very much.”  Abundance of whiches aside, it is my God that has spurred me to write today rather than to clean this filthy house.  My duties as a homemaker have slipped as my visits to The Great Radiator have mounted.  Fatigue is another side effect and I’m thinking it has set in.  That, or I’m using it as an excuse, the reason my God gave for paying me a visit last night.

Rather than clean yesterday afternoon, I chose instead to sit out to the back yard with the dogs.  We grilled some ribbies, drank some Carta Blanca beer, and smoked a fat dube while enjoying a Spring-like day.  After dining, we snoozed for maybe fifteen minutes before I awoke to take a painful leak.  The three of us stood over to the northeast corner of the wall to mark our territory, a second trip around our perimeter wall, this time with the Squirt joining us.

I was leaning against the wall—head nestled against left elbow resting on the rough stucco—with my eyes shut, listening to the sounds of one man, one male dog and a female dog peeing on bare soil.  You know the sound a woman sometimes makes when she really has to pee?  That semi-squealing sound?  Maybe it sounds more like forcing the water out of a douche bag.  That sound.

That sound entered the other pee sounds, so I opened my eyes.  And there, squatting with undies at Her ankles and white cotton smock gathered under Her breasts, was my God.  She reminded me of Ursula whatshername, and my third ex-wife, Anna the Amazon.  Anna has always reminded me of that Nordic goddess who was in that James Bond movie—the one wherein Bond had to suck poison from her adorable foot.

“Why are you peeing with us, God?” I asked Her.  “Seems to me you’d be above such sillinesses.”

With a grimaced face, God finished with a sexy grunt, magically had tissues appear in her hand, wiped and then made the tissues disappear.  She pulled Her panties—semi-bikini and modeled after my favorite swimsuit style—to Her lush, round hips, and stood to settle the cotton dress that was cut to end at that soft indention at the back of a woman’s knee.  I fucking love that spot on a woman’s body, and maybe I should have capitalized “woman” in deference to the simple fact that I was addressing God.

“I normally don’t waste my time with waste disposal, Mooner.  But I’ve wanted to experience what you are going through with your treatments.  That shit’s painful, boy.  Tell your doctor to prescribe you some Tamsulosin- .4MG Caps.  Tell him you need them twice daily.”

“Thanks, God,” I told her, “but what about the drizzly squirts?  Imodium makes me shit bricks and that’s worse than diarrhea.”

“Take the Imodium one tab at night after dinner and one after breakfast, silly rabbit.  You really should read directions.”

She said, “Silly rabbit,” with pouty lips and a Swedish accent while embracing me, reminding me that the one, maybe most significant, side effect has yet to hit my loins and grind my sex life to a halt.  I guess my woodie made some Godly contact as She pushed me back with a laugh.  “Don’t you even think about it, buster.  That can be made to disappear as well.”  Harsh, but still said with a laugh.

“Hold it right there, Your Worshipness.  You told me you never interfere with us in that way.  OK, those ways.”

She laughed again, and disappeared.  The dogs and I walked back over to our chairs and sat.  Squirt said to me, she said, “Well that was interesting.  You looked like you were getting geared up to dry hump God.  You can be such a dumbass sometimes.”

“Most interesting thing about it was Her disappearing that used tissue.  How great a waste disposal idea is that?”

Maybe I should save the dirt where God peed for marketing purposes.  Anyway, my ADHD has driven us to 1,500 words saying nothing, so let me finish with a Fuck Walmart!

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Evaluating Happiness; You Need More Fingers Than That

Friday, February 6th, 2015

So.  I’m back from my secret meeting out to sunny California whereat I had a wonderful time, I’m back to home turf, which, in its veryownself is wonderful, and I’ve returned to my five-times-weekly, daily visits to The Great Radiator.  As I have mixed emotions as to the volume of wonderfulness I feel, I’ve been required to make an evaluation.  As I always do in circumstances such as these, I count on one of our Founding Fathers.

OK, for starters, is it Founding Fathers—all capitalized and shit—or should they be marginalized as founders in much the same way as modern day conservatives marginalize the true meanings of their brave Declarations and Bills and Constitutions.  Likewise, did I properly communicate, herein above, that I go to visit The Great Radiator each Monday-Friday, weekly?

Me, I’ve long thought that if there had been a few Founding Mothers, America would have gotten its shit together way fucking sooner than now.  Hell, set a six-pack of strong black women to writing the Bill of Rights, and our brand of republic would be the actual world standard, and not simply the delusional wishings of American assholes.

When looking at my current life in the perspectives of a Ben Franklin Decision-Making Matrix, I’m needing further B Frankie evaluations.  For those readers not familiar with old Bennie’s decision-making matrix, it’s a three-step process he developed to make even the most difficult decisions more easily made.  It’s one of those “outweigh” dealios, wherein a person makes a decision based upon a ledger, and which side of the ledger scores “higher”.  Or “highest” should there be more than two possible solutions to your particular, studied dilemma.

As my current dilemma is whether it is truly wonderful to be back home, and I choose to think it either wonderful, or not, then I have a two outcome matrix.  First, draw a line down the center of a page of paper and put “Plusses” atop one side, and “Minuses” atop the other.  Second, place each positive aspect of your issue on the appropriate side, negative aspects to the other.  When you have exhausted writing aspects, assign a value of significance to each—I use a one-to-100 valuation system—then add up the numbers for each side.  The winner will have the largest resultant tabulated number.

If negatives outweigh the positives, shit-can the idea.  Versa with your vices, move right on down the road.

OK, let’s stop the presses right here.  Seems like, mayhaps, old Ben’s system is considerably more than a three-step program when you’re as fucked up as am I.  First step would be to get a leaf of paper, then find a writing instrument, then clean a spot on your messy desk upon which to place said paper leaf.  Then—as you pride yourself with the same proudnesses in drawing lines on already-lined paper as you do with the accuracies in your word-smithing—you look for the fucking ruler, an instrument last spotted that time you were creating a thong for the Squirt.

That’s the thong you made so that your adorable little puppy could view her cute tooter wrapped and pulled tight into a camel toe.  I’m still taking shit from my psycho therapist for that one.  Parenting can be a real bitch sometimes.  Finding the balance of safety net between what’s OK, and what camel toes might have stepped over the line, eludes me.

Alludes me as well, suggesting that this parenting shit started out as difficult and has only grown as I have matured as said parent.  Turns out that fathering two precocious puppies, as a quite mature and well-rounded adult man, is way harder than the raising of my actual kids.  Then, again, I had considerable assistance from their mother, the said and same psycho therapist, aforementioned.

But this entire vaccination/inoculation scenario playing out in the national news has gotten me to thinking.  Who, or what, is the arbiter of rules for raising kids.  I mean, really, who inthefuck gets to say when a parent might have crossed the line?  Who are you to tell me that putting in the effort to help satisfy my young charge’s curiosity as to the plumpness of her girl meat package was inappropriate?  If you could have seen the smile on that little doggie’s face when I showed her the photos…

And, having said earlier that my current dilemma was but a two-sided matrix, I’m wondering if I might be one of those black-or-white, all-or-nothing, manipulative borderline  assholes I personally find so offensive.  Ugh.  It isn’t that I don’t already have an overloaded plate of mental disorders.  My dilemma is way more complex than a simple yea/nay thingie, as evidenced by the simple fact that my Ben Franklin Decision-Making Matrix scored 3,348 Plusses to 3,198 minuses, a winning margin of less than five percent.  Had I added but a third matrix column, I’m certain that Plusses would have won in a runaway.

OK, would the third choice have made it a matrices, and I’m thinking that, since I do consider things not black or white, then I am not an offensive borderline personality(?/.)  How, inthefuck, does one punctuate that last sentence?

But just for the record, it is wonderful to be back to La casita Johnson de Santa Fe.  As the Squirt is the only person I told what I was out there to California to do, I can’t tell you about the excited conversation she and I had, as it relates to said return home, but I can tell you this.  I did not leave them with the crazy dog lady, instead I had an in-home sitter.

Squirt’s in love, and Yoda drags a pair of the nice woman’s panties everywhere he goes.  Me, I find it sad that there is no telling if the goat dog acquired them when clean or dirty, and sadder still that there is no doubt to whom those panties belong.  It would be nice to need a debate over whether they were left by the sitter in my absence, or, while in my presence some other female removed a pair of panties here to the casita, and left them.

Which brings up another parental issue.  How filthy dirty must those panties get before I take them away from Yoda and wash them?   Might their having started dirty be a/the reason he is so enamored with them?  Am I the only one thinking this is a serious parental issue?  Was it the chicken, or the eggie?

Fuck it.  I’m making an emotion-based decision, and I now declare that my shit is truly wonderful.  And while I’m at it, Fuck Walmart too!

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Big Banging A Religion; Could Methane Gas Be The Banger?

Sunday, January 25th, 2015

So.  Having received numerous interesting comments on the contents of my recent musings related to the latest visit to me by my God, I’ve decided to cogitate on whether to start a new religion, organize a church hierarchy, set some fucking dogmatic rules and regulations, and drum me up some paying followers, all while making regular visits for the next eight weeks to The Great Radiator.  Run-on sustenance aside, and likewise ignoring the fact that I don’t cotton to any form of religious dogma, I’ve started running the pro-forma Profit-and Loss spreadsheets on this religion dealio, and I find myself mightily impressed.  Religion, it appears, is a quite profitable scam—er, I mean business platform.

For those of you having noticed the typo contained above, herein, it is, quite simply, not an error.  As “elucidation and clarity of communication” is my middle name, nurturing support was the intended structural element.

Seems that if you are willing to compromise almost every aspect of your personal and professional integrity, there’s gold in them thar golden gates of heaven!  Everywhere I turn, there’s evidence that religion pays the big bucks.  I was flipping through the channels of the TV last night—the Squirt had a bellyache and asked me to sit up with her until she could pass enough gas to sleep—and that toothy jackass Joel Osteen, or whateverthefuck his name is, was on the screen telling everyone that he’s no happier now than he was when he apprenticed his daddy as nothing more than a Mega Church Preacher wannabe.  Pompous little prick was saying how all the millions he’s making haven’t brought him any happiness at all, and, by the way, “Don’t forget to continue your financial support for the ministries.”

Speaking of Squirtie girl’s gas, have you ever smelled a canned-tuna-and-Blue Buffalo Organic Lamb-kibbles dog fart?  Ever noticed how often you type the words “dog” and “God” one for the other?  Ever wonder if maybe the two words are interchangeable in ways other than on your keyboard?  Ever bared your nekid nether regions to the Austin City Council?  Have you ever wondered what it might be like to be an ADHD-addled and completely inappropriate fuckball?

To narrow my personal answers from the above, preceding paragraph, to but one, those dog farts are worse than little Frankie Martin farts.  Frankie was this guy back to junior high who was eighteen and still working his way through Ninth Grade curriculum.  Frankie’s momma didn’t know how to cook anything but cornbread and pinto beans, which she served with chopped onions and garlic bread from the bakery over to the Piggly Wiggly.  There used to be a PW located where 38th and 35th Streets sort of conjoin in this semi Y-shaped spit of land.  This particular Piggly Wiggly holds a spot in my heart as it was located maybe 120-yards off Shoal Creek, and just the other side from the Shoal Creek Mental Hospital.

Yes, dear readers, that Shoal Creek Loony Bin.  Anytime I could make a break from my confinements therein, I would race to the grocery store to use the phone.  Always got caught because, first, I never had a dime in my pocket, as hospital gowns have no pockets—a design feature of considerable frustrations to hospital gown tenants—and I was required to hustle that phone charge before making a call, and second, Piggly Wiggly store personnel seemed to be quite watchful for persons in hospital gowns begging for change.

Frankie Martin was the first person I ever saw light a fart through his BVD’s.  A thinking person would have the impression that burning off offensive methane ass gas would lessen its olfactory unpleasantnesses.   That person would be wrong, as Frankie’s farts only gathered richer, layered textures with torching.  Burn-your-eyes layers of textured stink.  Maybe it’s the same science as to how searing the outside of a meat before cooking enriches its depth of character.

The dogs and I sat around lighting farts this one time after a day of eating roasted pig and all the fixings.  That was a great day.  Dr. Sam considered relocating me back to Shoal Creek when she found out.  “You set one of your dogs afire, you inappropriate dumbass, and you’re getting a one-way ticket to Shoal Creek.”  I think those were her words.

Anyway, I’m looking for suggestions for how to organize my new church stuff.  Squat and Beej have already been offered executive positions, but we’ll need quite a large staff.  We need a name, organizational structures and dogmas so you can earn your way to Heaven, and for helping me with this shit you can earn a high-paying job at Mooner’s God’s church.

I’m working on the motto and here’s my current best effort:  “Mooner’s God-  All you could want, and more!”

OK, I agree it’s a lame effort, but I’m headed to play poker.  Which reminds me.  I have a secret meeting out to California that will take a few days away from The Great Radiator and place them onto the ass-end of my treatment plan.  When not secretly meeting, I’mma playing cards over to the Commerce Casino.  Commerce has the world’s largest poker room and it’s a bucket lister for any serious poker player.  Me, I think I’ve finally got my brain reorganized after the dehydration, bloat and newly-prescribed medicine befuddlements, and I’ve plans to make some cash out there to Poker Mecca.

Anyone sending suggestions for any of this church stuff can have a free gift package consisting of two pre-confessional excuses, a tithe rate-reduction coupon for a month, and a patch of the last of my bed sheets my God sat upon, autographed by me. But hurry, this is a limited time offer.

Fuck Walmart!

 

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Prophetical Chat Stew; Electric Windows As Weapons

Sunday, January 18th, 2015

So.  I think it time to supply an update as to the goings-on with the Johnson clan back to Austin, Texas.  I was speaking with a longtime reader hereof last week and she said to me, she bitched, “Look, Mooner, we’re all saddened with news of your prostate cancer, but some of us don’t even have prostates.  Tell us what’s going on with your family in Texas.”

As to her specific comment re: having no prostate, I felt compelled to ask her if she might volunteer for one of the several sexing positions of which I still have numerous openings.  She hung up on me.  I was going to tell her about Mother’s progress when the thought of her round hips entered my mind and I was inappropriate.  Maybe progress is the wrong word to use for my mother’s steadily worsening dementias.  Maybe I should call it Mother’s “regress”.

I got my most recent Mother’s regress report from my third ex-wife and my sister’s now wife, Anna Johnson-Johnson-Johnson.  Anna the Amazon called me to check up on me and the subject turned to Mother.  “She’s on a steady march to having no memories, Mooner, and the drum major is steadily picking up the beat.  Mother’s time marches on.”

Sister’s beloved is the only person I know who uses figures of speech more than do I.  Should have been “I do”, maybe, and that reminds me to tell you about the now betrothed pig and ostrich Johnsons.  Upon their wedding day, Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry—said and same pig and head-hiding, giant bird—moved out of the closet in my bedroom and into one of the small guest houses there to the ranch. Gnat—she’s my still personal assistant who runs things out to the compost plant—has hired a caretaker for the two-room bungalow now shared by hog and bird.  Seems when you combine a pig pen with the bottom of a bird cage, the resulting cleanings have pushed my Gram’s patience to the limit.  Not that Gram has any patience to push.

“If’n ya don’t find ya sumbody ta clean that shed a theirs, I’mma torch tha sumbitch,” Gram scolded me a month ago.  “Wi’ them in it!”

As for said and same Gram, she and the P-cubed, that would be her best buddy for a very long life, Penelope Paxton-Parades, well, the two of them abducted Aunt Hilda and took a three-week long “singles” cruise in December.  As my grandmother has a shorter attention span than me, I asked my randy old grandmother why she took such a long trip on the water.  She told me, she said, “Looka here, sonny boy.  Them big-ass boats carry more un two-thousant loose lipped peckers.  Would a needed another week to sample ‘em all.”

“Assides,” she continued, “ it took my baby sister ‘till we was gittin off the fucking boat over there to tha Can-yer-fairy Islands ta hook her first un, poor boy.  Silly fuckin’ name if’n ya ask me, who’d eat a fuckin’ canned fairy?  Yer Aunt Hilda ain’t had her no poontang since that man with tha giant pecker stayed there to tha ranch.  Took three a us ta pry ‘er offn that little man.”

I heard my Gram take a swig of what I assumed to be Carta Blanca beer, then she added, “’More fishies in tha sea, Hilda, ol’ girl.’ I tried to tell ‘er.  ‘Throw this un back and we’ll git ya another.  Next un might have all his teeth.’”

Seems my sweet old auntie is a somewhat more devoted lover than is my Gram.  Which reminds me.  I had a visit from my God last night.  She came to see me in the visage of Rosie O’Donnell cast in the lead of Grease.  I awakened from a beer-and-pot assisted deep sleep to Rosie O singing to me, she warbled, “I’m hopelessly de-voted to you-ooo-oo.”

“Hey, God, how’s it hanging, baby?” I asked Rosie God.  “Would you mind covering your breasts for me?  You know how I feel about breasts.”

“For shit sakes, Mooner, God said.  “I thought if I looked like a married lesbian you could focus on something besides my tits.  What is your fascination with naked bodies?”

I was required to ponder before answering God as this is a question I have often asked of me, myself.  “Well, Ma’am, on first blush I’d likely lie and say that since it’s been so long since I’ve been in the company of a nekid woman…But that’s simply not the truth.  You know I was married to a lesbian that one time, and the truth is, I’m just a hound dog, and…”

God interrupted with Rosie doing an Elvis impression.  “You ain’t nuthin’ but a hound dog, just a lyin’ all tha time.”

We both laughed.  “You here about the cancer?” I asked God.  “I’ve made it through the first week of therapies, and The Great Radiator hasn’t killed me yet.”

“Thought you could use a pep talk, my man.  I heard you mooned the wrong woman last week and felt maybe you were getting a little too close to the edge.”  Then she laughed, and added, “That was some funny shit though.  Reminded me of the time you mooned Sammie when you had your butt hair in corn rows with the African beads.  The good doctor rolled the window up and drove off with a handful of pubic hair and colorful beads tickling her ear.”

“I got those beads from Aunt Hilda.  They were some of what was stitched into the rug she brought back from the Congo all those years ago.  From when she and Gram were running from the bad guys from the next village.”

Somehow, God had transformed into Maria Schneider from that Marlon Brando movie, Last Tango in Paris, while I was thinking about my aunt. “Holy shit, God, are you about to shove YOUR hand up my ass too?  I’ve so many appendages diddling my prostate I’m ready to scream.”

God didn’t directly answer my question.  Instead, She said, She told me, “It is what it is, Mooner—all’s well that ends well.”

And She was gone.

Now, upon the writing about this to share with you guys, I’m thinking that I have been put into the self-same conundrum as so many other prophets over the ages.  I’ve now recounted specific, actual conversations with my God, just as countless others have done with theirs.  I have chronicled these words along with the many other times I’ve discussed my God’s visits.  I have, in a way, written the Holy Bibliographies of Mooner’s God.  Now, each of you gets to decide how you will view my religious tome when compared to your own holy books, you’ll look at my words through the tempered glass that is your system of beliefs.

Maybe some one of you will make a serious, scholarly evaluation, decide that I’m a false prophet and feel sorry for me, pray for my heathen soul; maybe you will see simple sillinessess and laugh at me; and maybe somebody will become enraptured with my God and attempt to seek my God’s blessings.

This last person might call me to see if we can’t start a worship group.  We do, get filled with the Holy Spirit, tell others about the happiness and calm our God brings us, and some of those others ask to join us.  We print a handbook of our God’s teaching and other words, and start knocking on doors to spread The Word.

Next thing you know, some silly shithead decides that—rather than calling right-wing religious Christian bigots “misguided”—my God is sending a message that right-wing religious Christian bigots are evil.  Things digress and degenerate from there, like Mother’s dementia, and somebody gets hurt.

Ugh.  It’s hard to be a prophet responsibly.  It’s a lot of responsibility, pressure.  Maybe that’s why so many people who hear their God speak to them shy from sharing that information.  Sometimes they shoot the messenger, right?  Sometimes the messenger is a totally inappropriate, ADHD-addled fuckbrain.

Maybe I need a beer.  Fuck Walmart!

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The Great Radiator- Part One; Je Suis Charlie

Friday, January 16th, 2015

So.  Here’s how this entire radiation dealio works, these are the basic steps as I now understand them.  Everything contained in this episode are what takes place to get things ready for your introduction to The Great Radiator.  The actual radiationating will be chronicled by me after I’ve had enough of it to be considered an expert at it.  Today is my fifth day of actual zapping but I’m yet to be fully in rhythm with the process.

Maybe I might should have said, “…is what takes place…”  Is “everything” singular, or plural?  Is it like a crowd?  As “everything” might be just one item, like, “She’s my everything,” and everything can also be an entire list of shit, maybe you singulate or pluralize based upon your intents.  Therefore, heretofore, I used proper grammatical efforts by using “are”.  It has also come to my attentions that mayhaps I use too many quotation marks.  However, as “clarity and emphasis in sentence structures” is my middle name, read and adapt.

First, you do a prep run in anticipation of the real race.  As The Great Radiator has its own bunker and segregated waiting room, you begin in the Oncology sub-waiting room swilling glasses of water to reach the point, as the nice lady tells you, “Drink until you feel the strong urge to urinate.”

“What inthehell do you mean by a strong urge?” you ask.  “My prostate is already so angry at me it’s constantly urging me to pee.”

And why does everyone insist on using the word “urinate”?  I’m peeing way too many times to use the extra consonants and vowels to even think, “Ur-i-nate.”  Too busy pissing to make a three-syllabic effort.

Nothing else can start until your bladder is water-swollen so as to “lift” it away from your prostate.  Need to keep it as far from Harm’s way as is possible when The Great Radiator casts its angry glare upon your prostate.  Then the real fun can begin.

You try to remember Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson’s words about anxiety.  “Live in the moment, Mooner.  Do not think about what might happen or of what you experienced in the past.  Focus only upon what is happening to you in each instant.  Live in the Moment.”

Words to remember as you get nekid, save socks, dress in a starched surgical gown and with the same urge to pee as induced by a six-hour non-stop car ride, you place yourself, backside down, on the cold plastic slab of an MRI machine.  Yes, an MRI machine and not The Great Radiator.  Keep in mind that this is a practice run—like an undressed rehearsal for the hopefully not final act of your Life’s play.  This gown is different from all the surgical gowns you’ve previously donned as it wraps and ties in your front, and it’s starched.  When you sat, waiting in your new gown, you absent mindedly started singing “Deck the Halls” using your present-minded, actual aloud voice, and “…now we don our gay apparel…”

The nurse laughs, tells you, “A good mindset helps, Mr. Johnson,” and you reply, “Please call me Mooner.”

“And you can call me Sandra.”

[Author’s note:  If you tell Sandra to call you Mooner, you, dear friend, have additional issues beyond the herein discussed prostate tumors.]

As is the gown, this medical procedure is likewise different from all previously encountered procedures, so your trial run must be done with great accuracies.  This is the start of what is basically a nine-week, daily exposure to a poisonous, invisible, death ray that might lengthen your life without wrecking it.  Data gathered hereat will be used to define the computer program used hereafter.  Like most advanced medical procedures, The Great Radiator is a robot controlled by a computer program.  Therefore, your life will be lengthened by the skills of the programmer, the radiologist doctor.

Not so incidentally, it might take your life by causing a different cancer, make your pecker to stop stiffening, cause you to leak urine constantly unless a clip is situated to prevent it, and it might wreck your bladder and rectum.  Your hope—based upon two months of research and conversation with others—is that this is your best option.  Your hope is to maintain all desired functions but rid yourself of the microscopic carnivores hiding inside the tiny bladder that is your prostate.  Those little cancer shits are cells that don’t know how to die.

They lack the DNA—RNA perhaps—to wither and pass-on to cellular Heaven and make room for other, new cells to grow, prosper and then die.  All cancer cells know is how to eat and reproduce.  So, they eat and reproduce—consuming more-and-more of your blood and vital enrichments—until they reach the critical mass required to metastasize.

I hate that fucking word “metastasize”.

And answer me this.  If cancer cells don’t die, why can’t we modulate those devious little bastards into extending our life rather than taking it?  Where’s the science on that?

Sandra places a large bag filled with Styrofoam balls under your feet and calves, and positions it to be, “Just right.”  She hits a button somewhere and you feel all the air sucked from the bag—it turns hard as a rock.  This is now “your” bag, the bag that will get you positioned just right each time they radiate you over the next nine weeks.

Your bag, and the four tattoos precisely placed at your bikini line, are the coordinates used on your body’s MRI navigational charts by The Great Radiator.  No sextants here, as we need absolute precisions when directing your cancer’s death beams.  “Wouldn’t want to zap your liver, now would we, Mr. Johnson.  I mean, Mooner.  This bag and your tattoos will help us insure that you are in the same position each of the forty-three times you visit.”

You and Sandra discuss the tattoos.  “As I already have one of Salvador Dali’s exploding, melting clocks depicted on my arm, might we tattoo four of his bottle flies for these navigational pursuits?  It’s called ‘Soft Watch at the Moment of First Explosion’.  Dali is my favorite.  Did you know what he always said when people called him crazy?”

Getting no response, I added, I said, “The difference between me and a crazy man is that I am not crazy!”

Sandra answers that it must be dots, that you have an “interesting” sense of humor, and calls the doctor into the room.  She did that air quotes dealio on “interesting”.

The doctor, your radiologist/computer programmer, talks you through the procedure, this “trial run” before the actual first application of radioactive beam bombardment, in the presence of your now, “your” nurse.  Your nurse, our Sandra, a mid-thirties woman with small, soft hands, soft blond hair and kind eyes, places her right hand on your left hip as the Doctor/radiologist drones through his spiel on your right.  Her soft hand fidgets as she watches the doc speak, and squeezes pressure at your hip as if to emphasize his words.

Her eyes, you now notice, are blue.  To yourself you think, you ponder, “I wonder if the upholstery matches the curtains.  The blond looks natural, her native color.  Makes sense with the blue eyes.”

Since you were pre-prepped in counselling before deciding to choose radiation, you’ve heard the spiel before, and your attentions are more focused upon the nurse’s hand than doctor’s words.  The doctor holds a bulb with a pinkish-colored rubber tip in front of your face.  “This is what I’ll use to place the dye into your bowel.  The two different dyes will provide the contrast we need to program your treatment plan—that’s the computer program.  Please turn to your side—face Nurse Sandra—and I’ll insert this.  It won’t hurt, but you will feel a sensation of cold liquid as I squeeze the bulb.”

Doesn’t hurt, and you feel the cold liquid dye solution as it pools in your backside.  “Can’t you warm this shit to maybe 98-degrees, plus-or-minus?” your question.

Doctor and nurse both assume it a rhetorical question as the doc now changes latex gloves and picks up a pillow-shaped plastic package while the nurse asks you to turn onto your back, knees elevated.  The doc says, “This is the catheter.  I’ll gently insert it just a few inches inside your penis and then squeeze some of this liquid dye into the catheter.  In the old days we had to push it all the way to your bladder.  It’s cold and you will feel some of the liquid spill onto your skin.  It will sting, then burn a little, but it won’t be that bad at all.”

He holds the inch-diameter syphon hose connected to a gallon jug to your face. “See,” he says, “no big deal.  Unless you wish a male nurse, Sandra will help me with this.”

Your mind attempts to place itself squarely in the Moment, but before you can say, “No, I like Sandra’s soft hands, and whatthefuck do you mean by no big deal?” Sandra places both of her soft hands on your pecker—one at the base and the second midway.  You feel a sting, then a searing burn, and wonder what he meant by a “couple” inches, and then cold liquid runs down pubic areas and to your butt.  The burn continues but you don’t seem to mind so much.  Your mind slips to Sandra’s soft blue eyes and gentle firmness.  You stay in the Moment, or at least the part at having your pecker held by a person other than yourself.  Soft hands become your entire focus.

“Focus on the sting, Mr. Johnson, or this will really hurt!  An erect penis aggravates this procedure.”  Not quite a scold, but firmer than her grip.

OK, let’s just stop right here.  Does anybody really give a shit what it’s like to have prostate cancer treatment other than those of us doing it?  Me, I’m starting to get numb about it—not care beyond what it takes to care for myself during the endeavors of having it, so why force it on you?

Je suis Charlie, and Fuck Walmart!

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

Friday, January 9th, 2015

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck Walmart.

 

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Ugh; The year In Review

Sunday, January 4th, 2015

So.  Here we all are in this happy, new year, and me…

I’m pissed.  I’m pissed at everything.  I’m pissed at my state and federal governments, I’m pissed at big corporations, I’m pissed at the weather, I’m pissed at my ass cancer and I guess I can say that I’m mostly pissed at my veryownself.  I’m pissed, pissed and pissed some more.

Here I sit at a time when I should be grateful for so many things, and all I feel is pissed.  I should be grateful for a (mostly) loving family, caring friends, adequate health care thanks to Medicare, enough cash stashed to live-out my days except and unless I live to be more than 94-years-old with today’s economy adjusted in historical terms throughout the next 29 years, my two constant companions love me and are honest with me, and I’m happy enough with my surroundings to not have too strong an impulse to pick up and leave Santa Fe for the Oregon coast.

Having said all of that, please allow me to add that I might should have taken the dogs—the above-mentioned constant companions—with me to Oregon.  I likewise should say “near” constant companions, a distinction of (to) which the Squirt has constantly reminded me since my return from the misty Pacific coastline of western America.

“Don’t you think we could have used a vacation, shithead…Think we might have basked breathing humidified air…Think we would have enjoyed the company of those nice people…Think maybe we’d have enjoyed naked rain bathing?”

That was the Squirt the first time after I recounted my pet-less visit over Xmas.  She added, “You, you thoughtless dickwad, left us with that nut-bag dog lady for almost two weeks.  I ought to tell the goat dog to pee all over your new memory foam mattress and to shit on all the heating vents.”

Yoda had gotten pissed at me when he found out he was staying with the crazy dog lady, and the night before I left, he took a giant, loose bowel movement on one of the floor-mounted heating grills out to the living room.  Required me to remove the grill, clean it and the metal pipe below, and all the while gaging at the verge of a puke.

As for the nekid rain bathing, I invented that one evening after returning to my room from a day of crabbing and munching on baked pot goodies made by my niece from up to Seattle.  It was actually too cool to lay on the concrete balcony—and I likely too far from reality’s grasp to make good decisions—yet there I lay, pin pricks of stinging rain pelting me from head-to-toe.  Nipples pursed like Mrs. Leticia Browningwell’s lips just before she scolded me in her third grade classroom, pecker hiding deep into groin from cold shock, and my eyes shut tight against the petulant rain.  Might have drown if I’d fallen asleep and it might have been the most invigorating thing I’ve ever done, save and except for this one time I ran from Mexican police with Streaker Jones.  The two of us had taken badly to getting rousted by a cab driver for triple the fare for a ride, and the cabbie called the police.  Seems that was a way for Mexican police and cab drivers to earn extra cash.

But I digress.  I’m pissed and Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson says it’s all about my prostate and me.  “You’re terrified that you’ll become incontinent or lose erectile function from your treatment, Mooner.  You love your penis too much to face those distinct possibilities.”

My psycho therapist is right.  What if I can never have sex again?  What if I actually become one of those limp dicks that we all have joked about?  What if I’ve already had the last consensual sex with another person of my entire life?  What if my Ivory soap bar becomes nothing more than a sanitary servicing device?

I can’t even imagine a life without sex.  Maybe I need to plan for that eventuality, you know, get twenty years of sexing done before treatment ends in case I go all erectile dysfunctional and shit.  Twenty years at once-per-week, a realistic estimate for the sexuality of a healthy older gentleman, would be 1,040 total remaining sexings for me.  To get that number in over therapy’s next two months, I’ll need to do the deed 8.67 times per day.  Not unrealistic.

Except for figurating with whom all that sexing will be partnered, this seems a doable dealio.  In the entirety of my life I haven’t met a single woman one who could, would, do it eight times a day for more than a couple days contiguously.  Personal experience tells me that new relationships can handle twice daily for a few weeks before losing the required ardor to even do it daily.  Using that logic, I’ll need five lovers daily for two weeks, then nine for a month and then thirteen for the remaining two weeks.  That’s a ton of willing women to identify when you consider that it’s taken me two years in Santa Fe to not yet locate the first.  Ugh.

Fucking ugh!  Initial thoughts would be to hire me some talent, but that would be so expensive it would cut my retirement bankroll in half and I’d run out of money before the cancer would kill me if I sought no treatment at all.  That’s not realistic as an option.  Double fucking ugh!

Seems like Medicare should provide this as a benefit to us as prostate sufferers under the mental health coverages part of the plan.  Maybe I can run an ad in the newspaper, maybe find some nice, caring women looking to do community servicing.  Or I can try the N.M. Department of Corrections—have them allocate some recently released detainees in need of social rehabilitations and assist them as they assist me.  Win-win is my middle name.

Maybe the best way to handle my anxiety over losing erections, and the hopefully resulting sexing, would be to write about it.  Dr. Sam tells me that writing about the things that bother you can help you overcome your worries.  I likely have a half-million words to say without giving this any further thought.  So look for the new best-selling novel by Mooner Johnson at your bookstore soon.

I’ll title it My Prostate and Me- the Love/Hate Diary of an Angry Man.

Fuck Walmart happily in this New Year.

 

 

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Do The Clothes Make The Dog? Camel Toe En Francais

Sunday, December 7th, 2014

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She was the French wife, right?”

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

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

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

“I wanna see!” she said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck Walmart!

 

 

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Growing Pains For Dummies; Understanding Windows 8

Friday, December 5th, 2014

So.  I’ve had my new Windows 8 computer since April and I just, quite accidently, learned how to change the font style and size in a default action.  Heretofore, I was required to adjust the font from Calibri, at an 11 sizing, to size 12 Times New Roman, each time I sat to write.  As I haven’t worn a size 11 since 8th grade, and font in my now size 13 setting isn’t well accepted over to my Word Press bloggie dealio, I settled on a 12.  As for the font style, the Romans seemed to have anticipated an ink layout that is easy to read.

I wonder when Times New Roman was invented.  Did Caesar Augustus or his contemporaries develop the font style?  Back then with the quill pens and pimply paper products of the pre-industrial age, it must have been difficult to provide clarity of written documents.  All those splatters and blobs from quill-penned words can be off-putting.  Like this one time Streaker Jones and I made a pen from a turkey feather and ink from cow’s blood thinned with turpentine.

With my ADD and ADHD, funky, fancy print styles agitate what little focus I have and cause my mind to wander.  Makes me wonder too.  Like, remember when you were a young teen and your body was growing at its fastest rates?  Me, I grew a foot between sixth and seventh grades.  This I knew because I was measured and weighed for the William B. Travis Junior High School football team the first day of school.

Coach Pepworth—a nasty little man who most resembled a 5’6” bowling ball covered in a sniper’s ghili suit made of course, black hair—held my opened student file in one hand and the ruler used to mark where, on the height thingie painted on the wall, the crown of a student’s head  reached.  In my case, run-on sentence aside, Coach P teetered on a chair as I fidgeted around while looking at the marvel that was a junior high school locker room.

I focused on his face for a moment and asked, “Does all that hair itch, sir?  I itch all the time and my Gram says it’s because I’m starting to grow pubebies.”

“Stand still, you disruptive little shit, or your pubic hair will be the least of your concerns.  I fall off this chair and you’ll see why that two-by-four is sitting over there by the door.”

Coach P bandied about at practice with a scarred two-by-four used to punish poor plays, back-talk, and what he called, “Your lack of enthusiasm, Mr. Johnson.”  I still have a bone spur on my hand from when I tried to deflect that fucking piece of lumber this one time.  He’d grab you by the face guard and pull your head down to his level to deliver the judge and jury edict before administrating the punishment.  However much taller than him were you determined the force he used to pull.

“Well lookie here, Mr. Johnson,” Coach P said to me.  “If this record is right, you grew eleven-and-a-half inches over the summer.  You’d best be careful in contact drills…I’d hate for you to break one of those tender, new bones.”

I don’t, didn’t remember my bones as soft back then.  I can remember lying in bed in the dark with my tiny crystal radio hissing, “In the jungle, the quiet jungle, the lion sleeps tonight…” while I could actually feel my bones expanding.  Sometimes I thought I could hear them as they expanded—crackling and groaning.  This one night my arms grew a full inch.  I have semi-scientific proof.

This was also the summer I discovered the wonderment that is my pecker.  Also the summer my fucking Boy Scout leader discovered the wonderment that is my pecker, but that’s another dealio in its altogether.  Each night in my efforts to get to sleep, I would lay precisely in place on my bed, position my elbows on the only spot atop the springs of my twin mattress that didn’t touch my funny bones, and I’d play with my pecker.  The motions became so machine-like that I could position myself in my sleep.  With the usual overnight growing, the positioning adjusted so slightly I didn’t notice change.  But this one night was different.

This one night, I lay my head in just the right spot, adjusted to place my elbows on the springs, and reached for the spot where my manhood waited.  It wasn’t there—it was AWOL!

I won’t say I screamed like a girl, but as my voice was still in that awkward stage between man and falsetto, my Gram says I screamed like a girl.  She burst through my bedroom door with her double-barreled, 12-gage shotgun at the point and flipped on the light.

“What tha fuck, Mooner?  I thought that fuckin’ cooner climbed in yer winda and grabbed ya by yer tiny balls”

There was a raccoon we thought might be rabid hanging around the ranch down to the creek.  That racoon was a constant subject of conversation until Gram blasted it not long after this night.  “It’s OK, Gram, I found it.  Not the raccoon, my pecker.  It was only an inch away, but I thought it had disappeared on me.”  I was scared but I wasn’t crying.

“Oh stop whimperatin’ like a baby.  You Johnson men ain’t never lost a pecker one.  Yer great uncle George got shot in ‘is ass back to the WW One, but havin’ them ten kids says his pecker worked fine.”

Anyway, I was standing with my back to the gym wall, trying to make my skeleton fit flat against, and Coach P teetered on the chair as I fidgeted and squirmed.  Standing on a chair he could look me in the eyes without any adjustments.

“Says in your record that you’re a problem child, Mr. Johnson,” he told me with the dead look of a snake.  “Don’t you be thinking that your mother can keep you out of trouble on the football field.  Assistant Principal Johnson is a saint, and you are problematic.”

When he stepped down I asked him what problematic meant.  Saying nothing, his response was to flip his eyes across the room to the worn timber sitting by the door.  I’m not all that smart now, and was smart less back then, but I two-plus-two’d the two-by-four and problematic.

2X4 + problematic =  Owie!!!

And whatinthefuck does “wee-ma-whacka” mean?  I never thought that song was about a bunch of guys masturbating.  Maybe it was a symbolism I’m unable to grasp.

Anyway, and now again, my actual shoe size is a 13, except for some sneakers require me to buy a 14, and all in a wide, or doublewide.  The accident that makes this newsworthy lay back in paragraph one, herein.  I was fumbling with my computer mouse and accidently right-clicked on the font dealio up top-left of the screen.  If I wished to change the font in Word 8 to default, the little box explained, all I needed to do was contort six fingers onto the keyboard in a digital tangle, and sis-boom-bah, I’m defaulted.

Are you feeling as confused as I am?  Confused as me, maybe it would be.  I refuse to say “myself” as that word pisses me off for some reason and I only use myself when forced to do so.  Maybe it’s because sports guys refer to themselves as “myself” so often and I just don’t like it.  Speaking of myself getting used:

So, FUCK Walmart!

 

 

 

 

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

Tuesday, December 2nd, 2014

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

FUCK WALMART!!!

AND HELP US

RETURN THE FAVOR

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Childhood Memories; Hey, Mikey Doesn’t Fucking Like It!

Monday, December 1st, 2014

So.  As Thanksgiving has managed to pass through the American landscape with barely a thanks given to the actualities of its foundings, we are now under siege by the actualities of what has become Xmas.  My local paper—a lightweight tabloid of maybe seven ounces average arrival weight—hit our driveway Thursday at a hefty two pounds and four ounces.  Filled with the advertising fodder of every fucking retail and service outlet within an hour’s drive, the actual newsprint seemed like a dust jacket for the War and Peace of coupon cutters.

When I unwrapped the parts I was to read and tossed the balance into the cardboard box I use to recycle newsprint, the Squirt said to me, she says, “Hang on, asshole, don’t you need to find some coupons for your presents for me and the goat dog?”

As I am one to always look for ways to better father my charges, I explained to the small brown puppy that, “It’s better said Yoda and me, sweetie, you should have said, ‘…the goat dog and me.’”

I’ll not tell you that she growled at me because that is forbidden between us.  I will, however, say that she gave me her best “eat shit and die” look while saying, “Look’a here, butthead.  If you plan to leave us with that nut-ball dog sitter for ten days while you explore the Oregon coast, you’d better give us some really good Christmas presents.  Otherwise, I’ll tell Yoda to eat her furniture and it’ll take $25,000 to bail us out when you get home.”

“Look, Squirtie girl, please don’t use the word ‘Christmas’ when referring to December 25th.  A major component to my plan to unravel excessively right-wing Christians is using ‘Xmas’ and ‘Happy Holidays’ instead.”

“Christmas, Christmas, Christmas!” was her reply. “Christ-mas, Chrrr-ist-masss!”

I spent the day Friday examining Thursday’s and Friday’s ad supplements with the two dogs looking over my shoulder.  OK, in actualities, one would sit in my lap while the other parked ass on the chair pulled tight against mine and both with chins rested on the table’s edge.  I don’t allow dog feet on my dining table and I’m pleased to say it’s the one rule they obey routinely.

“Hey, there are some attractive ladies at that place, Mooner. Are they for sale?  Maybe we should go over there and do some shopping for you when we finish here.”

“That’s a Hooter’s ad, silly rabbit, those girls aren’t for sale,” I told Squirt.

“Could’a fooled me, Bwana.  Looks like all their assets are sitting on the meat rack and ready to serve.”

How do you argue with that logic?

Did I mention I was drinking Carta Blanca beer and enjoying a touch of Raspberry Kush medicinal pot as we couponed?  I had the TV on as we perused and was down to the last two retailer’s packages when the Squirt told me, she exclaimed, “Look, its A Christmas Story!”

As the last two sales papers were for Walmart and Hobby Lobby, I told her, “Let’s take these papers out back.  You guys can do your business on them for me and then we’ll watch Ralphie.  I’ll pop some popcorn and you guys can share a jigger of beer.”

They did, I did, and we lounged before the big screen to watch my favorite Xmas Movie.  I try to watch that film anytime I catch it, sometimes as many as four times each season.  This time when we got to a scene when Ralphie has to eat the bar of soap, a childhood memory of my own flooded into me like an emotional dam had burst.  Bursted?  Why don’t we say bursted?  If it “burst” when actually breaking, whyinthefuck don’t we say “bursted” when referencing the event in past tense?

“Holy shit, guys, I just remembered an event quite similar from my own past.”  This said as tears started leaking from the corners of my eyes.  It seems that learning of my cancer has brought new levels of emotional tidings to me this holiday season.

I blew my nose and wiped my eyes, and paused the movie with my new pauser dealio on the TV remote, and recounted the remembered memory to the puppies.  I was five and it was either a Sunday or a Wednesday, and I know it was one of those days because each of those days of my childhood included visits to The Reverend Browningwell’s Baptist church.  His wife, Laticia, would later become my teacher in several grades.  We never got along and she is the mold from which I cast most every right-wing conservative Christian bigoted asshole I have encountered since.

In those days, the 1950’s, after each Baptist church service the pastor and his wife would stand on the church steps and shake hands with each parishioner and they would shake each down for tithes or service or some sin recently committed.  Leticia was an enigma to me even at that age- things I heard her say and things said about her behind her back.  I likewise lacked any social filters as a young boy, a trait upon which I’ve not managed any significant improvements even yet.

On this particular Sunday or Wednesday, I remember watching Laticia interact with people as we made our way through the line as Gram, Mother and I waited our turns. I remember how my hand ached as Mother gripped it like a chicken neck in a vice.  I think the fingers of my left hand are still blood-swollen from Mother’s attempts to control my movements as a kid.  My ADHD in her firm control, I kept trying to pull away to watch the preacher’s wife by peering around the folks ahead of us.  I peeked and peered between legs and around poofy dresses and jacket tails anxiously as I had a very important question to ask the preacher’s wife.

When we finally got to the head of the line, I remember Pastor Browningwell said something to Mother—likely something pleasant, as my mother was, is, a perfect Baptist—and then he said something to me.  For my part, I didn’t hear a word of any of that because all the attention I had was focused upon his wife.  I’d recently heard something about her and my curiosity was killing me.

In my anxiety to speak to an adult, I blurted out, “Does it hurt, Mrs. Browningwell?”

“Huh?  Oh, it is you, young Mr. Johnson,” said with a not varnished contempt as she and I already had some history.  “Of what, or which, are you speaking, young Butcher?”

She called me Butcher because that would be my actual given name and this was before I had earned my nickname.  And why isn’t it “knickname”?

“Does it hurt that you can’t fart?”  I elaborated.

Getting no understandable verbal responses, I continued, “My Gram says you’ve got a corn cob pipe stuck so far up your ass you can’t fart.  My tummy hurts when I can’t fart.”

Back in those days, ranchers and farmers would wash their clothes in Twenty Mule Team Borax detergent, and sitting by every sink was a lunky bar of Lava hand soap.  Lunky is now a word, and a perfect descriptor for this bar of soap.  The grit and lather was/is perfect for removing the grease and oil and barnyard gunk of everyday work with animals and machines.  As a child, we had Lava bars at the old pump head next to the big barn, at the sink in the wash room where we entered the house after working to wash hands and remove soiled clothing, and by the kitchen sink.  Seems this particular, egregious offense mandated a sentence to be carried out standing beside the barn.

“You stand here and think about what you said, you disruptive little shit.  I’ve never been so humiliated in all my life!”  That was Mother as she jammed the grease-and-cow-shit-blackened bar of Lava in my mouth.  “And I’ll be watching you through the window, Butcher Einstein Johnson. Don’t you dare take it out until I say!”

As she walked away, she flipped over her shoulder, “Einstein my rosy-red ass.  Your grandmother missed that one entirely”

The reason my eyes teared with this memory is my crazy old grandmother.  She’s who named me and later that night, after dinner, she corralled me to go out to her potion pantry that was the smaller barn on our property.  All my previous trips to the cellar where she brewed her psychedelic mushroom potions were for times when I’d been injured or poisoned, real or imagined. This was the first visit when the invitation was a curiosity to me.

My Grandmother started laughing on our walk to the pantry as soon as we were out of sight of the kitchen window where Mother was washing dinner dishes.  “That might’a been tha funniest fuckin’ thing I ever did hear.  Yer mother’s got no sense to a good humor, sonny boy, and she never did.”

Once inside the storage cellar of her potion pantry, Gram searched the shelves looking for a particular bottle.  “Little fucker’s here, I jist know it.”  She grumbled and groaned as she reached and stooped and crawled the shelves to find what she sought.

“Here it is!” she exclaimed. All I could see of her was the bottom of her Keds poking out from the heavy plank shelf where she was deeply planted.

She held the medicinal-brown pint glass bottle to my face for a close look, then set it on her work counter.  “I made this un fer tha boys when they got back from tha big Dubbie Two.  That war broke them boys right on down, Butcher.  They needed a pick-er uppie when they got back ta home.”

She turned the label to her own face and read me the label.  “Fuck Hitler and Tito too-  Mooseie Boy’s Done Already Dead!”

I now know that she was referring to Benito Mussolini, the best effort the Italians could make at a modern wartime dictator.  I’ve always thought the Italians spent all their real warrior vitriol back in the Times of Rome.  Too much amore in modern Italians to conger-up a true mirror image of old Adolph.

I just stood in rapt anticipation of what my Gram might say next.

“Here, boy, let’s give ya a double doser.  Ain’t used this shit in ten years and I’mma thinkin’ it might a lost its pow’r.”

Gram squeezed a first dropper into my opened mouth, I swallowed and then accepted another.  She looked at me and said, “Fuck it,” and squeezed several full droppers into her own mouth.

“Let’s us go sit onna dock an have a cold one.”

We did, my first entire cold beer sipped while my grandmother told me stories about war, and Baptist preacher’s wives and my mother.  Maybe it’s time for a repeat performance.

Fuck Walmart this Xmas season!

 

 

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Is That A Pepperoni In You Pants?; Plans For An Ungrateful Prostate

Friday, November 21st, 2014

So.  My ass doctor called me late last night to tell me that I have prostate cancer that rates a Gleason’s Scale 7.  The specificities of what a GS7 means will be revealed in Sunday morning’s consult, but what I do know at this time is, shit, it’s a GS7 and, thanks goodness it’s not a GS8.

GS7 is treatable but needs to be treated to prevent it from becoming an 8.  GS8 is when the cancer is all aggressive and shit and ready  to spread its ill-tidings to other parts of your anatomy.  Kiss-your-ass-goodbye is what GS8 cancer seems to be.

As I understand my options at this point, I can: A. Go through a regimen of radiation treatments (fuck this as I’m not letting a fucking radiator machine anywhere near my adorable ass); B. Do the newest treatment called Proton Treatment (expensive and taking almost a year spent at a clinic); or C. I can cut the little fucker out, dry it and wear it as a fetish.

Current thinking is Number C., above.  The now golf ball-sized anal gland should shrink to the size, color and shape as a whole walnut meat.  I’ll mount it on a short leather strap and wear it as a necklace where it will sit at the hollow of my neck.  Attractive single women will ask me, they’ll say something like, “Isn’t that an interesting necklace, sir.  I’ve never seen that stone before, might I look at it?”

I need a better opening line than, “How’s it hanging, baby?” and my psycho therapist tells me that the less I say, the better.  Let the shrunken organ do my talking for me.

How would you go about the dehydration process on a prostate gland anyway?  I’ve not dried organ meat before—is it the same process as with flank steak, or maybe tomatoes?  When I told my Gram about my plans, she said to me, she said, “Looks ta me lak it’ud be same as one a them dried headers dealios.  Git all tha bones out first.  I’ll ask yer Aunt Hilda to ask the Dubbie-J.”

Dubbie-J is Aunt Hilda’s shrunken-head-in-a-mahogany-box, a memento from when she and Gram were over to Africa as teenagers on a Baptist missionary dealio.  When I told the old gasbag that prostates don’t have bones, she snarked back, “Who gives a shit, Mooner.  Leave tha hair on it too, ya little shithead.”

A friend facing a similar situation asked me what it felt like to get the biopsy.  As mine was rated “more difficult than normal” because my colon wall was thickened with a layer of scar tissue courtesy of the infection I got from my first prostate biopsy, I decided that my actual biopsy would provide little insight.  Instead, I told him about the six hours of post op.

“OK, here’s what you do.  Take the 2.5-inch ball off a trailer hitch and weld it to a baby Moon hubcap.  Lightly lubricate the ball and place it anywhere in the vicinity of your asshole.  Next, swallow a four-pound, 700 AMP electromagnet. Take three deep breaths and energize the magnet.  Whine for six hours.”

In thinking back on my six hours of post-operative bliss, maybe I should have told him that at two hours in I swallowed four Vicodin tabs and smoked a fat doobie while lounging in a sitz bath with a sixer of Carta Blanca.  After toweling off from the bath I took a dropper full of a potion Gram makes to cure women of menstrual cramps.  Maybe my ministrations shortened my recovery when I passed out at the six hour mark.

And maybe I’m an ADHD-addled and totally inappropriate fuckball.

Anyway, maybe I can smoke the offensive organ first to give it a little color and then hang it to dry like a pepperoni.  Meanwhile, fuck Walmart!

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Waiting For Mister Goodbar; Wait Is A Four-Letter Word

Wednesday, November 19th, 2014

So.  I’m sitting.  And pacing.  And playing computer games.  And calling every fucking person for whom I have a phone number.  I’ve read the flimsy Santa Fe newspaper eight times and I’ve reread the April 2011 Oprah’s O Magazine.  I’ve played with the dogs until my knees are blue with bruises—knee-marching and rolling around on carpets and wood floors.  I’ve been to the gym and walked six miles, and all of this since I awoke at 2:00 am thinking the phone could ring at any minute.

But I’m not waiting, I refuse to wait.  I’ll not have my life held on-hold for the answers.  Waiting is for the weak and immature—those who can’t actually face their problems.  I’m an action man, hell, “Action” is my middle name.

So, I don’t wait, I, rather and instead, fill the hours of not knowing with important activities.  To wait is to obsess, to worry, and with the thirteen distinct thoughts in my ADD-addled brain right now, to worry would crash my mainframe and send the punch cards that control my programming spewing.

Interesting thought.  It just dawned on me that ADD and addled share common first letters.

I’d have given you better metaphoric images if I actually knew how modern computers work.  But all I know is from when I took a computer programming course at the University of Texas back to 1967, and I was required to determine how to appropriately punch the 577 paper punch cards needed to program, as was my written assignment, the calculations for: [2+2X8-40+20-10+?].

Where I placed the question mark was actually a blank space wherein the computer—when properly punch-card programmed—would print the answer.  I liked the stiff, almost-cardboard paper punchies.  Maybe that’s what started my love of Postie Notes.

Anybody remember how noisy those old printers were back in the day?  Reminds me of this one time I went to work with a buddy who was a weekend DJ for a religious radio station.  News was carried on a Teletype machine sitting in a small, concrete-walled room.  Noisy fucker that banged in stutters and steps, constantly, as some silly asshole back to News Central typed the words that made the news.

The two of us were going to drop some acid just before he got off the air and then head to meet other buddies at the bowling alley.  Me, never one to wait on any fucking thing, I placed the tiny paper stamp on my tongue sometime, maybe three hours, early.  Ended getting a touch rowdy, so my DJ friend quarantined my ass to the Teletype room.

One of the few unpleasant experiences I’ve ever had with drugs.  I’m trying to read and remember every single story coming over the wire and attempting to make periodic updates to my buddy.  Did I tell you this was a Christian radio station?

My doctor told me to call after 3:00 pm today, and only then if he hadn’t called before, and it’s not yet noon.  Maybe I’ll start War and Peace.

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