Archive for the ‘ADHD’ Category

Rememberies Of Future Present; Racism’s Caustic Spittle

Friday, July 8th, 2016

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


“And what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

Monday, June 27th, 2016

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What the Hell are YOU talking about?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So Fuck Walmart!

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Condone, Condoned, Condoner; Conditioned Responses For Bigots

Thursday, June 9th, 2016

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

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Pickled Peckers; An Atheist’s Prayer

Saturday, May 7th, 2016

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ah, uh, ah…” I was flummoxed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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Is It Too Late To Be A Better Man? Depends

Tuesday, May 3rd, 2016

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

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Is That A Clitorical Question Or Do You Just Want To Touch Me? Time Capsules Of The Infirm

Friday, April 15th, 2016

So. I’m sitting here this glorious morning waiting for the sun to get in just the right position for the dogs and I to sunbake. Our pine trees have grown so much that we have but two windows of opportunity each day. Me, I don’t like sitting in the sun, but the Squirt has been Jonesing for some sunbathing. It’s been overcast here to Santa Fe for a few days and my tiny dog who worships the Sun’s rays has been bitching.
“Let’s move to Arizona, shithead. These cold winters and dreary days are getting to me. Besides, the Sun’s heat helps ease the pain in my back. You don’t want me down in the back again, now do you?”
Squirt can be a persuasive little pest. She got paralyzed with pain a few weeks back, and I’ve not been the same since. She doesn’t know it but I’d do anything for her, including moving to Arizona. Really. Fucking Arizona.
“Stop your bitching, little lady. You couldn’t get me to move to Arizona with shackles and armed guards.”
Squirt looked me in the eye and said to me, she clearly elucidated, “You already heard that emergency vet tell us that cold will make my old bones hurt worse. We’ll see your posture when it gets to the point where you choose between moving us to a warmer place, or feeding me my bottle of pills. I won’t live with you wiping my ass.”
I long ago prepared a bottle of “Final Day” pills for each of us three. As a semi-packrat, I’ve never thrown any leftover medications away since I avoided the draft way back to the sixties. While I’ll not commit a Federal offense on the pages herein, I will say that I have distributed thirty-six giant “Yellow Jacket” amphetamine capsules into the death caches. One of our bottles—I can’t remember which—has a few Phenobarbitals from back to when I had sleeping problems in 1968. Taking enough speed to keep a trucker awake for a non-stop, cross-country haul can effect a person’s sleep patterns. All sorts of shit totaling either 549 or 627 total pills. The wide variance in those amounts of pills is due, likely, to the quantity of Carta Blanca consumed as we counted pills going into each of the three bottles.
Maybe I should pull the Phenobeenies. If memory serves, they were sort of like Quaaludes except for more powerful. Then, again, my memory hasn’t been serving me too well of recent.
“Why do you have a quart jar and we have those tiny pill bottles? I want to be absolutely certain I die when I take mine. I want a bigger bottle!”
“Looka here, Squirty girl, you weigh eleven pounds with a full belly. Me, well I’m approximately nineteen times your weight and have a system pre-disposed with tolerances to a few of these drugs. Don’t worry, I’mma make sure you get a lethal dose. When your time comes, the last thing I can deal with is a near miss.”
Talking about our Final Days pills has me realizing that all these medications are time capsules of my life. The smelly old Penicillin pills mark my loss of virginity, the speed my decision to flight rather than fight a war that was just plain wrong even though some of the best men I know chose to go. There’s Phenergan from when Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson had a bout with nausea that wouldn’t stop, pain meds from our family’s tooth issues, antibiotics of every sort for every infection three kids, ten wives, four dogs and I ever had.
Which reminds me. The state of our American Republican Party is hilarious. Establishment Republitards are so freaked about the Trumpster that they are supporting Teddy Cruz. Self-same Teddy who could be murdered in plain sight on the Senate floor and no witness would come forward to aid in the killer’s ID. Sister Lindsey Graham must have had a near terminal case of the vapors when he found himself a Cruz surrogate the first time.
And saying that reminds me of a recent Squatlo posting. Seems his Tennessee General Assholembly has passed a born-gender bathroom law akin to too many other states. You know the laws—born a boy, use the Boy’s Room. Those laws. Me, having spent way too much time thinking about the application of such laws, I had had a discussion with the Squirt the night before Squattie posted his story about the Vol State’s legislature. Having already pre-thought the issue I posted a comment, repeated herewith. Hereafter, maybe. OK, maybe herein.
I had seen a report on TV regarding this subject of requiring a person to use the bathroom of the gender on their birth certificate, and the justifications used to support these laws spurs me to restate my thoughts from Squat’s place. The following—while not a word-for-word recount—is a mostly reprint of what I said from over there. Proper referencing is a founding principle of intergrital writing, and I’ll go with “hereafter” as referenced herein, above.
OK, so I know this man. Who was formerly a woman, who is three inches shorter than my six-four, and who works out over to my gym maybe twenty hours a week. I got a free gym membership with my Medicare Part B coinsurance, and I like to work out a few times a week. Keeping my bones healthy is a way to fight any recurrence of the cancer I seem to have licked, and lifting weights builds healthy bones.
Did get into a heated discussion over to the gym with this asshole who was bitching about TV coverage of Black History Month, and all the stories and programs about mistreatment of Native Americans. Shitwad was going on and on and on and on about why isn’t there a white history month. Kept it up to my break point.
“I’ve got some ideas for your White History Month,” I told him. “First, let’s do a week of programs on the slave trade. Make it a cradle-to-grave dealie. Start with the slavers over to Africa stealing people, the ship voyages with humans packed like cattle and dying standing up, the auction sales, then life on the plantation.”
“Follow that with the last hundred-sixty years of white racial bigotry—the KKK, George Wallace and the modern Republican Party. Third week can be how whites came to America and stole the Natives’ lands and took advantage of their naiveté. Tell the stories of slaughtering their people for sport—forcing them to take white man’s religions. And let’s not forget about when the whites gave the Native people blankets known to be infected with disease, intentionally infecting them. Spend the last week on the state of the White in today’s America. Look at how white people are in their final days as the controlling majority and what the future holds. Talk about a future of bigotry against whites.”
Asshole. Anyway, this now a guy at the gym is a big, muscle-bound sumbitch with a full beard, basso profundo voice, and who likely had a donkey dick manufactured from whatever it is they make penises from when they do those surgeries. Guy’s pretty proud of his testosterone-enhanced physique, so I’m guessing when the doctor asked, “Now, tell me sir, which of these penis models would you prefer?” this now a man said, “Don’t you have anything bigger? I plan to be a six-one muscle machine and I need a penis to match.”
Me, if I was getting vaginalized I don’t know what I’d want as far as all the specifics go. Do I want a small, tight jobbie that most all the guys would like, do I want one of those sleek, low-slung jobbies or do I prefer a big camel toe model for when I wear my Lycra workout pants? Much as I like camel toes, I’d likely choose the roast beef model.
But I can say, and without any hesitations, that I’d want a clitoris the size of a basketball player’s thumb. Fat, rubbery job—one that needed a table-spoon of lube to preparate for manipulations. Me, I’d be playing with that sucker all day long, play with it everyfuckingwhere. Hell, when I changed my name, “Female Orgasm” would be my middle name.
I’d be sitting at the poker table and the dealer would ask me, he’d say, “It’s your action, Mz. Johnson. Uh, Mz. Johnson, the action is on you. Moonette, Earth to Moonette, are you with us?” and I’d be all, “Ah, ah, ah, ah…”
Do the members of Tennessee’s Genital Assemblage seriously think the fine Baptist ladies of The Smoky Mountain State want that born a woman but now a man pissing and primping in the Girls Room over to Tennessee University? Or my female conversion hanging out in the Boys locker room showing the little ones how to please a lady?
“OK, gentlemen. The first lesson you need to learn is the quite simple fact that most of a woman’s pleasure resides in this thing here. Billy, you look like you want go first…”
Jesus we humans can be dumb. So let’s all Fuck Walmart!

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Roots In Grass; A Fuck You A Day…

Tuesday, April 5th, 2016

So.  I’ve awakened to a landscape plastered with snow. As all the fruit trees here to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe were covered with blooms yesterday afternoon, we’ll likely have little fruit again this year. Hard freezes this weekend are certain to kick harvests right in the ass.

Another sucker punch by NOT Global Climate Change effectively screwed up the weather. What a fucking surprise.

I had a full day planned—a day filled with outdoor activities—which is now shot all to Hell, so I decided to take a leisurely approach to my day. I had missed reading yesterday’s newspaper, so the two pages of actual newsie information contained therein had escaped my view.

I miss the days when newspapers were kings of all information media. A Sunday paper that was a half-day read in past days is now a four-minute perusal, with breaks to sip coffee. I miss the times when having the byline “Associated Press” meant that the voracity of a story was a vetted, accurate depiction to be absorbed, and hopefully understood, without concern that it was a “planted” fake. Like the 147 FBI agents looking at Hilary Clinton’s emails.

Really? Even my Gram ferreted that lie. “Them fuckin’ Fibbers ain’t got that many agents smart enough to catch Hilry. Didn’t assignation more an a dozen when they killed JFK. Assides, who really gives a shit?”

So, I poured a dram of brandy into my coffee cup, stoked match to twisted paper end, sucked a full breath and opened the previous day’s paper. OK, maybe it was two drams, and upon first seeing the snow from my office window, I had chewed, and swallowed, three of the dried mushroom buttons I have hidden in the bottom of the cedar chest that sits as a dog half-way station from floor to the heights of our bed. The mushrooms are a variety from Malesia sent to me by Streaker Jones—the remains of maybe two pounds dried provided on his last visit—and they are nestled comfortably at the bottom of the cedar chest because Yoda is nicknamed “the goat dog” for actual reasons.

And why, inthefuck, isn’t it spelled “Malasia”? Nobody says, “Ma-leezia,” dammit, it’s said as, “Ma-laisya.” Asshole fuckface smelly-assed fascist grammar shitballs.

Having said all that, you could rightfully contend that this would be one of the few bloggie postings I have written while stoned. I always tell you of these occurrences and they truly are few. I don’t drive any motorized vehicle while impaired in any fashion—while I do enjoy being driven—ever since my arrest some thirty years ago. Scared me straight knowing I might have hurt someone. Think of it this way: ADHD + ADD + Stoned = Oh no!

I harbor the same restraints for KUI—Keyboarding Under the Influences—as I’m less likely to thoroughly edit my words before posting, an act leading to multiple consternations. Read consternations hereat in its synonym “bewilderments”. OK, maybe worries would be another. One of these days I’ll post some unedited musings for your enjoyment.

Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, psycho the-rapist to the stars and me, tells me that having been arrested for parking our Caterpillar 960 front end loader—its  12-yard light-weight bucket filled with turkey shit—on the front steps of the offices of Sewell and Petty Law Firm, was a sign for me to not imbibe and drive. I heeded that advice and thanked my stars that Texas didn’t have mushroom juice or pot on its Breathalyzer scales. Blowing 1.02’s-worth of Carta Blanca breath was enough to get me into a world of trouble, so I can only imagine how bad it might have been.

The loader was the big one from out to Mooner’s Compost Plant and the turkey manure was from this giant place over to near College Station that organically fattens its turkeys and lets them play outside for a few hours each day. While in Texas, I purchased all my turkeys from those guys. Birds were smaller overall since they got no growth enhancers, and I was especially impressed with the size and quality of their organs. Smaller, firmer and with better color, and even if it was psychosomatic, had far better taste.

Ever watch domesticated turkeys? As smart and shifty and wily and interesting as wild turkeys can be, the domesticated varietals are as opposites. Bred all the brains right out their skulls, we did. They seem to be totally paranoid, scared of their own shadows. Literally scared of their own shadows, looking over their over-plumped shoulders and jumping sideways.

Something about a turkey’s diet creates eye-watering odors. Even though turkey shit is one of the more pungent varieties of shit, it wasn’t my first choice. First choice was grease trap waste, but I’d have puked to death on the eleven-mile drive from the plant over to east Austin with 12-yards of that stuff. I can wear a Haz-Mat suit and still smell grease trap waste. Hell, typing “grease trap waste” stirs my gag reflexes.

But the turkey litter—they call turkey shit “litter” in the poultry industry—proved an effective tool as I managed to empty the entire building within maybe seven minutes. First officers arriving at the scene called the Sheriff right away. “Hey Woozie, its Mooner Johnson and you want to be here for this one.”

I shot the Sherriff a full moon and he tazed my bare ass.

Anyway, I opened the paper and read as I sipped from my cup. Sipping because it was too hot to drink, I didn’t spit a mouthful of brandy-laced coffee when I saw the headline, I merely sprayed a spritz similar to one of those tiny atomizer sample thingies at department store perfume counters.

I read the one paragraph story, reread to insure its actualities, and exclaimed, I shouted, “Hot damn!!!” and raced to my computer. I opened Googleate and typed in my query. I peered down the listings, found The Motley Fool, clicked there and found a headline that lifted my spirits to even new heights. There, on my computer screen, was proof positive that a grass roots consumer advocacy effort can be effective. I read, reread and read again.

“Hey, Squirty girl, come in here and looka this!” I shouted. “You’ve gotta see this, kiddo!”

The small brown puppy came running and jumped into my lap, read. “Holy shit, Mooner, you’ve won!”

“War’s not over yet, Sweetie Pie, but we’re winning some big ones.”

We celebrated what we read, as there, on my computer screen, was this:

“Walmart Is Falling Apart Before Our Eyes

Wal-Mart is no longer the popular retailer it once was and beneath the surface it’s starting to show the same cracks that brought Kmart and Sears to their knees. “

As an atheist, I didn’t thank God for this gift, I thanked you, the readers of the drivel posted herein. Thank you, thank you, and thanks some more. My plans to topple this giant of American retailing greed is working with all of your help! Not that our job is completed because fucking Walmart will not be a finished task until Alice Walton applies for food stamps. Now that we have them on the ropes, it’s time to apply evermore pressure. Speak loud and proud. Say it aloud with me. Say:

Fuck Wal-mart! Fuck Wal-mart! Fuck Wal-mart!

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Riddle Me This; Apologies In The Key Of Dumbass

Tuesday, March 29th, 2016

So. A riddle:  “How many Mooner Johnsons does it take to fuck up a wet dream?”

The answer is contained, maybe I should say, “The answer is intended to be contained…,” in the following prose. My desire is to use the parable format of storytelling, combined with a riddle teaser, to tell a story of woe and dumbass. The danger of using this format—better said as dangers—lies/lie in the simple facts that I am an ADHD-riddled shitball having no self-controls, no impulse restraints, no focus, and no filters. Likewise, please don’t think “parabola” as that would induce you to attempt linear thinking, and my logic is anything but in straight lines to anyplace.

Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson—my first ex-wife, longtime psychotherapist and chief mind fucker—has long held the position that I am crazy. “Is that your clinical opinion, Sammie?” I’ll ask.

“Why, yes, Mooner. I wrote it in your chart.”

I use to worry that having that specific diagnosis in my medical charts would be problematic. As often as I’m slapped, tasered and arrested, the concerns were that some attorney or judge would request the sequestering of my medical records for review under some tenant of law and I’d get re-locked back to the loony bin. I obsessed over this concern until one day I finally asked her about it.

“I’m worried about you writing about what a fruit cake I am. I know it’s the truth and all that, but what if a judge gets ahold of what you write? I’m not going back to Shoal Creek Mental Hospital. No way, no fucking way!”

Shoal Creek Mental Hospital used to be sort of like a spa for me. That is if you consider lounging around in a strait jacket with anti-psychotic drug-medicated snot and drool forming stalactites from your lower lip to the crotch of your crazy person Snuggy a spa experience.

“Don’t worry, Mooner. I also wrote that you are harmless to the innocent. But I can always amend my notes.”

Maybe they’d be snot-and-drool stalagmites. I can never remember the differentiations between snot columns formed from the top down as opposed to those forming at ground level and upwards.

Don’t you hate the veiled threats of medical professionals? Them all full of their own shit and sanctimoniousnesses simply because they spent an extra six years of schooling. Then, again, my daddy might still be alive had he listened to his doctor’s threat that he needed to get a colonoscopy or face serious health issues.

Like death.

Anyway, I play poker and Santa Fe has many TV and movie crews filming in the area—two divergent facts I’ll soon merge into a hopefully-comprehensible package. Actors and directors and celebrities come to my favorite casino to gamble and play cards. One of them—the self-same man to be further-mentioned—once told me that he loves visiting Santa Fe because, as he said to me when he told me, “People here don’t push scripts or project ideas at you. Back in LA, every person on every street corner has a unique project—the next Orange is the New Black, they’ll tell you—and there’s a part written just for you! Seriously, this role is per-fect. Here, take this and read it, and they get all up in your face with this stuff………….”

I’ve grown to like this man as a human and I think we could be friends. OK, I like him enough to befriend him, a sentiment now likely to be unreciprocated. Maybe that’s more accurately said as not reciprocated. Anyway, upon first sight of this gentleman entering the poker room, I always greet him with, “Oh no, not again.” Me, I think that to be funny as all sorts of shit, and it always lights a smile on his face, and generates a snarky reply as to my lack of basic intelligence, breeding, or whatever.

OK, let’s stop for just a minute and get a little background. As all of you already know, in addition to this bloggie, I’ve written a silly fucking book based upon my life and a likewise silly proposal for a television show that the entertainment biz folks call a “Treatment”.  In yesterday morning’s psycho therapy phone session I asked Sammie her opinion should I approach this guy with my treatment.

“Have you lost what little mind you’ve left? It would be no different than when people come up to my table at a café and ask me for advice. Remember when that former City Councilor bothered us at The Broken Spoke and you thumped him on the nose? Remember how pissed you got?”

“Yea, of course I do. But that was different. I was one more Cosmopolitan from your promised land and he totally ruined my chance at some poontanger. He deserved what he got.”

She laughed at me. “You were way more than one Cosmo away from my delicate parts, asshole. And don’t even act like you don’t understand what I’m saying to you. Do not bother this man on his free time with your silly bullshit. It would be terribly inconsiderate. And just plain dumb, as if refraining from doing stupid things was ever one of your life criterion. Besides, he may not be Harry Bellefonte, but, well you know.”

“Bitch,” I told the dial tone.

I told you guys the story about when our daughter graduated from college and Harry Da-Day-ay-ay-O was there to watch his niece do the tassel-toss walk? I thought the good Doctor was going to offer to blow him right there in the audience. Sure, Harry was way more handsome in person and yes he has dreamy eyes. Hell, I might have blown him myself if he’d asked.

But she really can be a bitch. I’m certain she has my best interests in mind and I had every intention of behaving appropriately and heeding her advice. Of course, I didn’t.

“I’ve written over 2 million words of blog postings, a silly fucking book and this TV Treatment that has a role that you were born to play. It’s perfect for you, it’s the next Black is the New Orange. No, wait. It’s the new Shameless, that’s what it is. It’s Shameless meets The Beverly Hillbillies. Maybe M*A*S*H* marries Green Pastures. Wait, Green Acres!”

Ugh. Total fucking ugh. When I told Dr. Sam what I did this morning in our phone session, she hung up on me. When will I ever learn? Can I ever obtain some impulse control? Will there ever come a time when I act more appropriately than inappropriately?

Likely not. The dreaded ADD and its big brother the ADHD are not curable afflictions. Like true dumbass, they are genetic and only suffer engorgement with stimulations. Like that boner you got with your first slow dance back to junior high. I can’t remember her name right now but I do remember her slap. Played softball, she did, and I saw stars.

Anyway, the answer is, “One.” So Fuck Walmart!

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Delivering Daily Mail; Choosing The Chosen

Thursday, March 3rd, 2016

So. I’m muddling in my own stew—stewing in my juices, if you will—because I’m a knucklehead, and so am I. My ADD is in the same state of pronouncements as is the Mountain Juniper pollen that so thoroughly wrecks my sinuses this time of year, thereby wrecking my thoughts and decision-making and, in turn, wrecking everything around me. I’m a snot-dripping-swollen-eyed forgetful and inattentive fuckball.

Having said that, a quite good friend holds the unerring opinion that I do not have ADD. Nopers, this otherwise bright man thinks that I have, as he calls it, “Selective Attention Disorder, You Asshole.” My buddy seems to think that I have control of the boiling cauldron of witches’ brew bubbling around inside my skull and that I make simple choices as to what sticks, or doesn’t stick, and to what I pay attention, or don’t. He thinks my day is filled with a series of black-and-white, choose A or B, decisions. Remember this but not that, see her not him, do one something and forget the other. See the rose, miss the thorn.

This friend says that my forgetting to finish a construction project and leaving construction debris all over the fucking place before sending a final bill to a client who already had a pre-fueled rocket pack up his ass was an intentional choice, while my acute insight into the workings of a poker hand I played in 1984 is forever etched on my pain-swollen brain. He believes I chose to not think about moving and resetting the client’s satellite dish in advance of killing said client’s access to the last Republican debate, when at the same time holds the position—with absolute certainty—that I would want to remember the precise number of Fire Ant stings I got that one time Streaker Jones and I were chasing bikini-clad girls down to the Texas coast.

Ever been stung by a Fire Ant? If you’ve any allergy to them at all, each tiny sting delivers enough poison to raise a welt the size of a quail egg, each welt capped with a pussy point, and all of them burn like fire, weep incessantly, and itch. They itch so bad you have to scratch, and each scratching sends jolts of almost paralyzing pain up your spine.

Fucking Fire Ants. And isn’t it interesting that a puss-filled something is spelled with alikenesses to many-a-man’s favorite female part, and a kitty cat? Isn’t the yin/yang of life amazing? Woman says to you, you’re on a date with this nice lady and she casually mentions to you, she says, “My pussy is pussy.”

“Hmmmmm,” you think, and hopefully to yourself, “Is the cat sick or do I have a serious choice to make in the next couple hours?”

In my daily telephone/SKYPE psychotherapy sessions, Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson has been chiding me to make lists of the things I need to do, then USE the lists. “Make a list, dumass, and then USE it. How many times must you be told?”

This morning I produced a pile of Postie Notes containing a few of my lists starting from a date sometime in 1994, and marking the years passing until today. I held the bundled stack of party-colored sticky papers to the pin camera on my computer. God, I do love Postie Notes.

“Maybe at least one more time. Now, here. Look. See all these notes?”

I unstacked the pile about mid-way and removed the top paper. “This says it’s Tuesday and the items are: call Dr. Washburn about the infection; get Ferrari out of the shop; transfer from savings for Ferrari repairs; pick up laundry; mow Sammie’s yard and clean the pool; prepare for City Council meeting;… Hey, this must have been 2005. Remember when I bounced the check for fixing the front bumper on Gram’s car? I’ve got my pants down to my ankles to flash Councilperson Morales my depiction of the Mexican Flag for their Mexican Independence Day celebrations and that shithead process server hit me with papers. I thought it was because I bounced a check. Turns out it was that other thing. What was that other thing? That was a great Mexican flag, Ingrid got the colors just right. I need to call Ingrid–catch up.  Oh yea, and I mowed your grass but forgot to clean the pool. That was that time your sister brought her entire family down from Oregon and the kids all got eye infections. The pool wasn’t that dirty, Sammie. Your sister coddles those kids waaaaay to much.”

Anyway, I have one thing to say to anybody who thinks I have Selective Attention Disorder, You Asshole:

Fuck you, and Walmart too!

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Reflections On Judge Scalia; Lou Diamond Phillips Plays God

Monday, February 15th, 2016

So. Please allow me to say, in advance, that I was a little stoned. OK, and in the desire to properly elucidate realities to you, dear readers, allow me to say that I was considerably more than a little stoned. I was shitfaced.

Six-Carta-Blanca-beers-two-joints-and-a-full-dropper-of-Gram’s-mushroom-juice stoned. That kind of stoned. Still functioning, meaning I was awake, could walk and carry on a conversation, yet so mellowed-out that I could converse with Ted Cruz without turning him into fodder for the compost pile. This high was quite mellow.

The pot was a medicinal variety called “Rainbow Kush” or “Orange Sherbet Kush”, or maybe it was “Bush is a Kush”; the mushroom juice was from a tincture bottle just arrived from Austin that my tincturating grandmother had named, “Santi Fe ain’t got no air, Mooner, this here’s gonna Oxycontinate yer ass all over tha place.” As La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe sits at 7,292 feet above sea level, Gram’s desire to increase my oxygenations was admirable.

The beer was from Susan’s Liquor Store, the only dependable local source for my beloved CB.

We had just learned of Judge Scalia’s death and adjourned to the back yard for celebrations and reflections. Awash with the peace and joy that can only come from good news and a multi-dimensional high, the dogs and I were sitting out back in the early eve, wondering the outcome/replacement from Scalia’s death, and enjoying the end of a 63-degree day.

Sixty-three fucking degrees. Last week the highs were in the mid-twenties with winds that made the air so sharp it would cut your face, and three days later we’re thirty-degrees over normal.

OK, as that sounds like a bitch, allow me to say I love this weather and we three were basking like old dogs in a sunny patch on a parlor rug. That sixth beer was on the table between the two wrought iron chairs, the Squirt was in my lap, Yoda in the second chair, and all three of us were pointed at the back drive-through gate that looks out onto the alley behind the house.

There’s a three-inch gap between the bottom of the gate and the top of the concrete drive, and several evenings this week—about this time—the Squirt thinks she saw something stick its nose under the gate.

“Too dark to tell for sure, but I think it’s that wolf dog from over on Quapaw Street,” Squirt told me. “Dangerous looking sort.”

The goat dog did his slit-throat, “Phwouf-phwouf-pwhouf,” bit, and the Squirt turned to me to say, she tells me, “Dumbass over there says it a coyote, and he wants to rip its face off.”

As Yoda is the least fearsome animal on the entire planet, Squirt and I laughed about his fearlessness in the face of a fearsome force, and it dawned on me that Yoda has never actually growled.

“Tell him to growl, sweetie. Let’s see if he even knows how.”

She did, and Yoda screwed this cartoonish snarl onto his face and went, “Mmmrrrll.”

We asked that he repeat his snarling growl, which he did, and I realized he had growled before. “That’s the sound he makes when I move him out of my arm pit to turn over in bed. I always thought it was a lovie noise. That little shit is growling at me because my fucking arm is asleep and I need to recirculate it.” She and I laughed once more. Yoda growled at us, again.

Anyway, I drank and the puppies lapped—me from the bottle, they from the mayonnaise lid that makes a great portable beer trough for ten-pound doggies—and we settled in for the approaching dark. I kind of started snoozing when the Squirt nudged my chin with her cool nose. She whispered, “Wake up shithead. There’s something at the gate.”

I tried to wake, then focus. Sure enough, there was something at the back gate. “Everybody quiet. Let’s creep up on it.”

We crept. Stealthily; slowly; quietly.

There was a jangling of keys, the sound of the lock slipping out of chain and the chain slipping through its metal eyelets. A hand slipped between the gate halves and Lou Diamond Phillips stepped into the backyard.

“The three of you couldn’t sneak up on a dead man, Mooner. Fetch another beer and some of those sweet bean tamales from your fridge while I lock this gate. You’ve coyotes prowling your neighborhood.”

I fetched, and upon my return from the kitchen found my God sitting in Yoda’s chair with the goat dog settled in his lap, and the Squirt still sniffing at the gap beneath the gate. I set fresh beers and tamales on the table and sat.

“Nice to see you, Sir. Been awhile.” I paused for a response, got none, and asked Him, I asked God, “Uh, not that I’m ungrateful or anything, but I was hoping you’d visit as that actress Mary-Louise Parker. We watched the final episode of Season Four of Weeds, and that scene in her bathtub… I mean, I like Lou Diamond Phillips and all, but, well, you know…”

I never realized LDP was almost as big as I am. They film around here for the TV series Longmire and I’ve seen him about. He plays a Native American bar owner with certain instincts. He’s handsome and all that, but he’s no Mary-Louise Parker.

“Forget your pecker for once and focus on your reflections of Justice Scalia. Do you realize that your first thought was, ‘Thank God?’ Don’t you be thanking me for another man’s demise, shithead. You might not have liked him, but he wasn’t a bad man. He was misdirected and biased. But he was steadfast in his beliefs and practiced as he preached. And he was one of Justice Ginsberg’s best buddies. You can’t admire her without admiring her friends.”

“Is it OK if I say I’m glad he’s no longer on the bench?”

God pierced my eyes with Lou Diamond Phillips’ steeliest stare. “Don’t mince words, Mooner. You’ll get the SCOTUS you want. Don’t revel in another man’s death. Period.”

Before I could respond, He was gone, along with all the tamales and both fresh beers. I figured His next visit lacked both food and drink and I already had a serious case of sweet bean tamale farts. And I figured He was right. Mayhaps I should not feel elation at what I got at the cost of another’s loss. That demeans me, makes me akin to the kind of person I despise.

I already have enough despicable traits.

So, fuck Walmart!

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Good News, Bad News; Prioritizing Life Is A Bitch

Monday, February 8th, 2016

So.  I’ve been absent from these pages for a couple weeks while involved with a personal matter too complicated to share here, and having said that, I should state that it is my concern for the sensibilities of another human that kept me quiet, not any concern for myself. As I have moved on from the unmentioned complications, I have some good and bad news to share.

As a salesperson, I have always known that you deliver bad news first—get that negative shit out the way so you can focus on the positive.  However, as a human being, I wish to share the good first because l have been promising you I would inform as soon as I could, and then I’ll deal with the not-so-good news.

Friday was settlement day between Mini USA and me.  Myself, mayhaps, but Mini and I settled our differences on my beloved little hotrod Countryman.  While I absolutely loved my tiny car when it was running right, it, simply put, did not run right enough of the time. It would routinely misfire (my words) in what Mini mechanics call a “Hard Knock,” and several times did so in heavy traffic.  Once it did so and I was almost rammed from behind by a too-close driver.

As too-close driving is a Santa Fe method of employed roadway matriculating, this near-stalling dealio was disconcerting.  Watching a Lexus SUV rock forward in a tire-squealing nosedive at your rear bumper while doing 65 MPH can disconcert the best of us, and me as well.  To make a long story short, in two years of ownership and more than two months inside their shop, Mini could not make the repairs necessary to fix my car.  I became frustrated after being quite patient, and finally told them to either honor New Mexico’s Lemon Law—a law that requires them to choose to give me all my money back, or give me a new car of matching accoutrements—or, as I so eloquently said when I told them of my demand, I said to the Mini Reps, “Or fix my fucking car!”

OK, so as to not over simplify, I understand that everyone in business sometimes builds a bad seed product—that bastard electric toothbrush that scrubs your gums bloody rather than remove half-a-day’s food particles, the Roman Candle that sends flaming projectiles out from both ends of the stick, or that car that has an issue that you just can’t fix. So I never held Mini culpable as a builder of bad cars, just a typical car maker who made one bad Countryman.  But my frustrations with not getting it right got to me.  Mini built a bad car…

And sold it to me. Anyway, after ginning me through their corporate structure in an effort to make me give-in to their initial, totally unacceptable offers, they finally gave me a settlement I found acceptable. Not what I wanted, because as I said I loved my Mini.  I wanted a replacement—one that worked as promised.  They must have decided that I was not so desirable as a Mini owner and bought the car back.  I agreed to not discuss the financial terms with anyone so I won’t.

As a replacement, I purchased a Subaru WRX hot rod that in my early days of ownership is found to be as much fun as the Mini, and maybe even a somewhat more. It’s a little bigger, a whole lot faster, and has the all-wheel drive needed for our snowy winters. I’ll let you know if my happiness remains.

Which brings up the not happy part of this entire thingy.  I came home a week ago, and as usual the goat dog met me at the door jumping and circling and woofing his slit-throat bark. What didn’t happen, as usual, was that the Squirt was missing from my greeting. Her usual is to greet me with disdain, or pleasure, should I return with, or without, her requests.

“You forgot, didn’t you, shithead?  You are such a numbskull!” or, “Fuck you, Mooner, I’ll have the goat dog shit on the couch next time,” would be a typical Squirt greeting.  But this return trip she was nowhere to be found.  After his greeting, Yoda woofed at me and raced to the back of the house, stopped and woofed over his shoulder at me, and took off again.

“Squirty girl, where are you?” I hollered to no reply. I walked farther to the back and raised my voice, “Squirt, answer me young lady and do it now!”

“Fuck you,” her weak reply.  “I’m on the bed and I can’t get down.”

I found the adorable bundle of brown fur and spunk shaking at the foot of our bed, looking up at me with a scared look in her eyes.  This was the same look she had when her tooter was so messed up that she couldn’t walk.

“I can’t walk, Mooner.  It’s time to put me down.  I won’t live like this.”

I freaked.  “You, young lady, are headed to the emergency room.”

“I’ll bite you, shithead, and I mean it.  I won’t live a cripple.  You’ll not be wiping my ass or my drool!  Get me the bottle of pain pills and a beer. I’m putting an end to this.”

Instead, I grabbed a towel to wrap her and she did snap at me.  She missed and she moaned when I lifted her.  “It’s my back.  I think I broke it.”

Again to make a long story short, her back isn’t broken but it is suffering the damages that Time takes on a Doxie body. Her long spine finally gave notice to cease her rambunctiousness, and she was in pain and what turned out to be temporary paralysis. Time and some meds have fixed the paralysis, but I’m now required to lift her up, and down, when she needs it.  And I think she is taking advantage of me.  She seems to need lifting way too often.

“You need to be more attentive, shithead. What if I forget and try to jump off my chair?” she said to me the other day. “Maybe you should hire a live-in nurse.”

“Don’t be taking advantage, Squirty girl, you’re close to the line on the Cost/Benefit scale.”

But me, I don’t give a shit. I’ll become her full-time nurse if need be. I was talking to Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson about it in this morning’s phone therapy session and I broke all the way down. Cried like a baby and blabbered on, and on. “What will I do without her? Who will I talk to? Who will keep me on the straight and narrow? Who can ever replace her?”

“Good questions, one and all, Mooner. Maybe you need some extra sessions.”

“Maybe I need some sexing and maybe you could prescribe it for therapeutic purposes. I just changed the sheets and you can be on a noon flight that arrives here before five. I’ve got a bottle of your favorite chardonnay…”

“You need to worry about your real issues, dear man. Take care of that puppy and make her happy and comfortable.  Or else!”

I just finished watching 101 Dalmatians and All Dogs Go To Heaven three times each. Next, I’m headed out to the butcher shop to get some big beef leg bones and then some vanilla ice cream, her favies, and now my eyes have watered up in the telling.

Why is this tiny dog so important to me?  Why am I so terribly shaken with the thought of losing her? Why am I more concerned for the Squirt than for my mother, and why would I put this question in print? And why does it hurt more to have concerns for another’s health than it is my own? I didn’t suffer finding I have cancer like I am with my dog.

I know I’m crazy and that my priorities are totally fucked. Do others operate the same way? Have I asked enough silly questions for the day?

Ugh. Total and complete ugh.

Fuck Walmart for the Squirt.


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Walmart Finally Fucked; Why Isn’t Michigan Governor Snider? Snyder, maybe.

Sunday, January 17th, 2016

So. It’s a wondrous and quite interesting weekend of reflections for me as my ADD is a-swirl with the multicolored whirls of the criminally insane. Like the twisted views from the small end of a kaleidoscope, my thoughts are the rainbow’s colors presented without filter or screen. And why, intherfuck, isn’t it spelled “wonderous”? It isn’t a “wondreful” day dammit, it’s wonderful, yet I’m required to see it as wondrous. I have enough trouble typing and editing my ADHD-addled thoughts without the need to spell correct every tenth word.

Like fourty. Who was the genius on that one? Ninety works, eighty, seventy as well. But does fourty work? Noooo, it’s “forty”. Like the origin of four tens comes from an early settlement in the American West that represents a person moving from Wyoming to a big city. Country boy goes to Saint Louis for fame and fortune and city folk find him “forty”.

“That Smithson fella is right forty. You can take the boy out of the Fort but not the fort out of the boy.”

Which reminds me. Asshole Michigan Governor seizes control of Flint, strips that once fine city of its culture and pride, poisons its citizens with toxic water, then begs Obama to pay the way out. This is so fucking ironic my skin is crawling.

For starters, where was Cloven Bundy when the Guvmint took over an entire town? Where were the armed “protectors of freedom” when actual peoples’ rights were consumed in a fit of right-wing power? Silly fucking separationists were likely sucking on cans of Red Bull, unfiltered ciggies and Uncle Sam’s tits.

For second helpings, what if the citizens of Flint had taken up arms and occupied their own town? Would the Governor have sat quietly on the sidelines?

For thirdies, thirdsies maybe, there was knowledge aforethought that the replacement water supply was poisoned. Who will be prosecuted, who will be held accountable for the gigantic costs in human suffering, long-term health care expenses, and cleaning up this mess? Does the simple goddamn fact that lead stays in the human system to do terrible damage not resonate with a man like Governor Ricky Snider? Somebody fill his kids with lead and see his reaction. And actions.

To fix this without prosecuting those responsible is just as reprehensible as bailing-out big banks and not sending those fucking Banksters to jail. Please Mr. President, don’t half-ass this dealio.

Which leads me to my fourthie, not herein called “forthie” whateverthefuck Spell Check says, and that after-the-third thing is the still continuing saga of my car bidness.  I have reached an amicable agreement with the automaker and await final disposition. Should they fulfill this last promise I’ll allow them to make, I’m satisfied. More to follow.

And that but leaves the real reason I’m writing today. OK, maybe that should have been, “And that leaves but the real reason…” However, as I hate leaving butts hanging, and leaves are sometimes pretty, I find myself in the honored position as the responsible person for forcing a major social change to the good of common man.

I, with the help of all of you, have finally made an impact on one of the most insidious scourges to American society. My unflinching campaign to bring halt to the rampant growth of this menace has finally taken purchase. Your support for my cause has created a ground-swell of powerful messaging that has, at last, bore fruit. I can’t say it better than the headline I saw in the New York Times. It said:

“Walmart to close 269 stores worldwide.”

It came to me last night as I was going to sleep. I lay on my back—left hand scratching Yoda at my hip and right hand cupping (clutching maybe) my balls—and rethinking my day. As I finished ruminating I started thinking just how comforting it is to scratch my tiny white dog while holding my scrotum in preparation for sleep, and wondering was this another sign that I’m just not right. The Squirt was at my right side with her head resting on my chest, so I asked the brown puppy her opinion.

“Squirty girl, you awake?”

“What now, asshole. You still wanna debate whether Cruz or Trump is the bigger shithead?”

“No, I’m good on that one. I’m wondering if I’m crazy for holding my balls and scratching the goat dog to relax for sleep.”

“For shitsakes, Mooner. When a person is crazy, by definition all things they do are crazy. Shut up and go to sleep.”

Somehow Squirt’s logic is, like my balls, comforting. Acknowledging that I truly am crazy, I can stop worrying if I seem crazy for things. I can just accept lunacy for what it is and move on. Spend my time on more productive thinking.

Like new and more creative ways to: Fuck Walmart!


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Flip-Flopped Floopage; Doing The Right Thing Hurts

Monday, January 11th, 2016

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Have protest signs, will travel.”

So Fuck Walmart!

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The Power Of Prayer, Or, Please Don’t Boil My Rabbit

Sunday, December 27th, 2015

So. Here we all are the day after Xmas sitting happy, sassy and overstuffed with holiday good cheer. At least those of us fortunate to have money for food and gifts, the safety required for peaceful enjoyments, and the freedom from oppression to have honest expressions, are happily sitting. For the several billion of us humans without the money, safety and freedom needed to enjoy a happy holiday season, today is simply one more day of misery, or maybe simply drudgery.

For my part, I’ve been watching too much TV whereon people keep thanking God for every sort of thing. Things great and small, important or silly, good and not so very good. I’ve been especially impressed with the American Christians whom I’ve witnessed thanking their God. I was looking for this one soft-core porn movie and passed by the Pat Robertson channel and paused long enough to get the gist of old Patrick’s message.

“The all-knowing, all-powerful God of Christ makes everything happen that ever happens on this, his divinely-created Earth. Be grateful for all He does for you.”

If I could remember the name of that movie I might have missed Pat’s message.  It’s the one with Kim Whatshername. The crazy one who was married to Alec Baldwin. And have any of you guys ever been tangled into a love affair with a person like that—gorgeous, sexy as all get-out, and as looney as three-peckered Billy goat with a belly full of Viagra?

I had this one wife—the one I never write about out of fear for my life—who was so fucking crazy that she would hide in my closet, and. Well. Ah. Like I said, she was sexy as all get-out.

Anyway, just this morning as the Squirt and I were finishing our cuppa-Joe, we saw this one woman from over to Birmingham, in the Alabalamaba, describe her elation at having been spared from the tornado that ripped though there Xmas day. She told the TV camera, she said, “God is responsible for all things and I’m so grateful He spared me, and mine. Roll Tide!”

“Don’t start, shithead,” Squirt advised me, “that lady’s got a lot on her mind. Not her fault God decided to kill somebody else and spare her. She’ll worry about the less fortunate after she finishes celebrating a football win and her survival.”

“Alright, little lady, for starters if she’s an actual Christian lady she’d be way more concerned for the souls of the killed and injured and lives devastated than she is for her own family as they sit, safe-and-sound. And the fact that she’s a fan of Alabalama double-downs her insensitivities, if you ask me,” I told her.

“OK, maybe that should be ‘doubles-down’. Or ‘doubled-downers’.”

“Yea,” she admonished me, “but why don’t you give her the benefit of just a little doubt? Didn’t you notice they interviewed her in front of a Walmart store?”

How had I missed that? I never miss a chance to say Fuck Walmart, so I said, “Fuck Walmart, and that’s a big called strike three, little lady. That woman’s an ignorant-Christian-Walmart-shopping-Alabobbaloola-rooting-brain-dead…”

The Squirt barked at me. “Jesus, Mooner, give it a fucking break already. Don’t you ever get tired of ranting about religious people?”

I do get tired of it, really tired of it. But we must stand up to the face of hypocrisy, bigotry, and ignorance in the name of faceless Gods.

“I am tired of it, Squirty girl, but the stilted beliefs of religious extremists are dangerous. If that woman had said, ‘God is responsible for all things so I want to thank him for sparing me and mine, and likewise give Him praise for killing them fourteen folks a couple blocks over, and for creating a hundred million dollars of damage just in time to ruin this holiday for ten thousand…’ You know, if her God is responsible for everything, thank Him for the fumble as well as the touchdown.”

Nine and a Half Weeks. That’s the movie, and Kim Bassinger is the formerly sexy actress married to a Baldwin.

So, once and again, Fuck Walmart!




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Critical Thoughts Of The Insane; Car Deals To Match

Wednesday, December 16th, 2015

So. I had hoped to be posting the results in the “Mooner promises to either fully support or do his best to destroy a major auto manufacturing company” contest by today, but—and alas—the results are still very much in limbo. As would be predictable in cases wherein serious money is involved, “integrity” is a tough commodity to own. And, as the car bidness is a tough one to locate integrity in the first place, the discovery of said integrity can be a long voyage. Just know that as with Walmart, I am anything if a steadfast keeper of promises.

Fuck Walmart.

Which reminds me. I think I have had another original thought. OK, stop laughing as I’m serious. Interesting thing about this original thought is that it wasn’t a long cogitated theorem based upon massive amounts of research, careful evaluations, and charts and graphs and shit—the typical methodologies of my ADHD-addled brains—it was, rather, an instantaneous response from my primitive, childish and still addled brain functions.

It came as they oft do, whilst sitting at a poker table. I was down to the ABQ and not at my home casino, because that casino has a giant bad beat jackpot and I wanted to see if I could score a part thereof. For those with no functional poker knowledge, a bad beat jackpot is a pot of money paid out when a person holding a seriously good hand gets beaten with that holding. I’ve got four threes and you’ve got four tens, then I’ve had a seriously good hand that was “bad beat”. Bad beat jackpots are typically paid 40% to the loser of the hand, 20% to the winner, and the remaining 40% to the other players at the table.

As the bad beat jackpot where I played was maxed-out at $100,000, the person with a bad beat hand would get $40,000 for his woes. Table shares for the remaining seven players at the table would be $40,000 divided by seven, or more than $5,700. Reason enough to drive an hour to play cards.

So. I’m sitting at my table down to Albuquerque, playing conservatively waiting for the right cards to maybe hit a bad beat, and not enjoying myself in the least,  when two of the typically several strongly conservatively religious players sitting at any poker table in the world starting mouthing off about, and here I’ll quote the one asshole, “Trump’s right. We don’t need any Muslims in America. All Muslims are terrorists.”

One thing leads to another and the next thing I know they’re discussing the merits of Christianity versus Muslimity as it relates to terrorist acts in America. Muslimanity. Muslimisn, perhaps. Shitheads are carefully laying out the evil ways of the Muslims, what with all that Sharia Law business and those raghead’s hatred of other Gods. Me, I gave them ample time to carefully lay out the details of what monsters all Muslims are before stating clearly, “You boys must be telling us what’s wrong with Christianity. Change the word “Sharia” to “Bible” and “Muslim” to “Christian” and we’ve got us a winner.”

Looks of confusion, angry stares and then, “Oh, you’re that atheist, aren’t you?”

“Card-carrying and dyed in the fucking wool, sir.”

We played cards for another hour or so, the entire time the one guy giving me stern looks while obviously straining his brain with how to deal with the atheist among them. He did that deal where a person really wants to ask you a question but keeps balking the effort. He would look at me expectantly, asking with his expression, “Please ask me what I want,” but I ignored him.

As expected, he finally couldn’t stand it any longer and he asked me, he said, “I’ve never understood how a man can be an atheist. You’ve got to believe in God. Why are you an atheist?”

My answer was, I think, an original thought and an instant response from the roiling swill inside my skull. “Well, sir, I was raised in a strict Baptist family and was made to follow, and strictly so, the edicts of the Bible. You read the Bible, don’t you sir? The Bible tells me, and repeatedly so if I must say, that I shall not worship false Gods. [Two, three, four] So I don’t.”

[Two, three, four, five, six, seven…] The one man is likely still thinking upon my answer with a dumbfounded look on his face, dumbfounded the keyword to his logicicalzations. But count of eight brought a snicker from the dealer, and a sly smile from the man sitting directly across from me. The one guy still not getting it says to me, he says, “That doesn’t make any sense. Are all atheists dumb? Uh, ah, I don’t mean dumb, I mean, uh, well, uh difficult?”

I started to tell this shithead that some of the most famous atheists are of genius IQ and great accomplishments, but decided instead to let him live his life in the darkened closet of his bigotries. I’m practicing tolerance this holiday season in an attempt to be a bigger man. That’s why I refuse to watch any TV. Every time I hear some conservative asshole spout hate I lose the desire to be better.

Anyway, I’ve a 10:30 appointment with the car people to, supposedly, negotiate a final solution to my auto issues. Stay tuned for more.

And please, Fuck Walmart!



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

Monday, December 7th, 2015

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Me: “Uh-oh, here it comes!”

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

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

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

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

Me: “OK.”

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

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

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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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