Archive for the ‘ADHD’ Category

Late Wishes And Early Bitches; Hunting For Sport

Monday, November 30th, 2015

[Editor’s Note: I had fully intended to post this before I left for Texas, yet and alas, I forgot. My further intentions would be to write, and post a follow-up. Good luck to us all on that one.]

So.  I was over to Katy’s place at Fascist Dyke Motors making a response to one of her postings, and as my ADD was in full winter bloom, my eyes wandered out the window and fixed upon the sight of my small, brown puppy.  The Squirt was in full huntress mode—neck bowed, chest out, eyes steely and Devil’s grin plastered to her face—watching a mouse squiggle a red slinky upon the three-day old snow.

OK, for an early interruption, why isn’t it “…the three-days old snow,”? Word informs me it is “three-day old” snow even though the snow has lay grounded for three consecutive days and not lay a day, go away then lay again for a day, leave and come back.  OK, and why not three-day olds, likes spoon-fulls?

The little mousie has lived the summer and autumn somewhere in my, or the neighbor’s back yard, and has lived off my garden and compost patch. Since most of the garden was ruined by a spring hail, I’m assuming it was the food scraps I compost that supplied most of his rodent daily required nutritional values. I, once and again, assume that he was getting his full and complete daily needs as he was a plump little shit with keen senses and quick feet.

“OK, Mooner, I’ll block his route to the shed and you scare him to me,” Squirt told me last month after she’d spent the better part of a day keeping the mouse trapped inside our garden enclosure. She alternated all summer between chasing the mouse and catching the giant green grasshoppers our wet summer brought.

“No, dumbass, use a stick to prod him,” she admonished when I opened the gate to step inside the enclosure, “He’ll get around your slow ass, so use a fucking stick!”

I poked and prodded at the mouse and finally got him to bolt.  He jumped through a gap in the wire and did a perfect head-and-shoulder fake leaving the Squirt snarling and bitching at his shadow.

“Dammit, Mooner, you chased him to my left side. You know my right side is my faster.”

“He’s a right quick little shitbird, my chick-a-dee. No shame in losing him again. You’ll get him one day.”

My adorable mix of Chihuahua and miniature Dachshund must have captured, tortured, viewed with pride and then consumed a hundred or more grasshoppers as practice for catching this small rodent.  While I missed the chase, capture and initial tortures, I made first sighting as she sat like Snoopy waiting for Charlie Brown to load the feed bowl. As the mouse made pathetic efforts to run away with a severely mangled back leg, the red loops were growing smaller—just as a Slinky does when stretched to length.

I typed a few words of description of this event as a comment to Katy, then watched the rest of the death play. Mercifully, Act3 came quickly as the Squirt picked the mouse up by its head and pranced to the back door. I heard her bark, repeatedly, and ignored her, repeatedly. She came to stand outside the office window, barked. I ignored her there.

“Hey shithead!” I heard, muffled. “I’ve got a present for you.”

With that she sat like a bunny on her back haunches and held the bloodied mouse aloft. The she set it down to Slinky circle again, nudged it with her nose, picked it up and slung it across the snow. It slid, then banged to a stop against the rock wall. I banged on the window and hollered. “Don’t play with it like that. Either eat it or put it in the garden to compost. I won’t have you waste it, and it is NOT coming inside.”

That’s when I deja-vued my childhood, the memory hitting me like a brick. I was sitting at Thanksgiving dinner between Aunt Hilda and Mother, not my usual spot. I sat here because the buttered Brussels sprouts I didn’t eat Tuesday were still sitting on my plate Thursday afternoon. As the lone occupant of my holiday dinner plate, the small, now brown cabbage halves were getting worn thin from my moving them around with my fork.

“Stop playing with your food and eat it, you disruptive little shit. You’ll not get another morsel until all those greens are eaten!”

My mother’s voice was seething with anger, hissed through half-clenched teeth. I’d endured a second whipping at breakfast for refusing to eat the now cardboard-like vegetables. I was then threatened with a third.

OK, that was waaaay off point, and likely my ADD-addled brain’s method of dealing with the simple fact that I’m headed to Texas for T-givers.  It’s been awhile since I saw my maternal unit and I’ve those mixed emotions one has at these holiday memory moments, still comment way off subject.

What I meant to ask is this. Why do other animals play with their captured food and we humans scold for same? Mother lions and cats and dogs teach their kids to play with their captured prey yet we punish ours for pushing a few green things around a plate with their forks. I get that we humans don’t capture our vittles any longer as all our food has long been products of systematic incarcerations. But why must our kids eat everything we want them to?

My guess is that should we still be chasing our breakfast, we’d be a thinner population by miles. Hard to be 5’8” and 300 pounds after hunting pigs all day.

Anyway, may you all enjoy this best holiday and fuck Walmart for some added joy.


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The Joys Of Winter; Pink Panther Hidden In The Tea Leaves

Friday, November 6th, 2015

So. The first measurable snowfall hit Santa Fe’s streets last night and there is already a skiable base on some of our state’s resorts. All signs are pointing towards heavy, possibly record amounts of snow. This snow was fat and heavy flakes loaded with needed moisture.

However, as the Squirt refuses to even walk in snow, early this morning we had our now third annual argument thereabout. Tiny, brown puppy and I have repeated this fight since our first Santa Fe winter.

Me:      “Jesus Christ, Squirt, do you have to shit on my welcome mat? It won’t wash out of those bristles.”

The Squirt:      “Fuck you.”

Me:      “Don’t you fuck-you me, young lady, you answer me and right now!”

The Squirt:      “Fuck you some more.”

Me:      “You are not going to melt from squatting in a little snow, for shitsakes. It isn’t even knee-deep. Look at Yoda…the goat dog loves the snow. Ever since I taught him how to pee write his name, he loves the snow.”

The Squirt:      “It’s deep enough to drown my tooter, dickhead. You stick your pecker in six inches of snow long enough to empty your bladder and I’ll consider following suit.”

Ever submerged your pecker in a snowdrift long enough to drain a full bladder either on, or with, purpose? I’d accidently peed in the snow while nekid this one time back to junior high school, but that was, after all, an accident. I’d caught the measles and my Gram had dosed me with a mushroom potion she had labeled “German humps an’ German bumps be gone”.

For my part I’d semi-awakened from a drug-induced slumber and sleep-walked outside into Austin’s annual snow storm. Can’t remember if Gram’s hallucinogenic home remedy cured the German measles, but I’d fully-awakened with frozen extremities and a turtle-pecker hidden behind my sparse, pre-teen pubic hairs thickly-hung with yellow icicles.

Am I the only one, or is icicles spelled wrong? Whoeverinthefuck decided that one did a fine job of contracterating things, but it just looks wrong—not nearly enough letters for all the sounds. Like when some southerners say Mississippi. They say, “Mizsipi.” Or when Georgians say, “Marietta.”  “Mayreta,” they’ll say with sugar juice dripping off their lips.  If I was to say, “Mis-si-sip-pee,” like it’s properly said, and it was spelled, “Mizsipi,” it would be the same thing.

OK, stop. Maybe it’s the same thing, only backwards. Like my ADD-addled brains.

Main problem with peeing with your genitals packed inside a snow bank is that the freeze-chill from the initial submersion causes a freezing-up of both pecker and the bladder attached. Takes considerable aptitudes, and time as well, to get relaxed enough to pee, unless you’re sleep walking and don’t feel the cold. I found myself proud to have been able to do it this morning without self-inflicting frostbite.

As a compromise, I took the dogs shopping for personal doormats upon which they can do their bidness whilst we’ve got the heavy frost on our Lilies. Yoda chose a brown broom bristle mat that says, “Yes, Inspector, My Dog Bites.”

After I repeatedly refused to have my photo embossed on a slab of ridged, black rubber, the Squirt decided upon one with the sweet countenance of a yellow tabby kitty. “Second choice,” she said to my look.

Does make me wonder about Honor the cat. She’s been gone for almost two years now and there’s no word of her on the street. I’m also wondering about the state of my country. What in Hell is wrong with us? I don’t know and haven’t a clue as to how to figure it out.

So Fuck Walmart!

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Roofing Lessons From Santa Fe; Stimulational Motivators Off Target

Monday, October 26th, 2015

So.  The last days of summer sizzled until noon Wednesday—a summer this year of many late sizzles—when a cold, wet frontal air mass moved through and shredded the peaceful complacencies hereabout.  As Santa Fe is a city of flat roofs, a full twenty-four hours of wind-driven rain can put fear in the hearts of homeowners, and dollar signs in the eyes of roofers.

For my part I had one, hopefully small, leak that I, and here and again let me say, “I hope,” I remedied Saturday morn with a five-gallon bucket of plastic cement wall flashing compound, one-hundred-thirty-feet of plastic netting, seven Carta Blanca beers, two relatively fat doobies,  and six hours of bitching from the dogs.

“Why,” you might ask, “did it take all that time and materials to patch one small leak?”

“Well,” the start of my reply to your perfectly legitimate question, “for starters I was already two beers and a small dose of my Gram’s mushroom potion she labeled ‘Summer’s Done Done So Put Yer Long Johnnies On Yer Skinny Ass’, and the morning had warmed to maybe fifty-five degrees.”  As fifty-five degrees is just about my favorite working outside temperature, I felt motivated to get ‘er done.

Which said brings something to mind. I’ve long held a belief—a philosophy, maybe—that flies in the face of every motivational speaker ever to charge gigantic fees for teaching mostly silly shit at seminars featuring snappy catch phrases. As a businessman having fallen prey to several pitches from those snake oil sales shits, I feel that I possess both the experience and studied information to make at least a partially smart comment on the subject.

The first of those “motivators” I encountered was the one, the only, Zig Zigler. Ziggy was the original motivator of modern ilk and the tall, thin and affable man had a funny way to convey his snappy catch phrase.

Streaker Jones and I had purchased two tickets to one of the bowl games our beloved Longhorns played—my befuddled brain is thinking it was 1973, the year the fucking Nebraska Corn Cobbers beat us in the Cotton Bowl—and we decided that rather fly straight on back to Austin, we’d instead make a little pass at the Big Easy. We were seated in the first row behind First Class which I can specifically remember as Row Nine, and the fact that I can remember that info and not what I had for dinner last night is testament to something.

As soon as the seatbelt light went out, the man in the seat in front of mine on the aisle got up, and with the toothy-smiled, complacent face of an undertaker he stuck his hand out to grab mine and then placed a small wooden nickel into it. He turned his eyes to Streaker Jones with another wooden disc to plant, paused long enough for the complacent face to turn pale, then backed off, looked at me and said, face back to undertaker’s, he told me, “That’s to help you get around to it.”

As he moved his way to Row Ten, I looked at the wooden disc. “Round Tuit” was printed in block letters in as large a typeface as would fit the curvatures. “That’s pretty clever,” I told Streaker Jones. “Now I have no excuses because I got around to it.”

“He’s sellin’ sumthin’,” my best buddy told me. “Pitch is comin’ on his return trip.”

The pitch came, I managed to not swing at it, and maybe I can make my actual point before this deteriorates any further into ADHD babble. Here’s my point about these pitchpersons.

I don’t think anybody can “motivate” anyone else. I think that motivation can only come from within. If you Googlate the definition of motivation, you get:

“The general desire or willingness of someone to do something.

“keep staff up to date and maintain interest and motivation”

synonyms: enthusiasmdriveambitioninitiativedeterminationenterprise;”




Motivation is, by definition, internal. Some fuckbrain’s got no personal motivations, his train will definitely stay there to the station regardless of another’s actions. What I think you can do is “stimulate” another’s internal motivations, as stimulated is defines as:


“verb (used with object), stimulated, stimulating.


to rouse to action or effort, as by encouragement or pressure; spur on;incite:

to stimulate his interest in mathematics.


Physiology, Medicine/Medical. to excite (a nerve, gland, etc.) to its functional activity.

  1. To invigorate (a person) by a food or beverage containing a stimulant,as coffee, tea, or alcoholic liquor.”


Having found, copied, pasted and spent a full half-hour fucking around with Word to get the two definitions placed, half-assedly, to the pages herein, I find myself wondering who might really give a shit what I think about snake oil sales folks.

As the Squirt is afraid of heights, and the goat dog might not be smart enough to not fall off the roof, the dogs stayed on the ground while I worked on my leak. Planning ahead, I made three trips up the ladder with first, my twelve-pack cooler of iced Carta Blancas, second, the five-gallon bucket of roofing patch, and third, tools for patching and smoking weed.

“You’re gonna get wasted and fall on your head, asshole. Then what are Yoda and I going to do? I know you willed us to Sister and Anna the Amazon and there’re nice and all, but if you’re dead in the backyard who’s gonna save us? There’s nobody to answer our pleas.”

She had a point, my tiny brown puppy had a point. “You have a point, Squirty girl. Maybe you should shut up and stop badgering me and allow me to focus on my work.”

What happened next was that the Squirt spoke about me to Yoda for three hours, and I got mellowed enough to bypass most of my ADD-addled brain malfunctions to concentrate on roofing, and I patched any spots that even suggested a roof failure. Patched a couple places twice, and managed to miss the entire Texas football game, a fact I realized when Mother called me at two-thirty to ask me where I was.

“Where are you, Mooner?” Mother’s first words to my “Hello”.

“On the roof and still in Santa Fe.”

“Well,” Mother told me, “Texas won,” and the dial tone hit my ear.

“Huh? What time is it?”

It was two-thirty-one. “Fuck a buffalo. Squirt, why didn’t you notify me. You were supposed to let me know when the game was starting. You are the timekeeper today.”

Squirt walked from flagstone to grass, squatted her adorable hind end to pee, and flipped over her shoulder, she asked, “Permission to speak, shithead?”

Anyway, I missed a Texas win, a rare thing these days, but did manage to fix my roof. Maybe a fair trade, maybe not. My team has a stretch of tough opponents coming and will need to win most games to get into a bowl.

Maybe this win will stimulate Texas football motivations.

Fuck Walmart in its weakened state!


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The Originating Question; Misleading Keywords Lead To Misantrophy

Tuesday, October 6th, 2015

So.  I’m sitting here to my desk at four am, wondering what, inthefuck, is wrong with humans?  Are we so afraid of death that we feel obligated to wreck our civilizations, our species, our planet?  Are we so brainwashed that we cannot distinguish between right, and terribly—oh, so very terribly—wrong? Why do so many of us—even the best of us—need to believe there is more than there actually is?

OK, those were silly questions because of course we are willing to kill the golden goose that is humanity. We’re marching our way to extinction at an alarming rate of progress.  Mayhaps I’d better communicate by stating “The Originating Question”, tell you the queries that kept me awake last night, elucidate my thoughts thereon, and elicit ideas from you guys.  I, for my part, find myself unable to provide a succinct answer to The Originating Question as I can find numerous answers, several of which are in direct conflict with other answers.  Before I ask you The Originating Question, allow me to provide some background.

I’ve been thinking on religions for several weeks now, wondering why they even exist. Then last week I was in conversation with a very pleasant Christian woman, a woman I call my friend.  Deeply Christian of the evangelical variety, this woman spends considerable time in Bible study and seems to live her life to the answers she finds therein.  She’s kind and considerate and never presses her religion at others.  She is thoughtful and charitable, honest and solid. I like her in spite of her devotion to a fairy tale I see as a danger to humanity.

We were discussing something or another, and my cancer and attendant treatment entered the discourse.  Turns out her friend has prostate cancer, newly diagnosed, and we had a discussion about my experiences.  That discussion led to her telling the friend what I said, and he (him?) getting a positive outcome based upon a lead provided by me.  When I ran into her a few days later, she said to me, she says, “I want to thank you for providing me with that prostate info.  I passed it on, he had a good outcome.”

I told her I was pleased to be of some help and glad to do it.  Then she says to me, she looks Heavenward with her left hand held skyward to the heavens, her right hand—fingers closed in a loose fist held palm down over her heart—and she says to me, “I prayed on it and felt the hand of God as He sent you to me so He could intervene and save Mr. X from the cancer the Devil placed in his prostate.”

While I was almost vibrating with desire to tell her that I have one: felt the actual hand of God, and; two: begged God to make my cancer go away, and; three: been told by God—right to my face while looking Her eye-to-eye as She lay beside me in bed—that it wasn’t Her job to worry about one man’s predetermined propensity to get ill, and die, my God told me She had no interest in altering the natural progressions of things; then I fourth: held my water, smiled and said to my friend, I told her, “Glad I could help.”

ADHD-fueled, grammatically awkward run-on sentence aside, where did “Hold your water” originate, as a phrase, and why do I seem to be writing so many complex, run-on sentences? I know that soldiers and the general populace living in high-walled castles under siege back to the days of burning oil dumps and using The Pear of Anguish for interrogations,  would pour hot oil and likewise pee, and crap, down on the heads of the siegers.  While Microsoft Word has just informed me that “siegers” is not an actual word and for my part I don’t really give a shit, maybe “Hold your water” originated thereat. Therewhen, maybe. You know, “Hang on to that hot oil and enema, soldier, hold them until you see the whites of their eyes.”

Maybe, and maybe not the origins.  If not, this side car is off the rails and totally unrelated to The Original Question, which is stated as follows:

Why did we invent Gods?  That, dear friends, is the question.

Why are we not happy enough simply existing that we feel compelled to imaginate ourselves these powerful deities? Why can we not be satisfied to live our lives in the natural order of things—grow from seed, prosper, procreate, wizen, fall ill and die? Why do we have the need to make ourselves more than the organisms we are? Why can’t we celebrate the simple fact that we’ve evolved—through some lucky spin of the Protoplasm Jackpot Wheel—to be the biggest brains of all species? We dominate every other species on the planet, why is that not enough?

Why do some religious followers speak of the hand of God as some super-freakish intervention into issues which no real god would concern themselves?  Me, I’ve felt the hand of God and it can be a soft as Montana Wildhack’s as She held my face in Her palms to tell me that my sister’s death wasn’t my fault in any way, and it can be as rough as when God showed to hold both of my hands with the guitar-picking callouses and pot-stained fingers of Willie Nelson. The hands of God are actual hands that are not used to answer prayers. God’s hands are for holding, comforting in time of need. At least my God is happy to hold my hand for comfort when I need it.

This one time I questioned my God about prayers, as I see praying as a silly, wasteful substitute for personal effort.  “Prayers are wishes, Mooner,” God told me with the leathery lips of the grapefruit-sized Amazonian sweat toad It used as visage to me.  “People find comfort in counting on their imaginations to work magic, son, so let it go. Let them have their hopes and you move on.”

When I tried to lick God’s back in an effort to revisit a college weekend when Streaker Jones and I met this weird guy from Colombia who had this aquarium stocked with a pair of hallucinogenic sweat toads, I found myself licking the nasty tongue of the Cheshire Cat my God had transmuted into.

Ever accidently licked a cat’s tongue? “Disconcerting” would be the word, and not the least hallucinogenic.

Which reminds me. Have I ever mentioned that I’m crazy? I have all these quite good buddies with whom I love to communicate, and, likewise, love. People with high moral standards, real and true standards. Moral standards not born from selective application of the teachings of some silly cult, but standards developed from the essence of character. Morals with a foundation of fairness to all.

I love their writings and I love to comment thereupon. But for some crazy reason I haven’t been able to pull the trigger in response to their writings for days. I get ready to punch buttons here to my keyboard, and my brain goes all discombobulated and freezes in a swill of words and thoughts. I feel as though I have nothing interesting to say.

It’s weird and is the main subject of my therapy sessions, and when I get it figured out I’ll let you know.

So fuck Walmart in the meantime.


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Post War Rememberies; Modern Physics For the Insane

Tuesday, September 15th, 2015

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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Rotten Apples Can’t Fall Too Far From The Tree; Creepy Crawlers And Other Silly Shit

Thursday, August 27th, 2015

So.  I just got back from a four-day trip up to Colorado.  The intentions were for this trip to be a short respite for the dogs from their daily grind, a chance for me to get my sweaty self in some cooler air, and I fully intended to play a lot of poker.  As the old saying goes about good intentions, our road was paved to Hell when the six-hour drive took—and almost precisely—ten hours.  Santa Fe to Denver is six hours any way you cut it, except and unless our fossil fuel-warmed planet decides to shit all over your plans.

Just south of Colorado Springs, my front seat companion says to me, she says, “That looks like a string of taillights ahead, Mooner.  You better not get us stuck in a traffic jam…  You know the goat dog gets sick in stop-and-go driving, and he got into the compost pile just before we left.  Ate two of the rotten apples you let roll off the heap to the edge of the fence.”

The speaker was Squirtie Girl, my darling puppy harnessed beside me as our copilot, and the goat dog would be Yoda, eater of all things organic and not so organic, who was tethered in the back seat. The severe hail storm that never fucking happens in Santa Fe that happened a month ago banged dents and gashes in what apples it didn’t strip from the trees.  I thought the remainder left clinging to their branches would make it to my kitchen to be washed and eaten, but as the sugars developed so, too, did the rot.

“How the Hell did he get to them through the fence?” I asked Squirt.

“You watched too much news about that shithead who tunneled his way out of a Mexican prison,” she replied.  “He dug a ditch under the fence where you left a gap in the underground wire.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Yoda.  I’m not the one who beat you and slit your throat, I’m your savior.  I’m the person who has made your life better.  Why am I punished with your cleanup?”

In reply, my chastisement was met with a crooked grimace, an emotional whimper and a lick to my hand.  The white-haired hair brain was formerly incarcerated in Oklahoma’s version of Guantanamo Bay for dogs—this puppy mill run by lowlife scum, Christians one and all.  They beat much of the good sense from his tiny skull and cut his vocal chords to quiet his bark.  What is left is a dumb and soft spoken dog that has become my beloved third son.  Gram has talked me off the ledge several times as I packed for a quick trip to Oklahoma for some retribution.

“You ain’t never been in a single Okie jail, Mooner, don’t know any Okie lawmen neither.  Me, I ain’t breakin’ yer ass outta no Okie hoosie cow.  Talk bad ‘bout um over to yer blogeration an’ let it go.”

Good advice from my grandmother, and a clear sign that I still have the ADD.  Since taking the trip to the Coors Beer and Legalized Pot State with the dogs, my focus is worse than that of a Brownie camera.  Remember Brownie cameras?  Only person I know who could make good pics with a Brownie might be my buddy Squatlo over to The Squatlo Rant.  Brownie cameras are what took America’s middle class photos for nearly seventy years, and likewise what made Kodak an everyday name.

Of all the family photos I possess, it is a pic taken by a Brownie—a medium close-up of three ADHD-addled Johnson men—that is most prized.  My grandfather, father and I had just finished painting the barn and were celebrating with icy-cold Carta Blanca beers.  Arms on shoulders, beers held forward, toothy grins all around.  I was thirteen and it was mid-July, maybe a month before the pedophile Baptist deacon Boy Scout leader raped me in the back end of an Oldsmobile Vista Cruiser.

That photograph holds a bundle of mixed metaphoric emotions for me.  It reminds me to be grateful in my own life and to be thoughtful when looking at the lives of others.  And it makes me ever vigilant for pedophiles.

The string of taillights, as things turned out, was caused by a line of severe thunderstorms that covered Colorado’s landscape (and highways) from fifty miles north of The Springs, all the way to our final destination.  An hour of stop-and-go was all Yoda could take before disgorging a belly full of Costco Organic Kibble, two rotten apples and what looked like the remains of a baby sparrow.  I think the neighbor’s cat left the sparrow, but who really gives a shit?

I cleaned the mess from the plastic cover I place under Yoda when we take long road trips, held him tight while scratching his head, and got back on the road to creep our way to Denver.  Which reminds me.

America is starting to give me the creeps.  Our political scene has become a fucking reality show for the benefit of, produced by, and paid for by billionaires.  Billionaires whose amazing greed is so vast that they want ever more $Billions.  $Billions they wish to strip from the crumbling infrastructure of natural and human resources of our once great country.  $Billions stolen from we “commoners”.  $Billions that half of our populace seems willing to give them—hell, eagerly give them.  Some almost beg the rich to steal from them.

It’s fucking creepy, and that reminds me of something else.  I have a slogan for the new female sex-drive drug:

“Puts the recreation back into recreational drugs!”

Someone needs to monitor Bill Cosby’s Medicare drug program—audit his purchasing activities.  Makes me wonder if this new drug works like the mystical Spanish Fly myth from back to the 1960’s.  I guess Cosby’s Roofies served as an actual Spanish Fly on all those women he (allegedly) drugged and raped.

Which brings up a question.  How is a rapist like Bill Cosby any different from Jared the Subway Pedophile?  Children are vulnerable because of powerlessness and inability to understand what is happening, the self-same conditions that are the side effects of a Roofie.  And that brings to bear another reminder.

To the best of my memory, it seems that America was founded and settled by people who, A. Wanted to get away from the established religions of their European homelands so that they wouldn’t be forced to abide another man’s religion, or, B. Wanted to get away from the feral, oppressive class systems whereat the wealthy and well-born exerted great economic and political power to keep commoners under control.  Those countries had indentured servants and slaves, feudal class societies, and a few very rich with many poor.  People were executed for professing to the wrong deities.  There were no middle classes in those societies.

Now, here to modern day Murca, we seem to be willingly pushing ourselves to become what we were founded to escape by killing our middle class.

And that reminds me that I seem to be doing a lot of writing about fuckhead Republicans and dog puke.  Instead, why haven’t I told you that my blood pressure has been in the one-teens over the high sixties with pulse rates in the upper fifties?  Why haven’t I mentioned that I’ve had six conversations in-a-row wherein Mother has been sweet as apple pie?  Why haven’t I told you that God paid me a visit and told me that everything is going to be OK?

Why haven’t I focused my attentions on the positives in life?  OK, I have no attention, what with the ADD and the giant grasshopper hanging to the rough stucco wall outside my office.  He’s a really big sumbitch, which raises a question that I had in vacation Bible school.

We were studying the locus blight from the Bible and were told that the grasshopper invasion was a terrible thing.  Earlier in the summer Buddy Tanner’s dad had come back from The Philippines, whereat he was on a temporary duty assignment for the Air Force.  Buddy shared the various food-grade bugs his daddy brought back as a gift to show cultural differences.  Candied and fried and pickled ants, grasshoppers and worms.

“That doesn’t sound so bad, Mrs. Browningwell,” I instructed.  “Even if the grasshoppers ate all the crops, like you said, they could have eaten the grasshoppers.  The fried ones taste like salted peanuts and the chocolate-covered ones aren’t any different from a box of Whitman’s Samplers.  This sounds like a whole lot of bitching about nothing, like that Noah and the Ark thing.  Do you really expect me to buy that load of crap?”

Second year in-a-row I was early dismissed from Bible school.  And that reminds me to say, “Fuck Walmart!”


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Girl Fights Are Sexy; Liver Talk For The Uninformed

Wednesday, August 5th, 2015

So.  At least for now, “The Great Since the Weather is so Amazing Let’s All Visit Mooner over to Santa Fe Festival” is over.  OK, better said would be to tell you that the last of the most recent spate of visitors here to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe has disembarked—re-embarked, perhaps—and headed away to someplace not La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe.  Since I got back from the WSOP I have had visitors end-to-end.  Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson has a pair of sisters—each of whom I adore, yet in much differing ways—and each of them has friends and families, and…

“Please tell me nobody else is coming,” the Squirt said to me yesterday when I walked back into the house after a final delivery to the airport.  “I’m so sick of company I could puke.”

And she did.

“Jesus Christ, little lady, whatinthefuck have you been eating?”

I examined the loose pile of partially digested banana mush, corn nuts, baby lettuce greens and granola bar blended with wheat grass juice that lay strewn on my newly-finished wood floor.  “Goddammit, Aunt Lulu.”

Like Mother, Aunt Lulu feeds the dogs when I’m not looking, in spite of my many protestations that they not.  Ever tried to clean French Country Truffled Pate with cornichon pickles from a hand woven rug?  Anybody know how to get a dog to clean up its own mess other than to have her eat it again, and puke it all over the fucking place?


I would consider trading my dogs over for a pair of cats, but I’d end up lonely with a pair of fucking cats.  I actually like cats when contact is kept to maybe 90-seconds at a time, and I’ve never met a cat who talked back the way the Squirt does.  I love that little brown puppy—and she can be good company and great comfort, occasionally—but the back-talking is quite trying on my tattered nerves.

“Don’t you even get all up in my ass about my upset stomach, shithead.  You’re the one invited all those women to stay and feed me rich food.  And you need to get ready for a special treat.  Aunt Lulu fed the goat dog half a liverwurst sandwich on Saturday and he hasn’t had a shit since.”

“Jesus Christ,” said by me, again, and this time in defeat.  “I need a vacation.”

Which reminds me.  Is it just me or does it seem like conservative old white men are losing their grip on American politics and societal influences?   Are there more of we anti-‘Namers still breathing than those who happily shipped Baby Boomers over to Asia to die for absolutely nothing?  This summer’s Republican voter population is like a herd of shipwrecked rats—climbing all over each other and fighting for the last available dry plank as their ship prepares to take that incredible plunge to the depths of a cold, cold sea.

I find it interesting how different kinds of people deal with pending disasters in such dichotomous ways.  Always have.  In grade school, the nicer boys and most girls handled disputes and crises in gentle ways.  Attempts to compromise, offers to give something in return to get pressure relief, and sometimes total acquiescence are typical ways those kids deal with defeat.  How many times have you heard—or said—to another as a child, “OK, you win.”

Then there are those other kids—the ones who are bullies or self-absorbed or spoiled, or simply greedy, bigoted assholes.  They lose anything and they want to fight or bring some other harm, or they call you names or they threaten with promises to tell on you or have somebody else come to “get you”.  Or, they wait for you to turn your back.

Think about whomever it is who would like to see Donald Trump as our president.  Look at the stands taken by Trump and try to imagine what kind of human would support those stands as taken by The Donald.

Me, I see a dying breed of angry, selfish old white men who have seen the future and the future is brown, culturally and religiously diverse, and mostly female.  And like rats, I see them ready to eat their own to save themselves.  I see their attempts to, “Bring Christianity back to America,” as the last desperate death troughs of a dying breed.  And that reminds me of something else.

Rhonda Rousey is hot.  I’m just saying.

Fuck Walmart!



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All Hail The Garden; Daddy And Them Pay A Visit

Tuesday, July 21st, 2015

So.  It’s been an interesting week here to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe.  My still delicate and tender veggie patch—this year containing mostly tomatoes, peppers and herbs—was, effectively, strip searched and deep cavity inspected by a hail storm that marched across town like Sherman stormed through Atlanta.

OK, except for the fire, raping and pillaging, I liken my damages by hail to Sherman’s March.  That would be the hail storm that Santa Fe, “Never has.”  Ask a Santa Fe native about the weather here and they’ll tell you, “It blah, blah, and blahs …but it never hails.  Heavy sleet, maybe, but never actual hail.”

Does too hail, did hail, and the fucking hail stripped my plants to their skin and beat them black-and-blue and broken in the process.

“Would you look at that!” the Squirt said to me as the three of us stood gazing through the rabbit fence surrounding my tomato patch.  “It looks like a scene from that prison movie we rented a couple weeks ago.”

With that, the adorable bundle of brown fur and unfettered wonderment chuckled.  “Take all your clothes off and bend over, fellas,” she chuckled some more.

“Bend over and spread them cheeks, girls,” I replied with a chuckle of my own. “Lets us see what sort a con-tri-band you’re a-tryin’ to smuggle in ta my jail.”

We surveyed the rest of the estate to find half our apples and pears either down for the count, or battered so badly they needed to be removed from their branches.  Everything except my little succulent garden was beat, and all to Hell.

“You replanting, boss man?  There’s no produce coming off this patch.”

I thought on the tiny dog’s question.  Thought some more.  “Maybe, but maybe not.  It’s already mid-July and I’m too busy to nurse young plants.  Besides, this climate change that isn’t real has screwed-up everything.  It’s liable to snow in September and kill the new tomatoes before they ripen.”

“But they say it never snows in September in Santa Fe,” she told me.

“Exactly,” the most precise response I had.

That’s when I noticed the goat dog over in the corner of the yard where the pear tree sits.  Yoda was gobbling the downed pears like he was in an eating contest.  Squirt said to me, she said, “Look at Joey Chestnut over there, Mooner.  Looks like we’ve got a new world record for pears eaten in the fifteen-pound weight class.  If he doesn’t puke those pears up before taking a shit, I’m catching a bus outta town, and you can clean up the mess.  Remember when he ate the five-pound bag of Cheetos?”

OK, before my ADD takes over this conversation and drives the Squirt’s bus into the ditch, I want to tell you something.  This is something about which I’ve long debated even mentioning, much less fully-disclosing, yet thinking of that issue reminds me to tell you that Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson is here with her sister and buddies for a short visit.  It isn’t that they wanted to visit me, but, and rather, this last weekend was our International Folk Art Festival time.  Same festival whereat last year I stumbled upon Ali McGraw and bumbled my way to fumble a chance for a date.

That International Festival.  “Hey, look ladies,” I asked Sammie and her court in an almost conspiratorial way. “Keep your eyes peeled for Ali McGraw.  If you see her, put in a good word for me and then call.  I can be there in twenty minutes.  I’m working on a new opening line and it’s ready for a debut.”

The four women gathered at my breakfast table, eating bacon, eggies and biscuits I prepared for them, and sipping mimosas mixed and poured by me, burst out laughing as if on cue at some fucking sit-com rehearsal.  One of them actually spit a mouthful of orange juice-thinned champagne in a spray.

Sammie’s sister choked back her guffaw enough to say to me, she said, “Really, Mooner.  Ali McGraw, Mooner,” yuk, yuk, yuk, wipe of tears from eyes, yuk and yuk some more.  “Sam told us you’d gotten more delusional since moving from Austin, but really.  Ali McGraw?”

I think I might actually be starting to enjoy my lack of close female companionship.  While the Squirt is female, and she does get all up in my ass for no real reason, the lack of sexual tensions keeps her bullshit at manageable levels.  Never need to worry about saying the wrong thing to my tiny puppy and having the backlash be me getting no poontang.

And that reminds me of something else.  How ‘bout that Pope Francois, huh?  How about that Popester?  Me, if I had dedicated my entire life to promoting two millennia’s worth of dogma created by generations of greedy, murderous bastards, and all justified by a story with so many holes that it makes Swiss cheese seem as dense as a gold brick, I don’t know if I’d be strong enough to be so concerned with the little people or even the environment as is La Pope’.  Me, I’d be pissed and want the rest of the entire fucking world to be just as miserable as I.

Me, I’d be like all those other Popes before our boy Frankie.  Me, I’d be a miserable old shithead spending as much time keeping my good Catholic masses chained to the cross and whipped by the ridiculous tenants used over the centuries to control their minds.  And their pocketbooks.

Going to make the Presidential politics quite interesting, this Pope is.  Of the announced candidates, O’Malley, Christie, little Jebbie Bushkins, Marco Ruby Slippers, and Ricky Sanitorium are all good Catholic boys.  Except for Bush, they were each born and reared Catholic, so they know they are responsible to follow the Pope’s teachings to the letter—that would be to the fucking letter, boys.  All of the Pope’s teachings, not just the ones you find to be politically expedient.  Bush converted so he could marry a good Catholic girl, so I’m giving him an excuse card to be an asshole and flip-flop on his Catholicism.  Any man out there knows, as my good buddy Squatlo likes to say, that, “Pussy makes you stupid!”  But not the rest of them—they need to be held to the letters of the Pope.

I can’t wait to see the flow charts showing who takes what stands both using their religion to take a position, and then defying that same religion to take another stand.  Two-faced, bigoted pig fuckers.  The rest of the religious-righties are just as squirrely with the words in their books of fables, but the Catholics are the only ones with a single leader with whom their God has installed a hotline of direct communication.

Then, and again, if that scenario is true and the Catholic God speaks directly to the Pope, then I have proof positive that there are at least two Gods—their Catholic fellow (Fellow, maybe) and my God.  Having said that, I’m reminded that my God paid me a visit over the weekend.  Not certain with any absoluteness which day as I spent the weekend partying with the girls, if you know what I mean, and assuming you know I mean no party sex included.

Must have been Saturday night because I don’t remember sitting outside late Sunday night in the rain.  I was sort of nodding off in the wicker rocking chair that sits on the portal and contemplating how I would introduce myself to Ali McGraw when my God arrived sitting at my feet in that silly cross-legged yoga pose.  God looked like Charlize Theron but spoke with Billy Bob Thornton’s voice—what I would have imagined to be a disconcerting combination, but I found it to be quite pleasant.

“Hey, God, how’s it hanging this fine summer eve?”

“Are you ever going to get a new pick-up line, dumass?” God asked me in BBT’s slow-cadenced drawl.  “And you need to forget about Ali McGraw and Sammie both.  Neither has the time or patience to deal with your issues.  I hear Bo Derrick is headed to town—maybe that could work out for you.”

“I’ve got a new pick-up line in a queue, Ma’am, and no thanks on the Ms. Ten offer, big Girl.  I heard her bitching as to how she hates her looks now that she’s “matured”.  I need a woman with both feet solidly planted on the ground and the guts to work her way through the early months with an ADHD-addled old fuckball.  Maybe you could help me land Laura Dern.  I think she’d be really interesting and her daddy is a handful, like me.  Hey, isn’t her mother Diane Ladd?  I’d date Diane Ladd, and hey—didn’t Billy Bob drop Laura Dern to marry Angelina?  That was a giant fucking mistake, if you ask me.  What do you think?”

God was gone.  Sometimes I wish my God were more like the Pope’s God—force a little action rather than simply counsel me.  I could use a little Divine intervention in my dating life.  Might could use a touch of reality as well.  But a man needs to have lofty goals, right?

So, fuck Walmart!


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WSOP News; Pope Francis Bushwhacks Little Jebbie

Friday, July 3rd, 2015

So.  I’m back from a visit to the World Series of Poker (WSOP) out to Las Vegas.  I played in the Super Seniors event, my plan to achieve some sort of notoriety in the poker world.  I planned to be among the youngest in the tournament in an effort to have more stamina than most others, I planned to play my best, focused game, and I planned to make it to the money.  What I did not plan was to have Mr. Dan Harrington placed to my immediate right at the three-hour twelve-minute mark.

For those of you unfamiliar with Dan, he won the Main Event in 1995, won a World Poker Tour event, is in the Poker Hall of Fame, and has written seven of the best books on poker ever written.  In fact, in preparation for playing in the WSOP, I ordered his latest book on playing tournaments such as the one I played.  Due to a snafu in Amazon’s delivery systems, the book arrived only two days before I left for Vegas.

“I bought your latest book to study for this event,” I told Dan soon after he was seated, and I added, “it came late and I only finished something over half of it.”

Dan, he and I were on a first name basis by then, said to me, he said with a grin, “Missing that last half is going to be a problem for you.”

I went card dead about then, and Dan Harrington demonstrated the power of his written words for the next six-and-a-half hours as he brutalized my dwindling stack of chips.  In a final move of desperation, with a quite small remaining stack of chips, I moved all-in with a suited King-Ten, just behind Dan’s minimum raise.  They were suited Spades, and possibly the suit influenced my move.

“Bad timing, Mooner,” he said somewhat sadly, and he flipped over the two red Aces.

That’s the best of my poker stories as I was knocked out by Dan Harrington at about number 390 of the original 1,533 entrants.  I played pretty well and only made one known mistake over ten hours of play.  And I made my final stand against a world class player, and very classy man.

Oh, and the other interesting thing that happened was at a cash game there to the Rio Casino where the WSOP is played.  I’m sitting in the five seat—that’s immediately facing the dealer across the table in a nine-handed cash game—and a new dealer sat down.  Tables are ten-handed for tournaments yet nine players sit to play cash.  They change dealers every thirty minutes as a rule, and this new dealer was a trim woman of Asian heritage.  After a couple of hands, she began pitching cards at me as if she were attempting to cut carrots—like those card tricksters do.  All the while this woman has the look of a feral dog in her eyes, piercing looks focused on me that made everyone at the table uncomfortable.

My cards are bouncing off my chips, the side of the table, and she would fire them at my hands, mostly at my left hand—the one with the fly tattoo.  As I had said nothing and not entered any pots since she sat down, I was perplexed.  I usually can quickly determine why a woman is pissed at me, but not this time.

“Have I said or done anything to upset you?” I inquired.

Getting no answer except the continued stare and card tossings, I said, I said, “Either tell me what I did and maybe I’ll apologize and you’ll quit being a bitch to me, or call the Floor Manager and we’ll let him arbitrate our issue.”

She dealt another hand, and when she threw the sharp-edged cards at my chest she said, “You Devil!”

“You Devil!” as the first hit my belly, and “You Devil!” when the second hit my shirt pocket and bounced back onto the table face up.  It was the King of Spades, the self and same card that helped end my tournament run.

“Must be that silly tattoo on your hand, sir,” one of the other players said.

“Some Asian cultures have quirky superstitions,” from another.

Me, I simply folded the hand and grabbed my chips and moved on—actions by me which I think might show some modicum of personal growth.  Historically, that would have been a time whereat I’d likely ended tasered and jailed, or at least banned from the casino.  I don’t cotton to rudeness or bigotry either one, and I’m quick to take a stand.

Maybe it was the calming karma of the Spanish Bottle Fly tattoo that helped me find the capacity to walk away rather than involve myself in an exercise to insure that rude behavior be punished.  I felt good about walking away for maybe a half-hour, and then I got pissed at myself.  I got to thinking that the woman’s superstition was religious-based and if I’m to stand against religious prejudice as a matter of principle, then Consistency must be my middle name.

Then again, maybe it was the simple fact that the King of Spades landed face up and that was an affecting aspect effecting my actions, and that reminds me. My Gram left Santa Fe with her young college boy early the day before I headed to Vegas.  We shipped her wrecked Italian sports car to Austin on a flatbed truck, and I dropped off the sex partners at the airport.

“I luv ya, ya little shitbird,” Gram told me with a sloppy kiss and a bony hug.  “An’ go see yer crazy fuckin’ mother, Mooner.  She ain’t well.”

Mother isn’t well.  She fell several times and then caught pneumonia while I was gone.  I’m planning a trip to San Antonio to be with Mother while Sister and Anna the Amazon take a little time off from Mother’s care.  It’ll be the first time I see her since the wedding, and the first time Sister and her wife will be a legitimate married couple wherever they choose to vacation.

And that reminds me of something else.  Jeb Bush responded to the Pope’s positions on the environment and income inequality by saying this:  “…I don’t go to mass for economic information or political policy…”

Oh, really?  You don’t go to mass for political policies?  What about taking a religious stand on abortion because your precious Popie says so?  Same-sex marriage?  Birth control?  Why do you segregate the Pope’s positions on economics and pollution from those he takes on birth control and personal sex partnering?

The Religious Right might have finally been boxed into the corner they have been painting for centuries.  Might Pope Francis be the one to shine Devine light, and a final gallon of bright pink paint, on their hypocrisies?

Fuck Walmart!

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Gassing Up For Summer; A Johnson Family History Lesson

Wednesday, June 17th, 2015

So.  It’s been four days since Gram showed up to my door unannounced, driven in a tow truck that also special delivered her crumpled-up red sports car, and with said crusty old bird towing a young college student by his pecker.  It’s been four days of fun times spent with the mangy dog that is my grandmother, and not so fun times of cleaning up after her.  As my grandmother’s presence often sets fire to my ADHD, I’ll make every effort to provide concise elucidations on the subjects addressed.

We fixed a BBQ together Sunday afternoon whereat the dogs and I were responsible for the meat and corn-on-the-cob, and Gram took charge of the potato salad and pinto beans.  Since Gram is, as she calls herself, “Tha best pinter beanies cookerator in all a Travis County and abouts,” she’s the chief bean chef whenever beans are on the menu.  Unless it’s green beans or soy beans.

“I ain’t fixin’ no eat ur mammy beaners, Mooner, ain’t eatin’ um neithers.  Fuckin’ Russian fart pellets iff’n ya ask me.  Doc Ashburn flinches ever time he sees me anymore,” she told me when I asked her to cook beans for the BBQ.

“If you’d chew your food better, Gram, you’d have much less gas, factual information the entire family wants you to know.”

While Gram did have that incident when she almost put out old Doc Ashburn’s eye during a rectal exam the one time after we ate at a sushi place, I’ve fed her edamame several times since without any gassy complaints.

Our boy Tommy was assigned to, “You be a watchin’ Mooner out there to tha grill, Mr. T, and you learn a thing er six.  Mooner mad cooks piggy meat.  Goat an’ chicken too.”

Tommy stayed with me long enough to drink half a beer and for me to get the grill hot before he headed back inside.  “Need a beer coozie, Mr. Johnson, be right back.”

The Squirt giggled as she watched Tommy’s back disappear through the back door.  “He must have been a virgin when Gram snared him, bwana Mooner.  He’s got nothing else on his mind.”

“Yes ma’am, little lady.  Boy better start pacing himself or Gram’s gonna kill him.  Which reminds me.  Do you know where the bottle of Nu Skin is?  I haven’t seen it since I was changing the light bulb in the dining room and cut that chunk of flesh off my arm.  Fucking curio cabinet.  Tommy’s liable to need some flesh repairs, if you know what I mean.  Rub a cucumber against a leather saddle long enough, cucumber’s likely to lose considerable skin.”

We both laughed, and headed inside to prepare the vegetables for dinner.

OK, having written this much of today’s nonsense, I’m struck by the sense that I have located yet another reason I make up words.  I now realize that, in addition to the many reasons I have enumerated before, I’m long trained by my grandmother to use literary license when congregating my verbages.  Conjugating adverbs as well.  Take, for example, her word “cookerator”.  Please carefully evaluate that word in the context provided by me, herein and above, and tell me she didn’t nail it.  Or as she might be prone to say, “I nailerated it, shithead.”

Did I ever tell you about the time Gram, Mother and I visited Mother’s family back to Virginia right after Daddy died?  My father died but a couple years after his own and a year before Mother’s mother was murdered. It was a few tough losses for us and we took Mother back East to see what family she had left not named Johnson.  It was while on that trip that Gram had her coming-out moment.  Mother was visiting an old buddy and left Gram and I to fend for ourselves.  We were discussing what to do when my Gram opened my eyes to her state of mind.

“I been a right good wife ta yer granddaddy, Mooner—never did have any poontanger with another man.  Married at almost fourteen, we was, an’ I never did even looksee at another man,” giggle, slap of hands to thighs, more giggling,”’ceptin’ fer tha one time when Willie danced with me over to tha Broken Spoke back to ’72,” giggle, pause, angelic smile.  “I’d a put Willie right on down to tha floor an’ made yer granddaddy watch, Mooner.  Willie Nelson is one sexy cowboy!”

Gram then told me that she had fifty years to make up, and I needed to get her laid.  As Maryland blue crabs from the Chesapeake Bay are one of my food weaknesses, I took her to this crab place on the bay near the Virginia/Maryland border.  “Henry’s” was its name and they served steamed crabs with bay seasoning, cold beer and fresh corn, and they had a country hoe down every Saturday night.

And why, inthefuck, is a country dance called a hoe down.  My best thoughts would be that the working folk put down their hoes to have a good time, but really?

Big place, Henry’s, and filled to the rafters with diners and dancers.  We ate a dozen crabs and many ears of corn and swilled beers for an hour or so.  The beers, Old Dominion of brand and icy cold served, filled our hands—me watching for a suitable lady, and my Gram looking at each man like she was searching for lice in my hair back to elementary school.

“What’s wrong, Gram?” I asked her.  “There’s fifty men hanging out with no dates.  One of them has got to fit your scheme of things.”

“Too fuckin’ old, sonny boy.  Got fifty year’s a sextin’ all stored up.  I don’t wanna kill my first un, now do I?”

She finally settled on a young man of maybe nineteen who was there with his parents and a pretty girl I assumed was his date.  That was the last actual fistfight I was in, except for that one time at the lesbian meeting for Sister and Anna the Amazon, and the only time served by me in a Virginia jail.  Nice people, Virginia cops.

Gram failed to land the young Virginia lover boy that night, but she did learn a valuable lesson.  “Need ta git me a man hookie, Mooner.  Sumthin’ ta cerebriate mysef from them young girls.”

After cogitating how to cerebrally differentiate herself in a young man’s mind, she settled on a bright red Ferrari, and Gram has hooked young boys with that car better than stink bait snags catfish on a treble hook.  Evidence young Tom, still a fixture in the spare bedroom here to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe.

Anyway, I went inside to replenish my cooler with beer while the dogs and I did the only cooking getting done, and Gram’s pinto beans were boiling over on the stove.  Hell’ova mess, let me tell you, and an absolute bitch to clean.  Fire-baked-on bean juice is like brown enamel on a stove top.  Took so long to clean it up, I worried that Gram and Tommy were dead in the guest room, and I burned the pig meat outside.

“Looks like we’re headed to Dr. Field Goods,” Squirt said with excited tail waggings.  “Remember that the goat dog likes the spicy Italian sausage, and I want a simple Margarita, pizza” she informed me.  “Oh, oh, oh, and get me some chicken liver pate, if you please, sir.”

The pizzas were great and the pate good enough to eat off of Michelle Bachmann’s Lilly white epidermis while listening to her make a stump speech.

Fuck Walmart!

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Walk A Mile In My Shoes; Grandmother Sex For Dummies

Friday, June 5th, 2015

So.  I’m sitting at my dining room table with the dogs early yesterday morning.  We were drinking our daily Cup a Joe—a scenario whereat I have a full cup of strong coffee, then share licky-slurps from the drained cup with my furry charges.  Squirt always gets first licks as she is of shorter snout and tongue, and the Gene Simmons’ tongued Yoda laps what’s left in the overly-deep coffee mug I bought just because of this disparity of lingual lengths.

I drink my coffee while reading the flimsy local paper, had finished that before the coffee was gone, and was watching Sports Center on the TV.  Seems that all the greedy FIFA officials will finally pay their penances, and all is now well in the sports world.

OK, except for the rest of the greed, player violence on others, and Olympics corruption, arresting FIFA fuckwads pretty much clears up the worst sports offenders of our day.

My day was clear as well, and as the dogs and I were starting to converse about plans, I heard the screaming sounds of an Italian sports car winding high and tight in a low gear.  Santa Fe has many wealthy individuals who own, and sort of drive, expensive autos.  I’ve bore witness to old geezers over-revving and missing gears on our streets and thought nothing of it.  It seemed that these current sounds were from a mile off and headed away—towards town—then disappeared from earshot.

We three decided to go walking up to the Canyon Road art district to scope out any attractive, cultured patrons in need of the warmth and comfort of a local bon vivant, and I was putting on my sneakers when the high-pitched whine of what could only be a Ferrari hit my ears like the buzz of a giant horse fly.  The sound grew closer as the big 12-cylinder engine wound to its maximum tightness, grew closer still, then the air filled with the grind of a collision that sounded like a shot.

“That asshole drives worse than Gram,” the Squirt said.  “Old farts shouldn’t drive Ferraris, Mooner.  Ferraris are expensive to repair.”

She giggled and said, she told me with a giant smile, “That sounds so much like your grandmother’s driving, wouldn’t it be funny if it is her?”

I didn’t laugh.  I still keep a garage on retainer back to Austin to make repairs on Gram’s bright red machine, and the sounds of shredded metal brought me unhappy memories.  “Sometimes I think it would be cheaper to just buy her a new car every few months.  Or maybe I should learn to do body work.”

The Squirt laughed aloud.  “You,” and here she laughed some more, “can’t change a lightbulb without doing damage to yourself or breaking something.”

“That’s mean, little lady.  I’m a good home repair artist,” I answered, a tad bit hurt at her comment.  “I’ve not needed any stitches this year and haven’t started a single electrical fire.”

She and I debated my skills around the house and were designing a challenge.  I was to change the filter on the HVAC system, remove the hair from all the sinks and the two bath tub drains, and put new plastic string line on the weed eater before noon.  Should I accomplish those tasks before 12 O’clock, without personal injury or additional damages, Squirt promised to make the goat dog stop peeing inside the house for an entire week.  Should I fail, I have to take them for long walks at sites of their choosing for the next seven days.

It was as I wrote out the contest agreement for our signatures that I heard the sound of a big truck’s air brakes in the street in front of our house.  After the shoosh and pop and screech of pressurized air release, then a pause, we were treated to the sounds of a hydraulic lift gate lowering to the pavement.

“Wha tha fuck?” I muttered, jumping from the table and heading out the front door to the porch.  I tippy-toed to look over the wall and was treated to the sight of a bright red Ferrari—front-end smashed and crumpled—lowering out of sight.  I raced to the gate in my bare feet, bruising my soles on the gravel with each step.  As I swung the gate open, I was met with the cheery countenance of my grandmother, hand-in-hand with a young man wearing a University of Texas tee shirt, a pair of cut-off shorts, and an expression of sheer terror mixed with the afterglow of sex.

“Hi ya, Mooner.  Put on sum fuckin’ pants an’ meet Jimmy here.”

Did I mention that I like to read the paper in my undies?  This was when the wrecker driver approached and handed me a bill.  He said, “Mrs. Johnson, here, gave the other driver a check for his damages, so all you owe me is $150.00 for the tow.”

“A hundred fifty?  I play poker with Tommy and I know he’d charge me half that.”  I was pissed.  “Didn’t I give you Jimmy’s card last time you were here?” I scolded at Gram.

I told the driver to bill me and walked out to look at the car.  It was a total mess. When I walked back inside to properly welcome and appropriately scold my Gram, she, and Tommy, were not waiting on me.

“There’re in the guest room, Bwana.  Asked if you’d bring their bag from the car and put it outside the door.  Gram said they haven’t had no sexing since Clovis and that she is all backed up.”  Squirt giggled like a little girl tickled on her feet.  “Maybe we should take a walk, give them a little privacy.”

Been doing a lot of walking.  Now I’m headed to play poker and I’m realizing that my randy old grandmother has been in this house only one day, and she’s had twenty times more sex here than have I.

And did I tell you that Santa Fe doesn’t have a Ferrari mechanic?

Fuck Walmart.

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Memorial Day Melody; Soldiering On Without Christ

Monday, May 25th, 2015

So.  What, exactly, is Memorial Day?  I mean really, whatinthefuck is Memorial Day all about?  This question is asked because I had a bad night at the poker table Friday, and returned home to read an unread newspaper while sitting out to the back portal with the dogs, three bottles of Carta Blanca, and a fatty rolled with a new delivery of Cherry Bomb medicinal.  As the Squirt is learning to read, I attempted to use the paper for the night’s lessons.

Again, your New Mexico primer will tell you that a portal is a covered porch, whereat I took a deep drag from the joint and a deeper drain from the first beer.  After giving each dog a slip of beer from my finger, I invited the Squirt into my lap and asked, “OK, my little dumplin’, what you want to read about tonight?”

“Holiday festivities,” she replied without any hesitation.  “Let’s decide what we’re doing this weekend.”  She was now in my face, tail wagging.  “And poker is not on the list, asshole, you play too much poker and stay gone too long already.  The goat dog needs to be let outside more often or you’ll pay the price.”

The tiny brown bundle of excitement and dog dander poked her nose right to mine and fixed her best steely gaze on me.  When I didn’t say anything, she said to me, she said, “You know I can go hours without blinking, shithead, so tell me no poker for these next three days.  I’m staring you down!”

I was planning to spend all weekend with my two furry charges anyway, but I was just buzzed enough to play games with the Squirt.  I reached for my beer and slid the nose of the bottle sideways between her snout and mine, and tipped a slight dribble of beer down my chin.  Never one to let spilt Carta Blanca make it from chin to shirt, Squirt lapped and licked my chin, said actions removing her steely stare from mine.

“Gotcha!” I gleefully said, “who’s your stare daddy, huh?  Who is your fucking stare daddy?”

I usually lose these battles of will and laser looks, so a celebration was in order.  “Let’s fire up the grill and cook up a midnight snack.  Anybody want a pork chop?”

My favorite Santa Fe restaurant is Dr. Field Goods, and Josh, the owner, opened a charcuterie—that would be a deli not necessarily of kosher orientations—whereat he butchers his own P.I.G. hogs and beefs, makes sausages and pates and mortadella and sammies and shit.  A couple buddies and I had lunch there Wednesday at the deli counter and I had the BLT with chicken liver mousse.  I promise you here and now that I’d be a very gay man if peckers tasted as good as that sandwich.

OK, I’d be a bi-sexual person, as simply liking the taste of pecker wouldn’t quench my ravaging appetite for ravishing female body parts.  Maybe that explains bi-sexual orientations in a quite simple way.  If I, as a person, can like a head cheese, mortadella and sweet pickle sandwich just as much as I do a vegan salad, why can’t another person, such as Drew Barrymore, enjoy the close company of both men and women?  Really, somebody tell me the goddam difference.  Maybe pussy tastes like crème brulee to Drew.

Josh gets his whole piggies from a local farmer, and that brings up another fucking question.  Why are cow raisers called cattle “ranchers,” yet we call the herders of piggies hog “farmers”?  I get that we call cow milk facilities farms—so as to distinguish between simply consuming Elsie’s lactoids and actually eating the entire milk factory—but if it’s a cattle ranch when the bovines are raised to eat, why not pig ranches when the porcines are simply fatted to market?  We don’t drink pig milk, for shitsakes, so what’s up with that dealio?

OK, maybe there’s some loony old pig rancher over to Kentuckered-out wallowing in the mud to milk Daisy the sow, but there is no easily identifiable market for his product.  And don’t start that shit about size matters, or free range bullshit.  Won’t fly, just like the pigs.  I saw a hog raising facility up to Iowa this one time that was as big as any cattle ranch.  At least I think it was Iowa.  Might have been Nebraska.  Or maybe Alabama.  It was back in the day when you could drink and drive, and Streaker Jones and I had been road tripping for a couple weeks.  Gigantic, stinky fucking smell for miles as we drove past all the pigs.  Wouldn’t eat bacon for a week, a record for me, as I love me some bacon.  Didn’t like the taste of beer either and had to switch to Jack Daniels for my thirst quenchings.

Maybe that means we were over to the back woods of Tennessee when encountering the dense, heavy odors of intensified hog husbandry.  Two stoners in a 1967 GTO can eat up some ground over fourteen days’ time.

Which reminds me.  This guy asked me the other day what it’s like to have ADD.  I’mma email this to him, tell him to read it three times.

I think what must have sparked today’s writings was rememberating this man who suggested that the official song for Memorial Day needs to be Onward Christian Soldiers.  The man was Pastor Browningwell back to Mother’s Baptist Church in Austin, Texas, and the occasion was one of the last days I spent in that Hellhole over which he presided some fifty years ago.  It was a special Memorial Day service, and that old gasbag—a young gasbag then, I guess—was extolling the virtue of all those Christian boys who died for our freedom, and likewise how there’s no atheists in a foxhole.  He preached that all good soldiers were, likewise, good Christian boys.  All the good soldiers had taken Jesus as their savior and lord.

I fidgeted and squirmed through most of the lecture without opening my mouth, but when the pastor mentioned that all the dead soldiers had gone on to meet Jesus in Heaven, my mouth overrode my controls and went all auto-pilot.

“That doesn’t make any kind a sense, Pastor Browningwell,” my mouth announced to the parts of the congregation who were still awake.  “Abe Bernstein’s daddy died in the war, and you said Jews don’t meet Jesus.  Abe’s daddy was over there to the Battle of the Bulge with Jimmy Simpson’s uncle Wheezy.  Wheezy said that Abe’s daddy was a good soldier, a hero, and…”

My ear still hurts from where Mother nearly twisted it out by its roots, and while the Christians have not yet officially stolen the meaning of Memorial Day, they have kidnapped its public persona.

Our multi-ethnic, multi-religious military inductees fought and died in service for all American freedoms—each and every fucking freedom—not those freedoms cherry-picked by right wing conservative Christian assholes.  Freedoms of speech and choice; freedoms from oligarchy and religious oppression—those freedoms our Founding Fathers actually founded America upon, and not the pretended right wing freedoms.  Our freedoms are now manipulated and narrowed to only include freedoms to screw with peoples’ lives when they disagree with perverted Christian beliefs.

And while I’m not any kind of Bible scholar, I have been forced to studiy enough of the New Testament to have a quite clear understanding that Jesus—as reported on the pages therein—was a total and complete pacifist.  Total, complete died-in-the-wool, get your 4-F deferment or head off to Canada kind of pacifist.  Jesus would be pissed if He knew somebody even wrote a war song in His name, much less led armies on a fucking Crusade while flying His banner.  Where in the Bible did Jesus say, “Go forth from England and France with arrows and shields and smite down the curved sword-carrying Barbarians in My name for committing the mortal sin of occupying my sacred birth land.  Fucking Turkish infidels!”

Stop beginning my Memorial Day ceremonies with a Christian prayer.  Pray to all the fucking Gods, or none at all.  Ugh.  Here I am on a holiday all pissed off again.

Anyway, I bought these pork chops from over to the charcuterie—fat, bone-in jobbies—and fired up the grill.  I hit them with salt and pepper and slapped them to the hot grill.  When they were almost ready, I shook half-a-bottle of woostieshire over them and let it caramelize.

“Holy shit!” the Squirt mumbled with a watery mouth.

“Holy shit, indeed,” I told her.  “Some of this is Holy shit, indeed.”

Fuck Walmart, y’all.

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

Wednesday, May 20th, 2015

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who wants to go first?” Mother asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Burnt Tire Residue Blues; Soul Cleansing For Lunatics

Sunday, May 17th, 2015

So.  It’s Friday and on Fridays I play in what is a high stakes poker game when factoring into the equation that I am a retired person not yet collecting my government pension, and that I live in New Mexico.  When compared to poker games in Las Vegas, my Friday game is puny.  But by New Mexico standards, this afternoon’s start of a Pot Limit Omaha High-Low Eight or Better contest is considered a really big game—mayhaps the biggest casino poker game in our state.  I’ve heard rumors of private games that match Vegas pot sizes, but this game is legal New Mexico poker’s 800 pound gorilla.

We call it PLO Hi-Lo for short, and I’m new to the game.  I started a couple months ago when I first sat to the table with the same fascinations of a twelve-year-old boy hiding in the bathroom with his daddy’s playboy—excitements with something new, fears of getting caught, nerve tingling danger.  I had long watched this game played at my favorite casino, shaking my head at the numbers of chips and $100 bills in some pots and the seeming ease with which players would make, and call, “I bet the pot,” bets.  To bet the pot is to match any previous bets, then double that amount.  For two years I watched, at first just a voyeur and then as a student.

PLO Hi-Lo is a richly-textured, complex game and an absolute bitch for a man whose ADD-addled brain most resembles last Sunday’s leftover scrambled eggs, yet it is those complexities that can make it manageable having attention deficits.  To pay attention to PLO Hi-Lo is to have many of your swirling thoughts focused in one direction, a mental acuity that can well serve.  PLO is Hold ‘Em with four hole cards—double your pleasure, quadruple your confusions.

I watched for two years yearning to play, yet fearful of the risks to my poker bankroll.  I have a self-imposed limit to the funding of my hobby that one hand of PLO Hi-Lo could bankrupt.  Only the best players sit at this table, and these people can smell fear better than a shark can sense blood in the water.  Numerous times I would tell myself that I was going to hit the casino early on a Friday and play the game.  Couldn’t pull the trigger.

Then one day I was playing at my second favie casino down to the ABQ, and one of the dealers I like asked me if I’ve started playing in “The Big Game” up to Santa Fe.  Players and dealers at other casinos call it The Big Game.  I said I’d love to, but just couldn’t get myself seated.

She halted action in our Hold ‘Em game and asked me, she asked, “What the Hell are you afraid of?  You have cancer and gray hair.  Play that game before you start drooling on yourself.”

Except for the other man with gray hair, the entire table, me included, laughed.  One guy said, “Now I know how to bluff you, Mooner.  PLO, PLO, PLO!!!”

Again, they, and I, laughed.

I drove home that day and realized I already drool on my chin occasionally, so I decided I’d play.  I played that Friday in late January and won, and I’ve have played each Friday since, and that brings me to what it is that I want to tell you.  Poker players as a rule, have superstitions—personal idiosyncrasies believed to bring good, or bad, luck.  Me, I’ve never thought myself as superstitious in any way.  I do have consciously applied habits at the poker table that are designed to help me task focus my ADD, but I’ve never tied the habits to a particular outcome.

Until this one day in February.  I’m driving to The Big Game, and at the last overpass before my exit there are fresh tire skid marks that start in the right lane and go up the concrete under the underpass, spin sideways and then head back onto the road.  I was intrigued with the black marks and wondered if any damages was suffered to body or vehicle.  I lost that day.

The next Friday I’m driving to The Big Game, and I see the marks again, and suffer the largest loss I’ve ever had at a poker table.  I come back the following Monday to play Hold ‘Em, see the skidders, and lose again.  Not the same size loss, but now the third in a row after noticing the skid marks.  Like skid marks in my underwear, this underpass is driving me nuts.

I’ll not bore you with the details, but those black, ground-rubber residues have become a major influence in my poker life.  I try to not see them, look at them with all my focus—embrace is the word Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson uses in my therapy sessions—and I attempt to drive past them as if they don’t make any kind of shit to me.

The reason I’m writing about this silly shit is that I reached a decision this morning vis-à-vis the marks.  If I lose today, I’m going to spend Saturday scrubbing them away.  I’ve priced a rental power washer and investigated what cleanser will work best.  I can arrange for a lane closure with eight hours’ notice and can keep things safe for the day-and-a-half it should take to finish.

When I told Sammie my plan during this morning’s phone session, she told me, she said, “Jesus Christ, you truly are a sick man.  You’ll get run over.”

“You sound surprised, and so fucking what?” my response.

Maybe it is a little dangerous to work that close to traffic.  Maybe I’ll just get a spiritualist to cleanse the sight for me.

Fuck Walmart until they treat their employees as humans.  OK, fuck Walmart forever!


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Maggots To Monarchs; A Macabre Look At Life

Wednesday, May 13th, 2015

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

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

Confused?  Me too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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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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