Archive for the ‘ADHD’ Category

An Actual Apology; Hens’ Teeth And Other Rarities

Sunday, February 2nd, 2014

 

So. One of Nature’s miracles has happened here to Enchantedland. One of those freakish events that set your mouth agape, and in this case, warms your heart. OK, and also gives you hope that spending your adult life practicing your personal morals is worthwhile.

You know how some practicings of personal integrities often go as many good deeds sometimes go, right? As with many of the small niceties you spread among the general population as an honest and caring person that end up with a smack to the face. Just like that time I informed the nice lady that the back rope to her Matador Red thong had slipped its groove and was riding wide right, and had gathered the flimsy fabric of her short skirt to the point that I could read the artfully-applied “I (tattooed heart) Homeboy” ink splatter displayed on the cheek of her adorable bottom at just above the crease where cheek meets thigh.

That last sentence might require several readings to gain the imparted knowledge, therein, but reread with the understanding that it says, with a high degree of precision, precisely what I meant to say. And also know that my ADHD seems to be in check this beautiful morning.

We were in the big mall down to the ABQ, and I had gathered the moral strength to speak to her. Having prior experience in these matters, I knew a certain light hand was required. “Ah, Miss,” I carefully interrupted her conversation with a second woman I assumed was her Homegirl, “I just want you to know that…” and I told her of the wardrobe malfunction in a carefully detailed recounting. We were in the “Young Misses” section of Macy’s, and I finished with, “When I first noticed, you were in the shoe store, I saw that you were in trouble when you tried on that pretty pink leather jacket there to the Petite Casuals store. I didn’t want to bother you until I was certain you were in jeopardy here.”

Cute Latino lady gave me a smile followed by a quite quizzed look, and then one of the hardest slaps I’ve ever had. “Usted inappropriano madre fucker,” and, “Whap!!!”

As a man having been slapped often, I can tell you that it would be the slight woman that will slap stars on your face. Husky women seem to have a heavier punch, but the slight ladies will slap the Milky Way all up in your head.

Anyway, as you know, I’ve recently taken the highest possible moral ground a man can take—the ground that lay prey to personal punishment and retributions for having homesteaded said high ground. I was at first punished and had my integrity impugned for having done the right thing. Human events being what they are occasionally, I was shown to be not a liar but a man with at least a modicum of integrity and things were made right.

In fact, things were made as right as they could get as the other human being involved in the matter made one of the most heart felt and sincere apologies I have ever heard. And made it twice.

I must admit that having stood my ground during this event gave me a giant sense of well being as a man. Knowing that you can do the right thing when rubber meets road is a truly good feeling about yourownself. And this apology did the same thing for my opinion of people in general. Knowing that there are men and women who can admit wrong and make amends in a meaningful way seems to be a lost art.

We see it every day as athletes and celebrities and politicians make their meager apologies on the TV—apologies not designed to actually make amends, apologies instead orchestrated to limit damage and restore brand. I see these apologies and lose even more respect for the apologizer than already lost.

OK, except for when I had no respect in the first place. Like with the tyrant, Cesar Chris Christy. Anybody think that egomaniacal bastard has it in him to actually apologize?

Fuck me running. Word Check just informed me that egomaniacal isn’t an actual word. It also approved Homeboy but not Homegirl.

“Eat shit and die, Word Check.”

And Fuck Walmart as well! Mas tarde, y’all.

Print Friendly

Cat News; A Ghost Story

Wednesday, January 22nd, 2014

 

So. I’m starting another day—the sixth such day in a row—wherein I’m free to make a twenty-four hour schedule without considerations for anything but the dogs and my veryownself. Honor has forced me into a required hiatus and I’ve had a belly full of the four walls here to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe. There’s only so many of New Mexico’s infamous dust bunnies one man can gather-up in wet paper towels. Which begs the question: Where, inthefuck, do all those dust bunnies come from?

Wait. I don’t mean Honor the Cat, I’m speaking to the other Honor, the personal integrity and single-most important trait I seek in other men. As for said and same fucking cat, Honor Johnson has been on hiatus from our company for several months. And you cat people don’t need to be getting all up in my ass about my lack of care and allowing, as so carefully said by one feline-obsessed reader when she said to me, she said, “You can’t let a cat run wild in Santa Fe, you inappropriate shit, the coyotes will get her.”

Honor Johnson—house cat to this brood of Texas transplants—has decided that the living is far better in the environs a block over and one down from the adorable stucco compound we call home. It seems that said cat finds life far better with a crazy woman and her dozen other cats than living here at Sane House with me and the dogs.

“Don’t be pissed, Mooner,” the Squirt told me when I ranted upon first learning that the fucking cat had changed addresses. “It’s what cats do. Besides, your ADHD is tough on cats’ nerves. She says she doesn’t need a hot tin roof when you’re around.”

“But I saved her from that last crazy cat lady who had her imprisoned with a hundred other fur ball pukers. She said she hated that stinking place.”

“She did, Bwana. But she was a prisoner with that woman in Austin and she says she’s a welcome guest at her new home. When I told her we wanted her to come back, she said she likes living with her own kind. Those are cats and cat people over on Third street, Mooner. Here at our place Yoda and I are dogs and you’re an asshole.”

The adorable brown puppy was right about living with the same kind as yourself. I’m guessing that a cat living with dogs and me would be akin to me living with right wing conservatives, like the Jimmy Swaggart family. Then, again, old Jimmy Swags did get him some poontang, a commodity I’m finding rare in the rarefied, thin mountain air of Northern New Mexico.

Which reminds me. I had this dream the other night—one of those enjoyable dealieos that leaves you awakened with joy—and in this particular dream my daddy was still dead, but alive. The dream setting was back to Austin and we were having this big “Welcome-back-from-the-dead” party for Daddy. The entire family was there—Gram, Mother, Aunt Hilda, Grampa (also, I guess back from the dead), Sister and her wife Anna the Amazon, Rush Limbaugh the Pig and the ostrich Rick Perry, Streaker Jones and Gnat.

I’d BBQed a whole hog, Rush Limbaugh’s favorite, and everyone else had prepared a favorite dish to go with the succulent pork. We all were enjoying the food and company and everyone was asking Daddy what it is like in the afterlife. Daddy wouldn’t answer any questions about his current residence, he’d only say, “Don’t worry, you’ll see soon enough.”

Ordinarily, I’d have found myself somewhat disturbed at having a dead person tell me that I’d be finding out what being dead was all about “soon enough”, but just seeing Daddy was plenty to chase all fear away.

We finished dinner and as the table was getting cleared, Daddy asked me to go outside with him for a chat. We took fresh Carta Blanca beers and a fat doobie and walked to the fishing dock that sits on a cove off Lake Travis. After sitting on the worn planked deck and taking several pulls of beer and doobie both, I was staring at the tiny ripples in the brown water—thinking how nice it was to sit with my father one more time—w hen Daddy asked me, he said, “How’s it hanging, son?”

“Hanging is a good word choice, Daddy. Seems I’m all up in the air over a particular situation.”

“Hmmmm,” my father hmmed me in a voice that was familiar yet not my father’s. “I just want you to know how proud everyone is that you held your honor. You’re a right strong shithead sometimes, son, but you’re good for your word. If all a man has is his word, he’s rich beyond gold. You’re golden, boy.”

I felt tears in my eyes, the tears that only a father’s approval can put there. Those were the words I heard my father speak hundreds of times when I was a kid. I realized, in the dream, that it was my father who taught me honor. Daddy taught me how to be a man.

I turned my head from water’s gaze to look into my father’s face. The words, “I love you, Daddy,” were in my mouth, but stuck there when I found instead God, and this visit He looked the spitting image of my friend, BJ. As a devout agnostic, it has been difficult for me to accept that God pays me somewhat routine visits. But as a man who tries to give all precepts fair review, I’ve grown to think that this God is my God, my personal imaginings of who God should be.

Said another way, If I was God, this God is who I’d choose to be. OK, this God is Who I’d be. I’d get to be the subject of intense and silly capitalization rules as well as all-knowing and all-seeing.

Fuck. I’d be All-Knowing and All-Seeing.

“Are you taking good care of your mother?” BJ God asked me. “She’s in one of Life’s hard spots, son. You need to have patience with her.”

“I try, Pops, but it’s so fucking hard.”

“She’s got dementia, Mooner. Try harder, don’t be such an asshole,” and with that, God disappeared in a poof of sparkled dust.

I recounted this dream to Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson in today’s telephonic psycho therapy session. She says to me, she said, “Oh, my God, you do have a conscience! I’m calling Psychology Today to report an actual miracle has occurred.”

“Bitch,” I told her. Why “bitch” was the best shot I could take makes me wonder at the state of my own mind, and trying to be a more caring son to my demented mother is my new goal. I’m guessing that my God thinks that putting in the time isn’t the same as caring.

Ugh. Ugh-ugh-fucking ugh!

But who really gives a shit about my travails. I’m going to call Mother and make nice-nice and then I’m cleaning the floors of dust bunnies. Again.

Fuck Walmat and all the other greedy fake capitalistic goat turds. Manana, y’all.

Print Friendly

Integrity- A Devalued Currency

Monday, January 20th, 2014

 

So. I sit here on a glorious Sunday morning in Enchantedland, heavy of heart and soaring in spirit. I never in a million years would have thought that I would find myself enjoying a self-comparison between my veryownself and the Pope of all Catholics, but, and none the less, here I sit in precisely that seat. And having just evaluated all the selfnesses contained in those first two sentences, I find that my thoughts at this moment aren’t really all about me. OK, maybe my thoughts aren’t all about myself.

I’m growing to like this Pope Frankie. His recent firings of 400 abusive priests have pushed me over the line and into his court. My admiration for this humble man started when I heard that he sneaks out to tend the untended of Rome and grew greatly when he took a hard stand for the actual words of Jesus and against unbridled greed. I have a promise with myself that until the Holy Roman Catholic Church takes real steps to end its terrible culture of sexual abuse, I will use every opportunity to take cold, hard shots at it.

But for the first time in 2,000 years, a Pope seems Hell-bent to the leather to both preach the teachings of grace that his beloved Saviour left as the legacy for all Christians, and then follow through in his actions. The integrity that this Pope has so far exhibited is remarkable to me. That he continues to hold this sacred ground in the face of scathing opposition from every corner of the Earth is cause of my admiration.

To tell the world that you have values and represent that you will hold true to those values is easy. History is littered with the skeletons of powerful men and women who have promised personal integrity for advancement, and we live every day with the stench of the decay many of them left when their promises were broken. Unlike this Pope (to-date), most powerful people lose their integrity with the gain of that same power.

Integrity is a tough mantle to maintain. Like lies. How small must a lie be to not be a lie? I remember my college philosophy class back to what must have been 1968, when our professor opened an hour-long discussion on just that question.

“Is it possible to tell a lie without debiting your credibility?” she asked.

Me, having already taken Accounting 101, knew what the fuck she was asking, but most of the class was confused. “OK,” she continued to the questioning faces, “let me ask a different way. Is it possible to tell a lie that is not a lie?”

Now me, and once again I’m speaking only for myself, I saw the logic trap just set by the pretty professor. I forget her name, but she was one of those liberated Sixties college women with a fertile mind who reveled in her work. She covered her unfettered breasts with the billowing, flowery peasant dresses of the Hippies times, and I spent countless hours in my attempts to imagine with accuracies the definitions of the fertile female body beneath the loose fabrics.

Having already spent an inordinate amount of time in heavy discussions on the “chicken/egg” and “tree falling” philosophical questions that occurred while under the influence of any variety of mood-altering substances, I knew that I needed to be careful before entering this particular scholarly fray. Net result of the discussion was this: A lie is always a lie regardless if it is good intentioned or if it results in a positive outcome. And my conclusion is “egg”, and “yes”.

Have I ever told you that I have the dreaded ADHD?

For a public person or celebrity or business person in a position of authority to have and maintain personal integrity is an absolute bitch to do. Many times integrity must be compromised to get into those lofty positions, a conundrum all into itself. How can you maintain integrity that has no history, no foundation? Integrity has become a devalued currency because so many stake their claims without mining the ore.

I’m not a public person, not a powerful person nor do I enjoy celebrity. I now lead a rather simple life, choosing to only interact routinely with people I like and trust. With age, I’ve grown to understand that I should surround myself with people I trust and allow the others to go fuck themselves. I’ve grown to know that people you trust are far less likely to hurt you in unkind ways. And I’ve also grown to learn that I might not be as good a judge of those trustworthy traits as previously believed.

Which reminds me. One of the things I most liked about the Sixties was how we “Hippies” used to make up new words and phrases and how we added new layers of meaning to the existing. Like when I used “heavy” up there when discussing the chicken/eggie discussions. Groovy, doobie, spliff, don’t Bogart that joint, sock it to me, far out, wow!, ‘ere, gay pride, heavy.

God, I love those words. With a heart made heavy by the pain that can only be caused by someone you trust, I have the sense of self pride that can only come from holding firm to your values in the face of personal harm or loss. I find myself feeling a kindred spirit with the Pope.

Holy shit! Who would have thought I would ever say that?

Fuck Walmart, the Koch brothers, and fuck those first 400 priest rapists! Manana, y’all, and I mean it.

Print Friendly

Chris Christy- The Face Of The Republican Party

Monday, January 13th, 2014

 

So. Thought I’d drop you a quick line, see what happens. Gram called me yesterday afternoon and the call went like this:

Me: “Hey, baby, who’s banging whom?

Gram: “I’mma be a bangin’ yer hard head iffn ya don’t call yer crazy ol’ mother.”

Me: “I already spoke to her twice today, Gram. What’s her bitch now?”

Gram: “Said she had ate a salad at lunch with Eddie’s mammy an’ got tha gassers so bad she shit herse’f. You call ‘er up an’ make it right.”

“Eddie’s mammy?” I asked the dial tone buzzing in my ear. “Eddie’s mammy?” I re-asked, this time to the Squirt.

The little brown dog looked at me like I’d lost my mind and said to me, she said, “Your mother’s memory is going fast, shithead. Try to be more respectful, if you even can.

“OK, you’re right, of course. But Eddie’s mammy? Who, inthefuck, could Eddie’s mother be? Hells-bells, Squirtie girl, I don’t even know an Eddie in Mother’s life.”

Which reminds me. I heard Rangy Rance Preibublican, head of all Republicans, on the TV Sunday am, and he was saying how Governor Christy having closed a major Interstate bridge in political retribution, causing serious human suffering, and then throwing his own staff under the bus and lying about it all, does not disqualify the obese former prosecutor from a Presidential slot on the next Republican ticket.

I agree. Chris Christy is the face of the Republican Party—a fat white bigot willing to cheat and lie and take social support from the needy, all the while clutching his rosary and living his life for Christ’s honor. “Chris Christy is the face of the Republican Party” should be their new motto.

And that just spurred the mental acuity required to solve Gram’s puzzle. Edamame. Eddie’s mammy is soy beans. My mother is allergic to raw soy beans, had some in a salad and got the squirts. Having figured out the quiz, I beg the question, “How’s that my problem?”

Anyway, gotta go for now. Manana, or so, y’all.

Print Friendly

Cardinal Sins And Other Misdemeanors; Blessing Da Pope

Tuesday, January 7th, 2014

 

So. Its 3:43 am and I’m sitting, awake. With the first infestations of Mountain Jumpier Pollen- Version 2014.1, my entire body is itching from a spot that lies one-sixteenth-of-an-inch under my skin—a calamity wherein the more you scratch the more you itch—I’ve snotted up an entire box of recycled facial tissues since eight last night, and I’ve managed to obsess over almost every aspect of my life. I’ve finally managed to obsess my shit enough together on the professional front to make plans to play poker today, but, and alas, I feel like hammered cat fur balls, I’ve dried snot making my face look like Tony Montana’s in the last scene of Scarface, and I can actually feel the swollen blood vessels in my eyes when I blink.

I’m a fucking mess.

Then, again, a certain unsettling countenance can prove beneficial when playing poker for actual cash. Which reminds me. I was sitting in front of the TV in an attempt to watch Ohio State play Clemson in a bowl game. The dogs were both planted on me as I lounged in the soft den sofa and the score was 14-to-7. Don’t know which had what points and I didn’t really giveashit when the phone rang. I’d forgotten to bring a phone close to the sofa, so I was required to disturb the dogs to answer.

“You’re a total asshole,” the Squirt told me when I untangled her from her nest between my legs. The diminutive brown puppy likes to wedge herself between my legs and then have me wrap her with blankets. She then twists-and-turns until cocoonelated like a silkworm in its final life stage, sighs a “Harrumph”, kicks with her back feet to tighten said and aforementioned cocoon, and sleeps like a baby.

“I keep telling you to put a phone close. I was dreaming and almost caught the bunny rabbit when you roused me,” Squirt groused.

I didn’t bother a response because to respond would have caused me to miss my Gram’s call, and catch an additional load of crap.

“Happy New Year, you sexy old gas bag. How’s it hanging, Gram?” I love my grandmother in inexplicable ways.

“Don’t you be all sweetie pie talkin’ ta me, Mooner. Call yer fuckin’ mother an’ do it right pronto. She say’s ya ain’t call’t ‘er since Halloweenie an’ there’s a terrible cry shits ya need ta handle. Now you git,” and I was left with dial tone.

“Love you too,” I spoke to the dial tone, “and whatinthefuck is a ‘terrible cry shits’?”

I looked at the dogs and asked again. “Terrible cry shits?” The fractured English that spews from Gram’s maw can be unsettling, but does, however, provide the mental gymnastics that lubricates my brain. I’m told that keeping mentally fit stays off the terrible effects of dementia, a malady that has already struck my bloodlines.

“Oooooooh. Crisis. Mother has a terrible crisis,” I said with not a small amount of pride.

My mother is a batty old broad now living in an advanced living facility who suffers from advancing Alzheimer-linked dementia. I call her at least daily and she sometimes forgets but mostly pretends that I, as she would say it, “Never calls me. Mooner never calls.”

I hit auto-dial to ring Mother’s apartment. She must have had her hand on the phone because the first ring didn’t complete its tone before I heard a clipped, “What took you so long?”

Then:

Me: “What’s up, Mother. Gram tells me that there is something terribly wrong.”

Mother: “I wouldn’t need your grandmother as an intermediary if you would simply call me every month, or so.”

Me: “I called you what is now, maybe, seven hours ago, Mother. Don’t you remember that you told me that Mr. Rosenthal kissed you and tried to get you to hold his pecker for him when he pees?”

Seems poor old Mr. Rosenthal has the shakes so bad that he waters the entire bathroom when peeing. Me, I’m thinking of using Mr. Rosenthal’s pick-up line. “Pardon me, young lady, would you mind helping me a moment?” My personal solution for missing the commode and also as a water conservation program, is to pee in the sink.

My sinks, your sinks and their sinks.

Mother: “Listen to me, Butcher Einstein Johnson, and listen good. There’s a diabolical plot hatched by that African Muslim president of yours to sabotage the Catholic Church. We’ve got to stop him!”

Me: Huh? What in the world is she talking about? “Mother, for starters President Obama is not a Muslim or an African, and for finishers, what in God’s name are you talking about?”

Mother: “You know, Mooner. You’re one of the conspirators. Mr. Beck told us all about how you people have tricked those poor Cardinals into electing a communist as Pope.”

Me: “Oh, for shitsake, Mother.” I started laughing.

Mother: “Don’t mock me, boy!”

Me, feeling full of piss and vinegar: “I heard a joke the other night. God and Saint Peter are sitting up to Heaven, bored out of their gourds. ‘It’s been centuries since we had any fun,’ Peter said, ‘let’s go to Venus and hit a few bars.’

‘Too hot on Venus,’ God tells him, ‘I don’t much care for all that heat.

‘OK, then, let’s go to Mars instead.’

‘No,’ God says, ‘too cold there. Makes my bones ache.’

‘What about Earth?’ Peter suggests.’Earth has the perfect climate.’

‘Very bad idea, Peter. I went to earth a couple thousand years ago—dated this nice Jewish girl for a short time—and people just won’t stop talking about it.’”

After a long pause, Mother: “You’ll burn in Hell, Mooner. I’ll see to it!”

Me: “OK. I’ll change my will to have some marshmallows placed in my casket.”

Mother: “You’ll pay for your heresy,” and she slammed her phone in my ear.

Me, I was feeling pretty satisfied with myself, but I might have been the only one. “You can be such an asshole, “ Squirt told me. “Why do you always feel the need to stir your mother’s pot?”

In retrospect, why indeed? I’m plenty assertive with Mother, so there is no need to be passively aggressive with her. I’ll never get her to see the world any way other than from the right-wing, conservative Christian view, and I’ll never be one of those assholes. I picked up the phone and hit the redial:

My telephone: “Ring…ring…ring…ring…ring…ring…”

Mother’s phone: “Beeeeeep. (pause) Mrs. Johnson is away from her phone. Fine Christian callers may leave a courteous message after the tone. Mooner Johnson can go straight to Hell. Beeeep.”

Me, to the machine: “That is stunningly brilliant, Mother. I’m booking my passage to Hell. See you there.”

I remain flummoxed at the Christian right faction of the American fabric. There exists enough dichotomies contained in their logic to make a schizophrenic feel organized and also to make my head swim. Imagine what a devout Catholic must be going through right now.

Warms my heart. Fuck Walmart, y’all.

Print Friendly

Resolve To Fuck Walmart; Recycling Sentiment For Change

Wednesday, January 1st, 2014

 

So. Happy fucking New Year! Having said that in the most accurate and sincere way as I possibly can, I wish all a happy year of fucking in 2014.

OK, stop. Maybe I should backtrack for just a moment and fill in a couple blanks. As I now fire blanks, I likewise feel responsible to inform you that the blanks I speak of, or, rather, the blanks of which I speak, are not the sperm-less ejaculate of a sterilized old geezer but, instead, the empty spaces wedged between knowledge. Blanks as in the space between Rick Perry’s ears as opposed to the starter’s gun at a footrace.

Which reminds me. While I hate New Year’s resolutions, I made one for this new year of 2014. The dogs and I were lounging on the sofa in the den, lapping at glasses of champagne and nibbling from the quite varied assortments of holiday goodies given by Xmas-spirited persons to fatten us up so as to help us whittle our choices for New Year’s resolutions.

OK, again, and let’s stop this word slaughter for a moment. I just read what I wrote and find myself wondering if it is even possible for me to have been more obtuse. I’ve written 210 words and even I haven’t a clue what I’ve said. And having read those last two sentences, the writing contains five “I’s”, no “we’s”, and less clarity than a half-hour Sarah Palin speech. Maybe I should have resolved to make life less about me.

Then, again, and again for the who-knows-how-manyth-time, how can I possible write about what anyone else actually thinks when I have so much fucking trouble with the swill swirling inside my own skull, and “Yes, Virginia,” manyth is an actual word and because I say so.

Which brings me back to my point. Sitting on the woven reed footstool that serves as coffee table in the den were:

  1. Chocolate chip cookies with M&M’s serving chip duty.
  2. A 55-gallon barrel of popcorn—regular, cheddar cheese and caramel, all three segregated by cardboard dividers.
  3. A Mason Jar filled with holiday-colored foil-wrapped Hershey Kisses.
  4. A box of hand-thrown chocolates from this nifty Seattle chocolatier.
  5. Three personalized, pork-based doggie bones handmade by my Gram, one for each of us.
  6. Chocolate covered cherries.
  7. A container of Noosa lemon yogurt.

“Why?” you might ask, “are there so few items on the woven reed table, and why Noosa lemon yogurt?”

“Because,” I’ll respond, “we already ate the rest of the Xmas treats and I love me some Noosa yogurt.”

The Squirt was sitting in my lap, lounging between my legs with her head draped so she barely had to move to poke her tongue daintily into her champagne glass. The glass, one of three remaining from my fifth wedding—the one wherein Roshanda and I wed—is Squirt’s favorite, and Roshandra remains one of my favorite exes. Yoda sat on the old carpet that was the bedding in the crate I used to pick him up from the rescue lady who saved him from the puppy mill over to Oklahoma. The little white puppy swayed as he looked the table over between selections.

“Goat dog’s drunk, Mooner, you need to cut his beverage service.” Squirt’s words were not a touch slurred herownself.

“Yea,” I agreed, “and he always seems to puke in my slippers when he over-drinks. Hell, maybe we’ve all had enough to drink for one night.”

I ate a bite of my dog biscuit—a somewhat bone-shaped affair with my name spelled using liver treats—and drained my glass of its contents. “Gram’s treats are a bit dry this year. Maybe just one more glass.”

I poured us each some fresh bubbly, spilled some on the woven reed table, and cursed. “Goddammit-to-all-hell-and-back!” I might have yelled, but then again, I was pretty mellow.

“Maybe your resolution should be to curse less, shithead,” Squirt told me. “Expand your vocabulary and gain some small measure of that precision of communication you brag about so often.”

We watched the Abraham Lincoln movie on Showtime the other night and the Squirt has proven fond of Lincoln’s words. The other day I told her that she and the goat dog needed to start shitting on the little patch of grass I planted for that purpose rather than in the gravel that covers most of the back yard.

“Towering genius disdains the beaten path, Mooner. It seeks regions hitherto unknown.” I think she’d have held her lapels when pronouncing it to me, assuming she had lapels to tug.

“And, plainly, the central idea of secession is the essence of anarchy,” I replied in my best Presidential voice. “Please try to shit in the grass. It’s almost impossible to remove dog turds from gravel.”

Anyway, my resolution for this year is to better control my ADHD and produce writings with a smoother ebb and flow, just as I’ve done here in my first missive of the new year. And saying that has reminded me that my New Year’s wish for the entire fucking world is that we all have more, and better, sex. I was recently told that some Europeans try to have sex several times each day in an effort to be happier and healthier, and I know that laughter is the best medicine. In preparation for my 2014 full of sex, I’ve cut and dyed my pubbies into a lifelike rendition of the National Mall and I placed a hemp tattoo of Lincoln sitting in his chair at his monument on my pecker. I tried to organize the tattoo to look like old Abe was getting up from his chair when aroused, but, and alas, I lack sufficient skin to portray a diorama.

Yet another reason to end the cruel rite of circumcision. Fuck Walmart and all things Walton! And those idiot Koch brothers, about whom I loudly cheered when watching the 60-Minutes dealio on how the one brother was swindled of $25 million on fake wine. Rich little crybaby whined like a school girl.

Small victories for the little guy.

Print Friendly

Happy Holidays; An Xmas Story

Sunday, December 22nd, 2013

 

So. It seems that I have become one of those missing-in-action blog posters about whom my friends bitch—a once prolific writer of obnoxious drivel posting daily entries into cyberspace now posting monthly at best. Having just mistyped “cyberspace” as “cyber space”, I’ve been informed that cyber isn’t an actual word yet, and alas, cyberspace is.

OK, whatinthefuck is that all about? How can a nonexistent entity not exist yet have space? How can nothing occupy space? Other than in situations like Rick Perry or Sarah Palin’s brains, wherein skull vaults contain empty emptinesses.

Which reminds me. My across-the-street neighbor—a most interesting woman born in Holland and Americanized for the last forty years—invited us over to a dinner party last night. Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson is in town for a visit, so when I say, “…invited us…,” I mean the brain doctor and first Mrs. Mooner Johnson joined me for the party, not the dogs. The dogs are pissed to be left at home alone when Agnes, said and same neighbor, has a party.

“Look, shithead,” the Squirt said, “Agnes has the most interesting friends, and the goat dog needs some socializing with a refined cultural element. Take us with.”

“No, little lady,” I told my tiny brown puppy. “Things will be too crowded and you’ll be under foot.”

“Fuck you, asshole. You’ll pay for this one.”

Am I the only parent who finds themselves revisiting the quality of their parenting skills at constant intervals? I raised three well adjusted, interesting, honest and productive kids as a much younger man, and yet, with the experience and maturity of an older man, the net results of my efforts to properly raise this miniature dog have resulted in the Squirt.

I was asking Dr. Sam earlier this morning, I asked, “Why is the Squirt so fucking headstrong, demanding and why does she stick to her principles like Gorilla Glue? She is the most exasperating person in my life.” I was taking advantage of my lovely ex wife’s visit by attempting to sneak a little free psycho therapy action into coffee time.

She answered, “For starters, buster, I just punched the clock and I’m now charging for out-of-town, weekend, holiday, emergency and crisis rates. Those rates are charged by-the-word at $25-per word. After I tell you that you have somehow managed to parent a formerly sweet young dog into a mirror image of yourself, know that if I stop now, you’re bill for this morning’s session has already cost you $1,775.00”

I thought for a moment. “Jesus Christ, Sammie, you’re charging me for prepositions and pricing contractions as two words! You are such a bitch.”

“And you, my dear ex husband, are a nut case. My free diagnosis of the day.”

Anyway, and before my ADHD drives this train into a gorge, we went to the party last night and had a ball. Everyone in attendance not named Mooner Johnson was an interesting and spiritual person and an actual artist producing incredible art, or an interesting, spiritual and renowned psycho therapist. The entire roomful of us thought Rick Perry is a brainless sack of shit, and when I said, “Fuck Walmart!” the room cheered.

Which reminds me. Dr. Sam I. Am is crazy about this private label Chardonnay wine from Costco. Since Costco is the polar opposite of Walmart—treating employees with respect and dignity while profiting still mightily—I was happy to visit Costco for a case of the wine when I was in the ABQ. I’ve agreed to help write and supervise the implementation of a five-year business plan for my buddy who owns the roofing company, and I’m in New Mexico’s largest city often.

Costco was crowded with holiday shoppers, and after bumping and bustling through the store to get the case of wine and industrial-sized buckets of red pepper flakes, smoked paprika, and olive oil, I went to check out. The shortest line had six overly-filled baskets waiting and I took my place at the rear. There were two, or more, persons with each basket, save-and-except the one immediately in front of mine. That immense and spilling-over cart was unattended. I looked for its keeper and finding none, moved it ahead of me as the line shortened. Nosy bastard that I am, I spent my time waiting in line searching the store around me and guessing who, and where, the cart user might be.

OK, I was also thinking about the five-year business plan, wondering what item from my Costco shopping list I had forgotten, trying—unsuccessfully—to not look at the ample bosom spilling from the holiday sweater on the lovely lady in the line next to me, and likely spurred by the ample bosom, was wondering if I was clever enough to talk the good doctor into joining me in an evening of sack time. For those of you interested in my sex life, the answer is, as it always is, “No, shithead, your ex wife is far too well adjusted to sex it up with the likes of you.”

I was now at the point where I had to either push the abandoned cart aside and start putting my own basket’s contents on the black rubber conveyor belt for pricing, or wait and piss-off the now seven carts-worth of shoppers behind me. Just as I had grabbed the cart’s handle with both hands to lift it aside, a short, plump Catholic woman walked up and said to me, “Oh, thank you, sir.” She started putting her items on the black rubber belt and added, she said, “And Merry Christmas.”

You might wonder how I knew she was Catholic, right? For starters, she had maybe seven crosses hanging from chains around her neck, I saw the edges of a wear-worn Bible poking from the giant purse she’d left in the basket, and pinned to the breast of her sweater was one of those little buttons that show a pair of tiny feet. With the personal experience and knowledge that that particular button is a favored demonstration of a violent Catholic strain of anti-abortion fervor, I pegged the lady as Catholic.

“Happy Holidays,” I responded, full of holiday cheer and proud that I hadn’t pushed the nice lady’s cart aside.

“Merry Christmas,” she said, and again.

Thinking she hadn’t heard my first response, I responded with a somewhat louder and quite more cheery, “Happy Holidays!”

Wait. Would I have spoken more cheery, or would it be more accurate to have said my louder voice was cheery more? As accuracy and crystal clear communications are my life’s goals, me, I’m going with Cheery more.

“Merry Christmas!” she said, and again, this time through gritted teeth and with not a small level of menace.

Oh, now I get it. This crazy bitch is worried that America is killing her sacred holiday.

“And a Happy Holidays to you and yours,” I said as delightfully as I could say it.

“I saaa-i-ud Merr-ry Christ-mas.” Christmas was said as two words with a heavy emphasis on “Christ”. Her eyes had turned feral, like in a horror movie when the Devil posses to scare you into pissing your pants.

“Happy Holidays,” brightly said by me, and merrily so. It has been many months since I have enjoyed the special pleasure it is to poke and prod Catholic Anti-abortion Protest lady into spitting at and slapping my ruggedly handsome face. I do miss those times and felt this the perfect chance to push another silly Catholic woman off her kibble.

“How dare you blaspheme my sweet Saviour’s birthday!” she snarled. “He!!!” shouted now, “is the only reason you have a holiday and I will not let you disgrace His name.”

I was winding up my favorite three words for an occasion such as that when the Costco clerk managed to pry the angry woman away.

“Fuck your Jesus.” I whispered my anti-Fuckhead Christian mantra to myself in true holiday spirit. I always emphasize the “your” part to distinguish the various Jesuses apart. Some Jesuses are loving and accepting while others must be total fuckbrains, and often the lines blur for me.

After a fantastic party and great time, Sammie and I walked back to Casita Johnson de Santa Fe and opened the door to a frightful sight. The entire living room was covered in the shredded remains of a week’s worth of newspapers. Two piles of dog shit had been deposited on the laces of my snow boots that sit by the door, and everything that formerly sat on top of the coffee table was strewn amidst the shredded paper.

“Happy fucking Holidays, Mooner.” It was the Squirt. She and Yoda were sitting on the rug that sits half in the dining room and half in the kitchen. They were wearing the jingle bell collars that are my Xmas decorations. “Fix us some eggnog and light the fire, Bwana. Lets get in the spirit.”

I love my puppies, New Mexico and good friends. Happy Holiday, y’all.

Print Friendly

Teeth On Edge, Banana Pants?; Slow Dancing With Linda C.

Sunday, October 27th, 2013

 

So. Let’s talk about teeth. Maybe we should begin talking about my teeth and go from there. I’ve always had pretty good teeth until age of about fifty-five. Few cavities and very few toothaches. I am a giant pussy when it comes to pain, so after the first time I experienced the dentist’s drill and syringe, I started taking great care of my dentins delicti. Brush, floss, brush and floss again.

But when I hit fifty-five, some of my personal habits started taking a toll on said teeth and causing me considerable consternations. The worst of those habits is clenching my jaw and grinding my teeth—a terrible habit developed by me as a way to assist with enhancing my slack abilities to focus and concentrate. At a quite young age I had determined that a small level of self inflicted pain helped scatter some of my myriad thoughts to leave but a few for my ADHD-addled mental processes to sort through in order to gain a modicum of focus.

Suffering helps me concentrate, a situation that I now realize needs to be discussed with my psycho therapist.

I’ve tried biting my tongue, pinching myself, squeezing my balls, pulling nose hairs and stabbing tiny pricks in my skin with a needle as methods to inflict pain without causing too much injury. I knew a guy in college who cut himself with a razor blade—one of those old timey two-edged jobbers. He’d slide the razor blade across the skin on his arms in bizarre patterns of craziness.

I loved those razors, the way you screwed the knob on the bottom and the top opened up like a set of those little flappy things on the back of airplane wings. Set the blade in its slot and then close the flappy jobbers with reverse twists of the knob.

Me, I loved those razors, but I just couldn’t bring myself to draw the kind of blood that sort of pain set to flow. Besides, cut pain isn’t instantaneous. Unless you cut a nerve or tendon, it doesn’t really hurt until later. I needed to be able to start and stop minor pain at will.

Which reminds me. I was getting dressed this morning and had one of those bizarre deja’ vu moments. I had been slot machine dreaming last night—you know, the kind where your sleeping brain has maybe a dozen different dreams that it totally fucking insists it plays for you before time to arise. Dream a little bit about chasing honey bees across a clover covered meadow while wearing nothing but high-top sneakers in front of a bandstand filled with Dolly Parton look-alikes, and spin suddenly to that time I was back to Tennessee, and Beej and I were visiting over to Chez Squatlo, a wonderful time of frostbite, vittles and sink peeing.

Anyway, I was already confused when I awoke, and somehow managed to get confuseder as I shaved, showered, and to bring us to the having gotten dressed part previously mentioned—I sat on the lid to the toilet putting on my socks while feeling a sense of bewilderment.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, shithead? You look like your eyes are going to start spinning.”

It was the Squirt and she seemed to have a bead drawn on me. Before I could answer, my head filled with the sights and sounds of an eighth grade assembly back to William B. Travis Junior High School in Austin, Texas. In this assembly we kids were treated to a concert of slave songs and African American authored music sung by the choir from Prairie View College from down near to Houston.

“Did you know that “Cotton-Eye Joe” was a slave song—a witty ditty written to be sung by American slaves to help pass time as they toiled for their masters?” I asked the Squirt. “And can you even get your mind around the fact that we Americans had to fight a bloody civil war with our ownfuckingselves before we could abolish said and same slavery?”

“I’m a dog, asshole. Cats have always hated us and always will. Same thing with some cat people, brainless bigots that they are.”

The little dog was right, and that entire American slavery business is mind boggling. And boggling more it is to think that we still have what might be millions of our populace who would like to see the return of those old times not forgotten. Maybe that should have been “more boggling”.

Me, I hear this Dixieland rhetoric and Stars-and-Bars bullshit and I need to just look away rather than warm up my nose-and-ear thumper. Those silly fuckers are much better armed than a cranky old geezer with extra-strong thumb and middle finger. I can make your nose bleed with one heavy thump, but I’m too slow to dodge bullets.

Enough of your secessionist racism, boys, you lost that war and lost it badly.

So, I was sitting on the commode lid with my tiny brown puppy giving me shit, and I closed my eyes to think about gritting my teeth in concentration. As soon as I did, I was sitting in my seat in the school auditorium, eyes wide open as I watched and heard a few dozen black college kids dressed as minstrels sing and sway to slave songs.

The entire sight was eye-popping for me as I’d not before seen that many black people in one place except for down to Ruby’s Baptist church. Ruby was the head cook at the chicken joint I worked as a young boy, and the first black woman I masturbated to. And eye-popping more as there was this one girl singer, woman singer maybe, who held the raptest of my attentions at the assembly. The word in my head to describe her in that moment was “juicy”. I remember that I actually salivated with lust for her.

Mrs. Browningwell had separated Streaker Jones and me by placing Susie Ashburn between us as a preferred method to crowd control the two of us. “You are disgusting, Butcher Johnson!” Susie said when I stood up to clap after what I remember was “Dem Bones, Dem Dry Bones”.

Seems that my lust for the juicy singer had managed to overfill my pecker with blood flow, which had, in turn, pushed a knob in the front of my ever-so-soft, worn tan cord pants. Suzie never called me Mooner, always using my birth name instead. Suzie and her daddy, Doctor Ashburn, play an important role in my silly fucking book, a handsome tome of some 400-plus pages, and a true by-the-word bargain, which is available by clicking over there =====}}}}} to my bloggie roller.

Ever tried to hide a full-on boner after it’s already been spotted and announced? There was this one kid—Billy something—who’d take his out and wave it at you if you made comment. “Boy’s Not Right” was Billy’s nickname.

I remember this one time at the Junior-Senior Dance—the one whereat I was so stoned I couldn’t feel my feet—when I finally got a dance with Linda Crittendon. Linda was a juicy cheerleader and the subject of many visits to the bathroom with an Ivory Soap bar. Our local school band, The Undertakers, started to play one of those asinine Paul and Paula songs—slow tempo music with lyrics that say, “I can’t wait for you to be sixteen so we can screw in the back seat of my daddy’s 1958 Ford Fairlane.”

Anyway, stoned to the point of having zero impulse control, I asked Linda to dance, and for some reason she accepted. My plan was to simply hold her and touch as many of her important, juicy parts as possible without getting slapped. Linda, on the other hand, wanted to slow dance. In the 1960’s to “slow dance” was as sexual and provocative as a teenager could get in public.

I had this gray sharkskin suit back to high school, made of thin, tough fabric that had a silk-like quality. It would ripple and sparkle with light as I moved. As a stoner, I thought the visual effects quite impressive. Linda and I danced and she had pulled me close and pressed her entire body to mine, and I at first simply luxuriated in the contrasting firm and soft of all her juicy parts stamped to mine. At first, she and I were totally into the dance. And as I was quite a good dancer of the slow dance, and Linda a juicy cheerleader, after a minute of the song other dancers began to give us room, and watch.

I think it was at the “…true love means waiting..” part that my pecker woke up and realized that it was slowly rubbing Linda fucking Crittendon’s juicy mound. Totally unannounced, and without any conscious aforethought on my part, it swelled against the thin fabric of my sharkskin pants and wedged itself between Linda’s juicy legs and against the lower edge of her juiciest part of all.

The specifics of the remainder of the dance are a bit blurry in my mind. I do remember that Linda was drinking vodka spiked Coke with her cheerleader buddies and that explained her mood and willingness to dance with a nobody like me. And I do remember that I wasn’t the only one to moan as my woody rubbed against her. And I do know that she whispered, “Let’s go out sometime,” when the song was over.

But I’m missing the approximately three-minute interval between when Linda whispered in my ear with her juicy lips as the song ended, and the part where most of the junior and senior classes were staring in wonderment at the silly asshole slow dancing with himself as “Louie-Louie” was blasted out by The Undertakers.

My best friend since childhood is that man named Streaker Jones. Streaker Jones is a man of few words and was a boy of the same brevity. When “Louie-Louie” ended, I felt a hand on my shoulder and opened my eyes to his face. “Nice stiffy, Mooner. C’mon.”

The most interesting part of all of that is nobody laughed at me and I never was kidded about it. I was never made to pay the price for doing something embarrassing that teens usually extract. Maybe it was one of those once-in-a-lifetime moments that make great scenes in movies. Maybe that was my one best brush with the unattainable.

Makes a person wonder where Linda is today. Would I still find her juicy?

Fuck Walmart, fuck racists of all colors, and we’ll get together manana, y’all.

 

Print Friendly

Impulse Controls; “Hey Mikey–They Really Like it!”

Saturday, October 12th, 2013

 

So. The dogs and I spent last Saturday night over to some friends house in Albuquerque so that we could watch the big Balloon Festival. They live high on a hill in Corrales that is maybe four miles from the Balloon Park. As the ABQ is perfectly located for hot air balloon flying—what with its daily “box wind” phenomenon—the largest city in New Mexico draws people worldwide to attend the annual Balloon Festival.

The box wind dealio is because of the mountains around ABQ and the fact that the wind blows every which a direction as you ascend to different heights. So, basically, you can fly in circles by moving to higher and lower elevations. In spite of the rough landings that broke legs, and the one balloon that hit high power lines and burst into flames, it was fun to watch.

Before we left Santa Fe Saturday afternoon, we winterized the GTO—parked and covered and got it ready for a few months’ nap. The grand old girl is heady fun when it’s warm, but Winter’s cold and slick roads are anything but fun. Which is what sparked me to write today.

The other car previously holding the second slot in the fleet here to La Casita de Santa Fe was a rather large Chevy SUV. Big enough to carry 4’X8′ sheets of plywood, the oversize SUV was a menace on my adoptive hometown’s narrow streets and skinny parking slots. It was likewise a little clumsy in the mountains in spite of its four-wheel drive system.

The big Chevy met its demise two weeks ago when we drove it to get veggies from the Farmers’ Market. We were later in the morning leaving than usual and all the prime parking spots were already filled. I finally found a target space on Guadalupe Street, but some asshole in an Audi had parked over the back line of my assigned spot. The driver had not only parked over the line, but had done so quite crookedly. As I cursed started to drive off, Squirt said to me, she said, “You can fit it in, Mooner, I’ll guide you.”

I unhooked the diminutive brown ball of piss and vinegar from her harness and she jumped from front seat to back, and then over to the rear deck. I watched in the mirror as she surveyed the situation, pacing front-to-back and mumbling to herself, as she laid her backup plans. “OK, shithead, pull up at an angle and start backing up. Slowly.”

I started backing, slowly, and after we traveled maybe ten feet I heard, “Hard left!” and I did, and then, “Straighten her out,” and I did again.

“Slowly, slowly… slowly” Squirt cautioned me as she guided me with her muzzle pressed to the rear window. Her tiny face was squished to the glass as she gauged the distances between curb and Audi bumper. “OK, cut it hard right! No, shithead, the other right!”

After maybe fifteen minutes, the two of us managed to wedge the rear tire of the Chevy tight against the curb, and our ass-end to the Audi in a way that made it impossible for the Audi to move without dragging against the back of my car by snagging his bumper against the sharp, truck-like edge of mine.

The Squirt had the goat dog take a pee on his driver’s side door, and we left the two cars to defend for themselves.

“You need to send that monstrosity back to Austin and get us a proper New Mexico winter car, Bwana Mooner. Yoda and I plan to spend way plenty time exploring this snow season, and we want a fun car for it.”

“What do you have in mind, little lady? I haven’t car shopped for years now and I don’t even know what’s available.”

She and Yoda conferred for a bit. “Well, I want a Porsche and that silly shit wants a horse. He said that would be the historically correct choice of transportation.”

I’ve been reading Santa Fe histories to the dogs to help them get a feel for our magical hometown. The original roads in town were built to be only two horses wide, an effort to make invasion a quite difficult task.

“No Porsche and no horses. Too expensive, too much trouble, and uncomfortable for three to boot.”

We were walking along the railroad tracks that meander from Santa Fe to the ABQ like an umbilical cord sprung from my new hometown’s belly button, the Rail Yard. Squirt stopped at one of the many benches where she and Yoda jumped up to perch. “Sit down, Mooner, and let’s get serious. This can’t be a knee-jerk decision. Cars cost a lot of money these days and you need to take your time. The goat dog and I have a wish list—all wheel drive, roomy, dependable, panoramic sun roof, stain resistant interior all around, and a really great sound system. You can’t just be buying the first thing that catches your eye.”

She was right, you know. I can’t choose new cars with the same impulsive decision making process as I have with the wives. I keep cars for twenty years or longer.

We did our market shopping without too many distractions and returned to Guadalupe Street to find the Chevy SUV sitting on four flat tires and a full dozen Daisy’s Farm Fresh Free Range eggs dripping and sun-drying on the finish. I’m pretty sure they were Large, and I knew they were Daisy’s because of the color of the yolks. We buy a couple dozen of Daisy’s finest Large each trip to the market.

Anyway, the Audi was gone and I got pissed and after getting the car cleaned and tires inflated, we went car shopping. The three of us drove through every fucking car lot in town as we window shopped. The kids would “Oooo,” and “Ahhhh,” at all sorts of shit, and the Squirt was a running string of car commercials as we passed her favored models.

“What’s the matter, asshole, you haven’t stopped to see a single thing. What could possibly be wrong with the Acura MDX? It’s been totally redesigned and made for mankind! You don’t seem very excited about any of this.”

She was right. I just couldn’t get into it. “Let’s go down to the ABQ and get some hot dogs at Der Weinerschnitzel.” We love Der Schnitzel dogs, the three of us do.

So we did, and we exited at the wrong street and were forced to drive the access road to get back on the freeway. “Oh look, asshole, it’s the Mini store! Let’s check them out,” Squirt exclaimed.

So we did. Bought the first thing we saw—a Mini Countryman S All-4 with six speed manual transmission, no panoramic sunroof and a basic stereo system. It’s the ugliest thing you ever saw, and we love it.

Which reminds me. Has anybody thought to say that the reason the Affordable Health computer systems crashed from overuse is because the silly fucking Repubbies spent so much time promoting Obamacare? Planning for the best from a soft opening, Government computer systems planners felt that as many as 50,000 people would be logged on at any given time. Since all the systems were new, no real advertising program was planned and when you give the great American populace three months to do anything, the great bulk of us do it on the next-to-last day. Plan was, get the glitches worked out in early October, fix those glitches, and then be ready for the rush with a proven system.

But—thanks to those silly boys and girls who wish to take affordable health care away from the rest of us—the months of heavily vitriolic anti-Obamacare rhetoric spurred huge numbers of visitors to the site. More than 250,000 at a time, or five times as many as expected in the wildest dreams of the planners.

And guess what. When people take the time to look at the actual data, they like it. Even the bigoted and greedy, close-minded assholes like it. It’s like that old cereal commercial. “They like it!”

Thanks, shitheads, for selling a great product. Manana, y’all.

Print Friendly

When Bison Speak; Fuck Republicans

Monday, September 30th, 2013

 

So. It’s been a Tennessee weekend for me here to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe. A new friend provided me with some brownies made by her cousin—rich brown delicacies cut into the size of large sugar cubes.

“Look, Mooner, don’t laugh at their size,” she told me as I giggled at the mocha nuggets in the triple-seal Zip-Lock baggie. “These are hash brownies, silly. One will mellow you out and a second will kick your ass.”

Friday night, after a long day at work, I ate one tiny brownie, fired up the grill and prepared a buffalo steak, potato, onions and scorching-hot peppers picked right from the vine. As things started to cook, I pulled a big handful of cherry tomatoes from their vines and scattered them around on the solid part of my grill. Grilling was a rather long process as I found myself especially interested in the sights and sounds and smells of our backyard.

“You’re fried, asshole.” It was the Squirt. I was on my hands and knees, sniffing at the herb section of our little garden.

“I’ve got a moral dilemma, my tiny pipsqueak of a poochie. Basil, oregano, sage, savory, mint or should it be a combination of them all?” I asked her.

“What in the world are you talking about? You don’t put mint on buffalo, shithead.”

She’s right, you know. Except I’m pretty sure it was a bison steak. I love mint on some occasions, but not on a cowboy grilled dinner. I snapped-off stems of basil and oregano and tossed them on a cooled fire. I like to finish things for a couple minutes on a cooler fire to allow the steak to get warm inside, but not cooked. I like the “moo” out of my beef, the “baa” out of my lamb and the…

What the fuck does a bison say? What do you cook out of a bison to cook it blood rare? Do they growl? Snort? Grunt, scream? I’m guessing some combination of bull snort and hippopotamus. Old McDonald didn’t have an “E-Eye-E-Eye-O” for bison or buffalo either one.

I didn’t like singing that song as a child. My ADHD would grab my attentions right about the “…had a farm…” part, and I’d be thinking of ways to pester little Susie Ashburn. My pesterings usually involved something to do with Susie’s long, braided pigtails. Buy my silly fucking book and read more on that subject. OK, those subjects.

After my cowboy grilled dinner, a chunk of cheesecake, two containers of Noosa brand honey yogurt, a half-bag of corn chips and another small cube of brownie, I sat on the couch and turned on the TV. The dogs settled into my lap and I flipped the tuner for maybe fifteen minutes before something dawned on me.

“I’m pretty stoned, kids.”

Have you guys tried Noosa brand yogurt? Spectacular!

I finally lighted on ESPN-U, the sports station’s fourth best choice of offerings. “Oh, look, guys, it’s Tennessee VS Arkansas. Let’s watch it for Squattie.”

My buddy, Bob, from over to Squatlo Rant, is a huge Tennessee fan. Regardless of their win/loss record, Bob is a die hard fan. “They’ll just get their asses kicked, Mooner,” Squirt told me, “let’s watch a movie instead.”

“I didn’t see anything that captured my attention, little lady. Let’s just do this for Bob.”

“Fuck Bob,” she said as she jumped to the floor. “Put a movie on the other TV and we’ll watch in there.

I did, they did, and I grabbed another brownie from the kitchen and went back to the game. Among the questions/comments I made—some quite loudly—as I watched the game were:

  1. Why is this video quality so poor?
  2. Those uniforms are so last decade.
  3. ESPN-U has really shitty graphics.
  4. Oh, would you look at that—Arkansas has another Stoerner at quarterback.
  5. This Stoerner kid looks just like his big brother except slower.
  6. Clint had more zip on his passes.
  7. Wow, look at the fog.
  8. OK, I need to read the sports section more carefully. Who inthefuck coaches Tennessee?
  9. This looks familiar.
  10. What would it hurt to have one more brownie?

I awoke Saturday am and realized that I had watched a rerun of the classic late nineties clash between Arkansas and Tennessee. Then I awoke this morning to discover that USC has fired the giant flaming asshole named Lane Kiffin. Fuckface Kiffin had coached Tennessee and screwed them royally before running off to USC a couple years back.

Anyway, happy Shutdown. Fuck all Republicans and Walmart too!

Print Friendly

Frumpy Old Man Commits Fraud; Donald Trump Caught

Monday, August 26th, 2013

 

So. I remember, and it seems like a couple years ago, when I first saw ads for “Trump University”. It appears our boy Donald “Ain’t No Such-A Thing as Too Much Hairspray” Trump was advertising to teach poor folks how to get rich, and quick. Charged the suckers as much as $35,000 for seminars to give them his secrets. I remember that I was wondering how much gall it took to charge $35,000 to tell people that they need to be born rich and then limit their losses on daddy’s inherited fortune, when Mother brought it up at the breakfast table.

“Did you hear that Mr. Trump is giving a seminar here in Austin next week? I was disappointed when he fired NeNe from the Celebrity Apprentice show, but isn’t it nice of him to share his knowledge and good fortune with the unfortunate.”

There was a pause—one of those “everyone stops eating at the same time to listen to Sally’s fake orgasm dealios”—and I figured I’d take the first shot at my right-wing Christian conservative mother’s silly-assed comments. “OK, Mother, I don’t even know where to start with that load of horse shit,” I began. “For starters, how can you have the least bit of interest in a man who is paying to sponsor the slur campaign against the President with that “Birther” bullshit? How can you support that sort of racist behavior?”

My mother took a sip of her hot tea, daintily wiped her lips with her napkin like a proper lady, and took the slow, painful breath of air that has become the prelude to a lecture on her martyred life. “My mother told me not to marry your father, son, but I didn’t listen. I could have married into a sophisticated family from Coastal Virginia, but your father, God rest his heathen soul, hypnotized me with those damned Johnson eyes. I guess it’s God’s will that I’m burdened with teaching my own family about family values. Mister Trump is trying his hardest to find the proof we need to get that Muslim out of the White House.”

It was at that point that steam started spewing from Gram’s nostrils. Her mouth was full of this spinach and smoked pork fritatta I’d made with the Gouda cheese that Sac Ellen had brought me from California. The creamy cheese made the oven baked scrambled eggies chewy and quite tasty.

“Wath tha futh yoth thayinth, Smothr?” Gram managed from her egg-packed maw. “I’mmath slith yerth throth swith thisth spoonth.”

My mother still lacked the good sense to keep some of her shitty ideas to herself even after decades of living under the protection of the Johnson family roof. Her husband—my daddy and Gram’s only child—was a solid man. An honest, hardworking, loving and an afflicted ADHD-addled fuckbrain much as yours truly. Mother can start Gram’s motor on any number of topics, but when she speaks poorly of Daddy, the “slit your throat with a spoon” thoughts fill my grandmother’s head.

“Mr. Trump is an amazing, Christian man. He helps all those talented young women with college scholarships in his pageants, he generates millions of dollars of donations to wonderful charities with his Apprentice show, and he fosters good will and truth in politics by funding the investigations to impeach this Muslim foreigner you people elected President. Why just the other week it was discovered that Obama was married to another gay man and murdered him so he could have a political career,” Mother went on. “How my own family could vote for evil over family values is beyond my ability to comprehend.”

“And how you can be so totally fucking racist and bigoted is completely beyond my ability to want to accept. Are you absolutely certain that you’re my mother? Are you sure that I wasn’t Daddy’s son from a girlfriend or something? I know he was my father, but how can you be my mother?”

I expected a different response, but did so in error. “It’s a good thing that I believe in a merciful God, son. I know that my Hell on Earth is His plan for my salvation. Living with this family will earn me a spot close to God’s right hand when He finally takes me home.”

Now that she’s demented and not living under the Johnson family roof, Mother’s martyrdom hasn’t waned as you’d expect. It’s intensified. I played poker down to the ABQ all day Saturday, so I’d missed all the latest news. Like the news that the State Attorney of New York has filed a fraud lawsuit against Hairbag Trump for $45 million. I was just finishing the paper where I read that the State of New York has solid evidence that Trump University lived up to its name and had bilked millions from the suckers with trumped-up claims. My phone rang.

 

Me: “Hello, Mother. How’s it hanging, baby?”

Mother: “Where are you, Mooner?”

Me: “Still in Santa Fe and hunting for a giant black pecker to see if I might be homosexual. Just like the last 288 times you’ve asked.”

Mother: “You need to be careful what you say, young man. God will strike you down for even thinking about sodomy. Now shut up and listen. I need a favor.”

Me: “I wasn’t planning on sticking the giant black pecker up my ass, Mother, I was planning to… What do you mean you need a favor?”

Mother: “I need you to go into my bedroom there at the ranch and open my safe. Get out all my jewelry and sell it. Bring me the money. Right now!”

Me: “OK, for starters, I’m in Santa Fe, not Austin, and furthermore, you don’t need to be selling anything. You’ve got plenty of money to live on and most of that jewelry isn’t yours to sell—it’s family stuff that you will pass down.”

Mother: “Why are you in Santa Fe? Did you divorce Roshandra? I knew that wouldn’t last.”

Me: “Mother, Roshandra and I divorced years ago and there’s been five more since. Now tell me why you want cash so urgently.”

Mother: “I don’t have to tell you a thing. It’s my money and my problem.”

Me: “OK, how much do you need?

Mother: “$45 million dollars”
Me: “Huh? Have you lost what’s left of your feeble mind? What inthefuck could you possibly want with $45 million dol… You’ve got to be kidding. Are you planning to pay Donald Fucking Trump’s fraud fines? Really?”

Mother: “Don’t you curse at me, you heathen. God will strike you down.”

 

Right after that Sister called to warn me to expect Mother’s call. Seems that she and Anna had been to see our shared womb holder Saturday and took her to lunch. Sister told me that when they arrived at the hostess desk to get a table, Mother said to the young girl, “We need a quiet table in the back, and don’t give us a homo-sex-u-al waiter. My system is weak and I can’t risk catching the infection.”

She also told me of the plan our batty old mother hatched to save Donald Trump’s good name and reputation. “She’s getting worse, Mooner. You need to come down and pay her a visit.”

“I’d rather send her the $45 million. How much can you loan me, sis?”

“It isn’t funny, asshole. If you come down I’ll let you kiss Anna on the lips.”

Anna—Sister’s wife and my ex-wife number three—has the ripe natural lips of that former model and actress, Brooke Shields. Many’s the times I’ve been slugged in the arm for moving in on those lips in my sister’s presence. Sister punched me so hard this one time I thought I would lose the use of my left arm.

OK, let’s stop for a grammar lesson. That next-to-last sentence of the previous paragraph has multiples of grammatical pitfalls contained therein. First, what is the contraction for “many was”? Second, might should the phrase be “many were”? And third, why do we say, “Many was the time,” when there were many having had time? OK, many were having had times, unless the many were having had the same time.

It should be, “Many were the times,” right?

I told my sister, I said, “Only way I’m coming down for the torture that is a visit to Mother’s place is if I get full lips, a little tongue action, and a quick squeeze—a two-handed squeeze.”

“You’ll come down for nothing but the knowledge that you’ve done the right thing, buster. And do it before the end of September. She’s slipping, Mooner, and it scares me. I’m still trying to make my peace with her and I‘m worried her mind will go before she gives in.”

I can’t imagine what it must be like to be gay and have your gayness hated by a parent. I know what it’s like to be hated by a parent for my simple existence, but I think gay hatred is much more venomous. My sister has tried to gain Mother’s acceptance her entire life. She needs it.

Me, I need a cold Carta Blanca beer. Manana, or so, y’all.

 

Print Friendly

I’m Not Really Crazy; Liar’s Poker For Dummies

Sunday, August 11th, 2013

 

So. It’s another glorious Sunday morning in Enchantedland. We’ve now had enough rain to ease the drought conditions and turn everything green. Not enough precipitation to end the drought, but amounts sufficient to make us forget about drought.

The temp is 51 degrees, and that’s the absolute truth. It rained a gentle rain for several hours last night and the air smells just like my Gram’s fresh-washed sheets hanging from the clothesline on a crisp fall day back to Texas. Back before fabric softeners and scented detergents ruined the actual clean smells that were the short term payoffs of hard household labor. Back before vaginal sprays replaced a vinegar and water solution squeezed from a douche bag. Back before the musky smell of a hard day’s work became offensive and needed to be wiped out by chemical anti antiperspirants.

Back before Madison Avenue became so powerful. Before the marketers of big business learned how to manipulate our desires so effectively, so terribly.

Me, I blame Hitler and the rest of those Nazi fucks. It isn’t that other assholes were not investing serious scientific efforts into making determinations as to how the human brain works and how to manipulate it. It is, rather, that the fucking Nazis sole goals were to further their evil desires to dominate the entire globe. And as with all extremist cultures, Hitler’s mind scientists worked at their jobs with the same furor as a modern day Muslim jihadist, or violent right-wing Christian anti-abortion protester.

The advances made by psychiatrists and other scientists from the late Eighteen Hundreds and into the 1920’s were used by the Nazis of the 1930’s and 1940’s to do all sorts of dastardly deeds. Mass manipulation of their populace turning good, hard-working people into robots; creating mass hatred of cultures and religions and social belief systems; instilling fears so strong that formerly rational men would use poison gas to mass murder fellow humans; brainwash a generation’s children to surrender their own parents to a chilling death.

It’s the fucking Nazis who developed the sciences behind most of today’s behavioral understandings, or said another way, it was the Nazis who taught us how to “spin” realities.

OK, let’s stop this train before I ruin the entire day. It’s just too perfect a morning for me to go off on the Nazis when I have some other thoughts to share. I got a call from Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson last night. She wanted to remind me that I’ve continued to “forget” to call for my regular phone psycho therapy sessions—a sign of either progression or regression of my lunacies—and also to tell me that she has finished her book.

It was the good doctor’s having decided to write a book that stimulated the desire in me to write a book and finish before her. Having said that, I now realize that I must have a mean competitive streak inside me that might require some additional psycho therapization.

How fucking sick can one man be?

OK, please don’t answer that as, again, this is a glorious day. Dr. Sam’s book is her memoir—the story of parts of her life. Maybe that would make it a partial memoir. Like, maybe she’ll mention the how I ruined her life but not my positive influences. Or perhaps how she managed to become a wealthy woman by over-charging me for unneeded services—maybe it’s a “how to” book rather than a life story.

She wants me to read it. She wants me to read it and tell her what I think of it. She knows that I’ll tell her the truth, and her knowing that I could never actually lie to her, this scares the shit right on out of me. After everything I’ve done to this woman—all the heartache and other pains I’ve caused—the last thing in the world I want to do is tell her I don’t like her book.

I lay awake all last night worrying about it. I tossed and turned something fierce. I must have “Ughed” a hundred times.

“Listen, shithead. If you ‘Ugh’ one more time, I’m telling the goat dog to shit on the pantry floor again.”

That was the tiny bundle of short brown fur and canine wit I call Squirt. It seemed that my worries were keeping her awake. Not so for Yoda, the aforementioned goat dog. “You’ll need to splash him with a bucket of ice water to get his attention, little lady. That little guy is sleeping the sleep of the dead.”

The Squirt looked at me with dead-pan eyes. “Get your ass out of bed so I can get some rest. Go write something stupid and post it on your blog. That always calms you down.”

And here I am. And here I now realize that I haven’t said anything that matches the happiness that Nature has deposited outside my door. I have so many things that bring me joy and all I can do is fret over the fact that I can’t effectively lie. I have spent my entire life in the attemptings to lie with believabilities, and I’ve spent that same lifetime tangled in the snares of a caught liar.

Ugh. The Squirt tells me that I need to get lying lessons, maybe apply for an internship over to Fox News. Learn how to twist the truth into total shit without so much as a facial tic. Then again, maybe it’s best that I can’t lie.

But who really gives a shit? It’s a beautiful day and I’ll see y’all manana.

Print Friendly

What Happens When It’s Been Three Weeks? This Silly Shit!

Saturday, August 3rd, 2013

 

So. How y’all been? Me, I’ve been busy. Plain and simple statement, made simply and plainly. I’m not bitching or whining, just stating the facts, Ma’am. That busy-ness is why I’ve been missing in action for a couple weeks.

Not that I couldn’t whine should I be the type. But I’m not wired to complain unless I’m unhappy about something in my life, and it isn’t my life I’m unhappy about. It’s the lives of the right-wing Christian conservative shitheads—and their attempts to force their religious dogma down our throats—that’s totally and completely stuck right on up my craw.

Asswipe right-wing racist Christian greedy and narrow-minded chicken fuckers.

Which reminds me. My buddy Bob, over to the Squatlo Rant, ran a video of a man—the husband of a woman who was carrying a terribly damaged fetus—who walked his wife into a clinic to the screams and vitriolic “you’re a murderer” tirades of two anti-abortion protesters. This man—a man who was enduring the terrible human condition of knowing that the baby he was so excited to father was already doomed to die as a fetus in its mother’s womb—had been forced to deliver his pregnant wife through a labyrinth of evil-spirited old hags spewing their toxic swill.

Please go over to Squatlo Rant and check out this amazing man’s response to his plight. Take four minutes from your life to see how a decent, strong man handles those maniacs. Watch his calm, measured words. Watch him debate against evil intent with reason and pure logic. His love for his wife and destined-to-be still-born offspring will tear streak your eyes.

And, if you are me, as you see and hear the protesters’ responses, your anger will surface at realizing that truth and logic and personal freedom are meaningless realities to religious zealots. When I watched that video on my lunch break yesterday, I got so pissed that I decided to unpack my old anti-anti-abortion protest sign and find myself some anti-abortion protesters. I was pissed enough to take the afternoon off and put myself even farther behind at work.

See, while I appreciated that incredible man’s reasoned logic and basic parental love-based emotions, I happen to have the experience required to understand that truth and reasoned logic have no place in the life of Christian zealots. The only thing they understand is that there is not someone with beliefs opposite theirs who feels more strongly they do they. They so strongly believe that they have the firmest convictions, when they meet a giant flaming asshole like me—they either shit their pants and run, or they become violent.

My anti-anti-abortion protest program is a simple one. First, go down to your local Fast Signs or Rapid Signs or Signs-While-You-Wait store and have them make you a sturdy, two-sided placard. I like the corrugated plastic type like they use on real estate signs, and I always get the extra thick. It costs a little more, but lasts way longer in the face of a bunch of shitholes trying to tear it up.

Oh, wait. Did I tell you that I bought some earrings from Ali McGraw? Did I? She was a volunteer at Santa Fe’s International Market, and she manned this booth selling Ethiopian jewelry. Wait, maybe it was Nigerian jewelry—stuff confiscated from INTERNET thieves who bilk dumbass Americans with those silly letters about deposed monarchs. Whateverthefuck, Ms. McGraw was manning a booth and I was walking the dogs, attempting to walk-off a serious after-a-lesbian-dream hangover.

I have been getting these hangovers ever since I married a lesbian—ex-wife number three—and had her fall in love with my equally-lesbian but already out-of-the-closet sister, Sister. While hurt and heart broken by the entire dealio, I found a highly-evolved personal perception of the homosexual conditions, as well as a highly-refined level of lust for lesbians.

My psycho therapist—ex-wife number one—has long held the position that my lesbian lust is nothing but my typical over-the-top response to a “you most want what you can’t have” situation. But me, I know that’s not it at all. I know that I like strong women and some of the strongest are lesbian in nature. Lesbian of nature, maybe.

My first lesbian crush was Martina Navratilova. OK, stop. My first crush after Anna the Amazon crushed my heart and married my sister, was the fabulous tennis star. While my buddies all lusted after Chrissy Everett as she “Uhned” and sweated to chase the powerful strokes of my Eastern European diva, me?—I was hang-tongued over the simple grace and focus and machine-like beauty of Tina.

I called her Tina. Still do. That chiseled body and strong-featured face. I’m in my forties, and I’ve got a poster of Tina Navratilova hanging on my closet door. My feelings were quite hurt when ex-wife number seven made me take it down. Wait, maybe it was number eight. Or was it six?

Anyway, I was walking around up to Museum Hill at the International Festival with the dogs in tow and a powerful post-lesbian dream hangover.

OK, stop once more. I just realized that in fewer than three pages of print, I’ve struck the hyphenator key fifty-one times. Fifty-two if you count typing the word “fifty-one”, and two more just in the telling you that I’d typed it so many fucking times. That’s not an ADHD thingie, that’s the simple precision of my word-smithing. The ADHD influences lie in the fact that I’ve now written almost a thousand words and said absolutely nothing.

Maybe I should try to focus and try to tie all of this ADHD-addled word swill together somehow. OK, I had a dream about Tina. She was planning to make a sports comeback and I was her manager. Like many sports stars who had past-their-primed in their sports-of-stardom, my Tina wanted to stage a prize fight. Box her way back into the limelight.

“Look, Tina—sweetheart,” I advised in my best sports manager voice, “you know and I know—hell, the entire fucking world knows—that you’ve got bigger balls than Sean Hannity. But what’s the point? You kick that little pussy’s ass and you’ll look like a bully. Why don’t you fight Rush Limbaugh instead?”

Tina grabbed me by my shirt collar, twisted it tight against my neck and said to me, she dream-said, “Look, asshole. I’ve already asked you to stop with the male analogies. I don’t have any balls at all, and neither does Sean Hannity. Say I’m tougher or stronger or smarter than him, but drop your fascination with your fucking balls.”

She had a dream point. “Oh,” she’d added with a finger pointed at my nose, “that includes that ‘How’s it hanging, baby,’ bullshit as well. All that’s hanging now are my tits and it pisses me off.”

I’ve seen an actual recent photo of my Tina, and I don’t think she’s got saggy anythings, but in this one dream we were suddenly standing together on the boxing ring apron as the announcer was making his pre-fight speech. “And in this corrrr-neeeerrrrr, from the world of tennnn-issss, The Fore-Hand Assassin… Martinaaaaaaaa… Nav-roooo… Ti-loooooooooooooooo-vaaaaaaaaa!”

Anyway, as I was saying, I was walking the dogs up to Museum Hill at the Festival, and I was distractedly viewing the booths on the one side of the aisles while reliving the dream kiss Tina had planted full on my lips after she KO’d that pompous little Hannity prick.

“Hey, shithead, pull it together. Ali McGraw sighting at your 11 O’clock.”

It was the Squirt. “Whaaa?” I responded as I tried to drag my head out of the dream. “Ali McGraw what?”

“Over there, dumbass, on the left. That booth with the striped canopy,” the adorable lump of brown fur and strong will told me. “Get your shit together and let’s go get us a date with Ms. Destiny.”

With that, Squirt started dragging both me and the goat dog to the booth where Ali-fucking-McGraw sat. I’ve spent months practicing my opening lines to be spoken to the Goddess, Ali McGraw. For months I’ve stood in front of my mirrors perfecting every word, each facial pose, the tenor of my voice, the tilt of my head. All in preparation for my first face-to-face encounter with Ali McGraw.

I was ready. We approached… Ten yards away—she’s finishing with the sale of a beaded necklace to a lady wearing the chic-cowgirl look of Santa Fe’s wealthy visitors. Five yards—Ali turns away from my approach and reaches for a glass. The previous night’s rain has beaded the glass with moisture that clings to her long, lithe fingers in much the same way I’d cling to any of her parts, given the chance.

One yard and closing. The glass is at her lips, my tongue is out to touch both glass and lips, her eyes close and she sips, and swallows. Half-a-yard and closing still. Here I am, in the place I’ve dreampt of being for ten long months. I’m less than three feet from Ali McGraw. I’m primed and ready to fire off my well-practiced, highly-intelligent lines.

I cock my head sixteen degrees to the right to give her my best side, plant a gigantic smile on my face, take a deep breath… And just as she lowers the glass, I bump the table in front of her—hard—and that bumps her chair, which shakes her arm, which then spills water down her chin and into her lap.

“Oh, fuck a duck!” I muttered, maybe a mutter.

“Ooo,” whispers Ms. McGraw, raising a slender hand to brush water spilled on her chin.

I watch the water removal operation with embarrassment tinged with a surge of electrified loins. “Say something to her, asshole,” Squirt is chiding. “This is your big moment.”

My lips were locked in the same silly smile I plastered a million times in the mirror and the words were in my mind. I stared at the beautiful Ali McGraw for what seemed a minute as she now looked back into my eyes. Speak, Mooner, speak! This is your big chance!!!

“How’s it hanging, baby?”

I bought a pair of very expensive earrings for no one in particular, took the paper receipt from the cool-to-the-touch, lithe fingers of Ali McGraw, and slinked away from the booth, towed by the dogs.

“You…” the Squirt muttered, “are a mess. A total fucking mess.”

Which brings me back to my point. Print a personal slogan on each side of your dense, corrugated plastic sign. My personal favorite sign says, “A Woman’s Right To Choose Is Sacred!” and the reverse says, “I’m An Abortion And I’m OK!”

Take your sign down to the Planed Parenthood parking lot and join the protesting. Stand among them and raise your voice to one notch above theirs. “A woman’s right to choose is SACRED!!!”

“I’m an abortion and I’m OK!”

No matter what they say to you, stick to your script. No discussion, no other responses. Don’t try to reason. They yell at you, “You’re a Godless baby killer,” you yell louder, “A woman’s right to choose is sacred!”

They scream at you, “You’ll burn in Hell, Mooner Johnson! I hope God burns you slowly on low heat!!!” and you yell back, “I’m an abortion and I’m OK!”

OK, if they call you Mooner Johnson, you have a special problem, but you catch my drift.

Maybe I can start something here. Maybe some of you will join me in this cause. I’m tired of these attacks on women and humanity—all of them. Let’s make our voices in opposition even louder than theirs.

Fuck right-wing extremist Christians, and Fuck Walmart too!!!

Manana (or sometime after manana), y’all.

 

Print Friendly

Happy 4th; Fuck Walmart Always!

Monday, July 8th, 2013

 

So. Happy Fourth of July, y’all. While this date in history has no actual historical significance as far as our freedom from English tyrannical rule, it is, by edict, the day we celebrate independence as a Nation—a People. Our celebrations originally settled around the freedoms sought by humans from many countries, of many religions and wildly variant political views. We had Catholics and Quakers and Pilgrims and Anglicans and Atheists and more.

Weren’t any fucking Southern Baptists, though. As a matter of fact, there were not any Baptists of any kind who left another continent to settle in America for religious freedom. Fact is, the first Baptist in America was some guy from up to New England—Rhode Island, I think—who got pissed at his church in the early 1600’s and then adopted and adapted some Dutch guy’s theological pissinesses at the Catholics because this guy—Smyth or Smith, maybe Johnny Smyth I think was the asshole’s name—didn’t think that you should baptize babies against their sins.

OK, let’s stop for an ADHD off-the-tracks moment of reflections. I might should have interjected my hypotenuse before continuing what is today’s hypothesis. And why don’t we go ahead and stop once more to carefully explain why the injection of an hypotenuse (a hypotenuse?) has anything to do with my hypothesis that all religions are fucked. And don’t even start with your “Hey, shithead, pissinesses isn’t even a word” bullshit. You can be pissed, be pissy, and pissed off. The resultant thoughts and emotions of having been pissed and pissy are your “pissinesses”.

Me, I see religion as a simple thing whether you are an evolutionist, or an ignorant “All this shit was created in seven days” brain-dead Southern Baptist. Either way, there was one, original Homo Sapien human person of each sex. One male and one female from whom to propagate and fill Earth and screw everything all to Hell and back again. At some point, and likely early in those first generations of we humans, somebody either got curious—or scared—about how we originated or what happens when we die.

This one time when God came to visit me I asked It how did people get invented. I say “It” because God was sitting in a canvas deck chair out to the dock in Austin, Texas, sampling the air with a split tongue.

“Holy shit, Big Guy, you look like one of those Gila Monster lizards. This is very unsettling to me. As the fruit of the labors of my Southern Baptist upbringings, to see you in reptilian form makes my skin crawl,” I explained.

“Get over your prejudice, Mooner,” God told me in Walter Cronkite’s voice. Wally “That’s the way it is” Cronkite was staying in Austin for an extended period and I thought him to be the News God as a kid.

“Fine, Sir, I’ll try. But I like it much better when you look like a woman. Remember that one time when you came as Marylin Monroe? Now that was some visit!”

“How could I forget? You tried to get Me to have sex with you.”

He was right, of course. “Well, ma’am,” I replied to what had morphed into the visage of Marilyn Monroe, “I was fourteen and you did show up in the middle of a dream.”

Anyway, during this visit I asked God about the religion dealio, about what the first religion was, and how She fit into these scheme of things.

“Look, son, I had nothing to do with religion and even less to do with why you people are here. For the life of Me, I don’t now why I get the blame and credit for everything you humans do. Ever since your kind congregated the first time you started looking for something to justify your bad acts.”

Now God looked like a granite slab—pink granite with gray swirls—and as It spoke, the legs of the deck chair creaked under the weight. OK, stop again. Should I have said that the chair creaked under “The” weight? You know, capitalize the The because it’s God?

“But what about our souls? Aren’t you responsible for those rotten and truly wonderful things?”

I had long wondered about our souls, and mine specifically as mine had already been subjected to my rending and other abuses. “Mother keeps telling me that my soul is going to burn in hell because I’m a heretic,” I told God.

“That’s simply poppycock, Mooner. Reality is that you humans have no more soul than does any other brained animal, you just managed to evolve with the most useful brain cells. And just so that you understand Reality with a big “R”, having all that brain power will eventually bring the end of you.”

That unsettled me. “That’s unsettling, Sir. You’re sitting there looking like the granite kitchen counters over to Norman Eaton’s Polonaise restaurant telling me that brains are our demise. Does the term “dumb as a rock” strike a chord, sir?”

The Polonaise restaurant was Austin’s classy cafe back to the mid-1960’s. Our buddy, Craig Carthel, was a cook’s helper back to college. The owner wanted everyone to call him a “sous chef”, but Craig was a cook’s helper.

God changed forms once again, and I was sitting on an old wooden dock and staring into the deep eyes of Albert Einstein. “Listen, son. Take it from one of the wisest men ever to grace your planet. Smart doesn’t always make good decisions.”

I didn’t know Albert Einstein’s voice was a dead ringer for Gregory Peck. I told God, I said, “Did you know that my middle name is Einstein, Big Guy? Butcher Einstein Johnson’s the name, and mastering heretical acts is my game. But back to this soul thingie. Are You telling me that if an organism so much as has a single, linked synapses that snaps off a command, said organism has a soul? Really?”

“Really,” God answered. “How can you people be so smart yet so dumb. You guys are greedy, Mooner, and prejudiced. Combined with brainpower, it’ll get you killed.”

The reason that visit came to light this morning is because the Squirt asked me if the goat dog has a soul. “He’s so fucking stupid, Bwana, how can he have a soul?” were the precise words.

“Souls and brains are separate entities, little lady. And if God was telling me the truth, neither is all that special a deal in the big picture of things.”

“But Mother says that you’re soul is going to burn in Hell because you’re a heretic. Will Yoda burn in Hell because he’s dumb?” Squirt asked.

Have I told you guys that we decided to paint every fucking thing in the back yard in the “Santa Fe Style”? Bright colors contrasting with muted ones. I had stopped writing this at the end of that last paragraph Thursday morning, and now—Sunday morning—I’ve picked it back up. What I’ve done between writing sessions is scraping and sanding and primering and painting. And repainting when the attendant color combinations induced nausea.

Oh, and pig meat cooking. I found this giant package of pig ribbies at the store and we drank beer and cooked pig meat and worked outside. The ribs are not my best by a long shot, but even bad-cooked pork is good eating.

In the last couple days, I had forgotten about my adorable brown puppy’s question about my mentally-challenged and equally adorable white puppy’s soul. As a child, I wondered the same question about my own soul and those souls not mine. To answer that question for all of us, I want to quote my randy old grandmother when she was asked the question this one time.

We were all at a church picnic held under the big oak trees at the family Baptist church property. One of the church ladies brought up the question was Marilyn Monroe’s soul truly doomed to burn in H-E-Double-L, as Pastor Browningwell had said in that morning’s sermon. Several of the women tittered and tsked about MM having gotten D-I-V-O-R-C-E-D, and then they made it to local women having been divorced and their souls’ final resting places. I could see that Gram’s patience was already thin when someone said, this bigoted old gasbag asked, “Well, what about that Penelope Paxton-Parades?”

Asking about Gram’s best buddy’s soul was the clincher.

Gram smacked her flat palm hard to the folding card tabletop. Paper plates and plastic forks jumped an inch in the air. “Who really gives a shit? If’n ya ask me, it’s gonna be a Hell full a back-talkin’ fuckballs jist like y’all. Now shut yer yappers an’ pass me the iced tea.”

My sentiments, exactly. Manana, y’all.

Print Friendly

Homegrown Tomato Maddness; Clarence Thomas- Old White Man

Friday, June 28th, 2013

 

So. Summer’s here and so are the big forest fires that burn and blacken our beautiful mountains. Just as the fire scorches the earth and consumes everything in sight, our US Supreme Court burns and blasphemes a hundred years of increasing civility with one sweeping act. Fires are blind and greedy; heartless and dumb. Fires are indiscriminate—fire consumes each and every thing without prejudice, without emotion, without thought.

Some of our Supreme Court Justices—the five assholes it took to strike down the most powerful tool we have to enforce nondiscrimination in our voting booths—have acted with extreme prejudice in turning a blind eye to the continued racial hatred and distrust that seems to have managed to refill the ranks of the new neo-conservative Republican and Libertarian Parties.

This Justice isn’t blind, it’s instead five old white men who have chosen to not see the truth. And don’t even start to tell me that Clarence “Marshmallow” Thomas isn’t an old white man. That brain-dead and gutless shithead is the worst of the five. Just as a former smoker is the worst of we anti-smokers, a former black man is the worst of all racists.

I can just hear the fuck head. “Why, nobody has ever discriminated against me. I kissed so much white ass that I actually turned white, like a chameleon. Those darkies need to get a grip.” Then that Long-dong Silver asshole would add, “What I meant to say is that all of me except my dick turned white. You know how the white women love black dick.”

How can Clarence Thomas deny that racism is alive and well in many, identifiable areas of the United States? How can five of those Justices live with themselves having made this decision?

Fuck the five of them!

Which reminds me. Did you know that dogs cannot tell a lie? They can fuck with you with evil intent and they can withhold pertinent facts, but they can’t lie. Don’t have whatever it is that allows you to lie. As the owner of two yakking dogs, I can attest to the this as fact. Many’s the time I’d take Dixie—my beloved Golden Retriever and first speeched puppy—out to help me troll for women, and many’s the time she’d say, “I’m not telling any unsuspecting woman’s dog that you’re a good catch, fuckhead. No way I’m lying for you.”

We’d watch cartoons together, and whenever a dog character was on the show Dixie would be a running narrative. “That is NOT what we say. I’d never say that, that Deputy Dog is a fake. That’s a human trying to talk like a dog”

And my sweet Dixie has a special place for Walt Disney characters. “And that Goofy. Someone needs to put that asshole to sleep.”

Dixie is old and has retired to live with my good buddy, Streaker Jones. Her replacement, the Squirt, came to me as Dixie’s protégées, and why, inthefuck, is a single follower and student a plural? Why isn’t Squirt a protege? Fucking French. I’m starting to think that most of the stupidity in the English language is all the French’s fault.

I do wish we’d inherited the way they flip their hands dismissively. I also like the way they say, “Oui-oui-oui-oui-oui…” softer and softer and really fast until they run out of breath. I’m always looking for apparently unoffensive ways to piss people off.

Anyway, I’m sitting on the portal with the dogs with a snoot full of beer and a head full of my favorite bud last night. I was looking at the little garden in the raised bed—the one I surrounded with rabbit wire to keep the dogs out of the tomato plants—and I noticed that the four heritage tomatoes that were days from picking were gone.

“Whuh?” I mumbled through the haze in my skull. “Where’s the tomatoes?”

Yoda sat up at my feet and looked at me like I needed a lobotomy, and the Squirt jumped from my lap and said to me, she said, “I’ve got to go take a crap,” and she trotted off across the little patch of grass and around to the side of the house where I couldn’t see her.

Like I said, I was, effectively, wasted, so it took me a minute to remember what it was that had me all consternated. I re-lit the doobie, dragged another thousand brain cells to the curb, and emptied the Carta Blanca bottle hanging in my hand between the index and middle fingers of my left hand. I’m a left-handed beer bottle holder when I’m smoking pot, and have you ever noticed how comfortable a long neck beer bottle is when fitted between index and middle fingers of a hand that dangles off the arm of a chair? The easy motion of bringing the bottle to your lips as you sit, slouched from brain fog, is something I need to remember to thank God for the next time They pay me a visit.

“Wait a fucking minute… Wait just a fucking minute!”

Now the goat dog looked like he was the one needing a lobotomization. He suddenly jumped up and ran around the house to join the Squirt. And don’t you grammar Nazis even start on me about my jumping tenses. I was, am, and always will be an ADHD-addled fuckbrain who did, does and will do multiple-track thinking, so you will, should and have to put up with the textural blending of my sequences.

If you can’t handle it, go the fuck on over to Glen Beck’s place and leave me alone.

Anyway, it finally dawned on me that the dogs had acted mightily funnily when I asked about my missing tomatoes, so I walked around and confronted the dogs. “I know how much you two like tomatoes. Did you two somehow find a way into the garden and eat my almost ripe tomatoes?”

They each looked away. “Well, did you? Answer me, Squirtie girl, are you the guilty party, little lady?”

“Na-na-na… Na-na-na-na…” Squirt stammered. She was sounding like a Frenchman with the Oui dealio except it was like she was trying to say “no-no-no”.

“Squir-rt?” I slowly queried, “you need to an-swer me.”

“God dammit, Mooner, you know I can’t tell a lie. Yes, we did it. We’re sorry, we didn’t mean to do it, but we love tomatoes,” she said with what was not a small trace of indignity.

“But why, little lady, you know you aren’t supposed to get in that garden area.”

“Humph,” she went, “we’re dogs, idiot, we can’t help ourselves.”

“But how’d you get in? I had rabbit fencing run both ways up and down. A snake would have trouble getting inside. There’s no way you could get in.”

Squirt stuck her chest out and said, “We’re smarter than you think.”

“Bullshit. I made that fencing dog proof. I’ve watched you for six weeks try to get inside of there. Somebody must have aided and abetted you. Did somebody fix you a way into my…”

Have I ever told you that my mother doesn’t really seem to like me. Did I tell you that she was here a week ago and how I was thinking that things have gotten better between us?

“Squirt, did Mother fix you a way to get into the tomato patch? Did she?”

She puffed her adorable little chest out even further. “We’re not squealers, asshole, we’ll never sing like canaries. Eat shit and die.”

Eat shit and die? When was the last time I said that wherein she picked it up to pitch back into my face?

It took a few minutes, but I found the place where someone had cut and bent the wire into a Squirt-sized opening and then pushed mulch over it. Seems the dogs uncovered and then recovered the opening as they came, and went. I repeated a conversation Mother and I had while she was here and I was showing her the back yard. “How are you going to keep the dogs out of your tomatoes, son?”

“Not a worry, Mother, I’ve dog-proofed it with two runs of rabbit wire. They’ll never get in.”

Once again I found myself forced to sing that Don Henley song. “Forgiveness, forgiveness, even if, even if, you don’t love me, anymore.”

I need to call my buddy BJ—talk to him about the great relationship he had with his momma. He just lost her and is going through those tough times, and I’m needing a support group.

Ugh. Manana, y’all.

Print Friendly

Thinking Of Beej; RIP Polly

Wednesday, June 19th, 2013

 

So. I awakened this morning at 2:30 am Mountain Standard Time, my head full of the normal ADHD-fueled swirling thoughts as usual. I wake most nights about that time to go into the bathroom to pee and also to assess whatever dreams have inhabited the swill filling my skull to that particular point in the night. As is typical with most of my normal rituals, my middle-of-the-night ritual is a planned routine—a somewhat complex set of steps that must be taken, in order.

Wake; ask myself where I am; realize I’m in bed; move Yoda from his nesting place in my armpit; sit up and scratch balls; stagger to the bathroom; check for night wood to avoid peeing on the floor; sit and pee while recounting my dreams. Should I miss any steps or take steps out of order, my ADD will consume the rest of my day. Missing steps of any obsessively compulsive routine in my life will, generally, fuck up whatever day I have left.

OK, stop. When it’s 2:45 am and you are writing about your life events that happened fifteen minutes before, do you say, “I awakened last night at 2:30 am…” or, rather, would it be more appropriate to say, “This morning at 2-fucking-thirty…”? That’s one that has always screwed with my head. When does morning actually take the day’s reins from night? Is it a specific time? Does it depend upon how long you’ve been awake? Does it really make a shit?

Tonight, the normalcy of this waking ritual was disturbed by a not normal line of thought. This morning’s first wakening thought was the same as the primary thought in my head when I lay down and snuggled the puppies into their nests at my side. I was dreaming the mangled imaginations that heavy emotions often place in our minds, and I woke with the dream surfaced in my conscious.

“BJ’s mother died, and he’s worried about me… Fuck!” I know I didn’t shout it, but both dogs jumped to alert status at my words.

“What the Hell’s wrong with you, Mooner? You got gas cramps again?” Squirt asked me.

The diminutive brown dog was at my side. “I told you to lay off the bean burritos late at night. You drop a bean burrito fart under the covers and I’ll have the goat dog eat all your new socks.”

I found a large display of thick cotton crew socks in the Size 12-15 Mens I require, and I bought them all. Four dozen plus an extra tube of three. When I unloaded my shopping cart and placed the socks on the counter, the sales lady said to me, she said, “That’s a whole lot of very big socks, sir. You a football coach, or something?”

I explained that they were all for me and how it is difficult to find the extra-large size and how I only wear cotton, and she said that fifty-six pairs of socks are a lot of socks for one guy under any circumstance, and then I told her it was only fifty-one pairs. She said, “Oops, but still a lot of socks,” and rang-up the five-sock reduction from my bill. I paid it with my American Express card—the one that says, “Member Since 1976.” I won’t tell you how many points I have, but I will say that I have never spent a single point in all these years. I’m saving for a first class ticket to Mars.

“It’s not terminal gas, sweetie, it’s sadness. Bill’s momma died and he’s concerned about my relationship with Mother. I just dreamed that God came to visit us again, and I offered to trade my live parent for BJ’s dearly departed. God told me to pull my head out my ass and get a fucking grip. And that’s a quote.”

God told me that He thinks I can learn a great deal about humility and love and forgiveness from my good friend BJ. Again, a quote.

“But I have trouble letting go of some of this shit, Ma’am,” I told God. “And really. Phyllis Diller? You had to show up looking like Phyllis Diller?”

God looked like the comedian, a personal favorite on my Way-Back Machine, and we were sitting on the fishing dock at the ranch back to Austin. “Came as Ms. Diller, dumb ass, to show you I’m serious.”

Some people have truly, deeply human relationships with their parents. Like BJ. And me, I find myself jealous of them. Truly. I think I need to fix that. Maybe manana, y’all.

Rest in peace, Evelyn Ruth Johnson. You are missed.

 

 

Print Friendly

Hoeing Rows; Fuck Memory Lane

Sunday, June 16th, 2013

 

So. Happy Father’s Day, just for starters on this crisp early morning in Enchantedland. The sun is still a pale orange promise shading the backdrop of mountains, and I finally have the quiet than can only arrive after the debarkment of a houseful of guests. If you don’t like the word “debarkment” you can go fuck yourself. Much of the power embodied in the Poetic License I earned by writing a book, and scribbling over 2,000,000 words published herein, lies in the right to make shit up.

OK, that might have been confusing. My Poetic License—the physical presence of which hangs all framed and gilded on the wall facing me now—grants to me various authorities to make shit up. Make up words, make up new sentence structures, make punctuation abnormalities routine, and, likewise, we poetic licensees can lie with immunities to the criticisms appropriately leveled at a regular person’s writings.

Which reminds me. I have a favorite word. It became my favorite word the first time I said it aloud as I was hoeing a row of sweet corn back to Austin, Texas. I was five years old and I was weeding a row next to Daddy weeding a row next to Mother weeding a row, who was next to my Gram—a quite young and handsome woman of fifty fewer years than today—who was cutting okra pods from their stems and dropping them into a bushel basket.

Gram used a sharp, hooked carpet knife to separate pod from stem, and the slimy okra juice had stained her hands and clothes. Granddad was still alive and kicking, and he was over to the Callahans Feed Store shooting the shit with whomever squatted with him at the card table that sat next to the cash registers. Sister was just turning four and she dragged Gram’s wire-trussed wooden basket across the clumpy surface soil between rows.

It was early morning and the prior night’s dew still chalked the dirt chocolate brown, and my clothes were damp—almost wet—from rubbing against the taller-than-me corn plants. “Pastor Browningwell gave an inspiring sermon last night, don’t you think?” Mother said as she wiped sweat, or maybe dew, from her face. My mother was a pretty woman of superior social upbringing from coastal Virginia, a woman who met and fell in love with a Johnson man from Austin, Texas. Met right after the war when Daddy was stationed at the Quantico Naval Base and was commissioned to decommission the Navy ships made useless when World War Two was terminated by Mankind’s second most destructive force. Dropping atomic bombs on the Japanese shortened the useful careers of much military hardware and software alike.

Mankind’s most destructive force is bigotry, hate.

“What part are ya talkin’ ’bout, Mother? They was some a that shit I don’t cotton to.”

That was Gram, and the tone of her voice caused all farming labor to cease. I remember that I nudged my hoe into the bottom of the row and leaned into its handle the same way as Daddy would do during the brief breaks taken when weeding. “Me, I wasn’t too happy with the pastor last night. I’m a thinkin’ we might a hired us a Grade-A, Nummer One assholie. Me, I’m a thinkin’ we shoulda hired that Martinez fella from down ta Brownsville. He was real handsome and had some big, strong hands on him. Pastor Browningwell’s got parlor woman hands—all clean and not a single sign a hard work. Cain’t trust a man with parlor woman’s hands.”

Mother bucked at Gram’s words and thrust the chest of her breast-filled work shirt Gram’s way. Defiantly, Mother made her point in defense of Reverend Browningwell. “I especially liked what he said about how we Baptists are the only real Christians and when he quoted Timothy to condemn the Sodomites.”

My father was a good man—honest, helpful, hard-working—and he loved my mother desperately. My mother was, is and has always been a bigoted and vocal right-wing Christian. Daddy spent an inordinate amount of his time supporting and defending Mother. I do sympathize with Mother in just the one instance. It would be hard for any conservative socialite asshole to be married into a clan of near-communist, hedonistic Texans. But Mother chose her life and did so in adverse disposition to the loud and strong advice of her own family.

“Let it go, Gram,” Daddy would plead. “Please, just let it go this one time—just this once.”

And just this once, Gram did. “Fuck it,” she said, and went back to cutting okra pods.

“Yea,” I said with enthusiasm, “fuck it. Fuck it, fuck it, fuck it.”

I had no fucking idea what it meant, but I knew I had just fallen in love with a word. “Fuck it and fuck this and fuck that.” I started imitating a chicken, strutting and flapping my arms. “Fuck, fuck, fuc-kuk!” Daddy and Gram were finding my actions hilarious, so I pushed onward. “Fuck this, fuck that. Fuck the corn, fuck the okra,” and now I turned to Mother and said to her, I said, “and fuck you!”

The entire world went still, quiet. Seemed that funny had turned, suddenly, not so funny.

“Butcher Einstein Johnson,” Mother snarled as she grabbed my ear and twisted. “You will regret the day you were born!” and she started dragging me, by the ear, toward the house.

“Boy don’t know what he said, Honey,” Daddy pleaded. “He’s just a boy, Mother. Tell him what he did wrong and punish him next time—when he understands what he did was bad.”

Mother heeded not my Daddy’s plea and dragged my ass all the way to the kitchen, where upon she stuffed the dirty bar of Lava soap—used by the entire family to wash hands upon entering the house after work—deep into my mouth. I can still remember how it grated against my teeth and how I gagged when it rough-dragged against my soft palate.

“You’ll burn in Hell, Butcher, you’ll burn in Hell for certain. You’ve the Devil in you son, and it’s my duty to wash him out.”

You might notice that I was not referred to as Mooner in this story and your observation would be prescient. This was two weeks before my sixth birthday and a month before I started First Grade whereat I was nicknamed my first day in school. If you give a shit about that story, go buy my silly fucking book and read it for yourself.

“Muth ahs thon’th untherphannth, Muththr. Thwath ahth tho twronth?”

“What did you do wrong? What… Did… You… Do wrong??? You little heathen, you know exactly what you did. If you ever, and I mean EVER say that to me again, I’ll drop you at the orphanage and you’ll never see your family again!”

It seems that I stood frothing at the mouth and cramping all over my face for days. I cried and wondered what it was that I did wrong. It wasn’t until after we’d finished eating dinner that night and the dishes were cleared from the table that I learned I still had punishments to take. Mother pulled Daddy’s thin, black leather belt from the pocket of her house dress and said to us, she asked, “Who is taking the first licks on this boy for what he did to me this morning?”

The entire table looked down at their hands and said nothing. After a full thirty seconds of Mother searching for eyes with which to connect to her own, she slapped the belt on the table and said, “OK, I get it. Butcher, get over there and put your hands on the table. You know the drill, Buster.”

“But why, Mother? What did I do wrong?”

“You know what you did wrong, now get over there. Now!”

My mother hit me several licks and held out the belt to the table, and I started crying tears of hurt and misunderstanding. Family custom was that each person present could express a sentiment about the youthful offender’s transgressions and take a few licks in their turn. This time Mother stood alone with belt in hand, a slight to her that she took out on me. She whipped me harder, and said, “I asked who will be next.”

Again no answer, so she whipped me harder still. Daddy jumped from his seat and grabbed her hand. “That’s enough, Mother. The boy has had enough.”

Now Mother and I were both crying. “What have I done so wrong, Lord, that You curse me with all of this?”

Fuck is still my favorite word, and my mother left yesterday afternoon headed back to Texas from her visit to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe. It was a weird visit and not totally unpleasant. It seems that Sister and Anna spent the ten hours of drive time to Santa Fe asking Mother to be nice. I know that because Mother told me ten times a day, and I’m telling you this story because Mother told it Friday night at the dinner party I threw in her honor.

I invited all of my new Santa Fe friends for a roasted pig BBQ to meet Mother, Sister and her wife, Anna, and also my third ex-wife (the same Anna). I had to be asked several times “where is your ex-wife?” before it finally settled with those invitees not close to me that two guests were the same person. Again, buy my silly book for further elucidations.

Anyway, Mother told this story on me not for its long term humorous natures of childhood mistakes, but rather, to illustrate just what a hard life she has endured at my evil hands.

“Sometimes I wonder if Mooner pays people to befriend him,” she asked the table of diners. “I also wonder what I did for God to punish me so. My son is a heretic and my daughter a homo-sex-u-al. I’ve quite a cross to bear.”

Anyway, as I said, it was a relatively pleasant visit and I only wanted to slit her throat twice. OK, I wanted to slit her throat ten times but only envisioned the doing of it twice. I’m glad she came and I’m glad she’s gone. She’s losing more of her memory and she’s unsteady on her feet and maybe she’s loosing some of her mean.

Maybe. Manana, y’all.

 

 

Print Friendly

The Square Root of 10; Musical Mysteries

Thursday, June 6th, 2013

 

So. I got a call from a good buddy last week inviting me to listen to some music, said he had an extra ticket to see Lyle Lovett and Robert Earl Keen out to the Santa Fe Opera.

“Hell yes,” I told him, “when and how much for the ticket.”

“Sunday at 7 pm, and your money’s no good in my town.”

That’s my buddy Doug, a man with a big heart and a photographic memory. He’s a man who remembers every slight word-for-word yet holds never a one against you. Me, if I had a photographic memory, I’d be extracting retributions.

“Hey, Sister, remember that time you ate the blue Crayola and I had to color the princess’s eyes brown? Well, fuck you… Huh, what’s that? You were only two-years old? Who gives a shit, you were an asshole and I never forget anyfucking thing.”

I was expecting Robert Earl to open as a solo for Lyle and his big, sassy band and found myself disappointed when we took our seats to find the stage set with two chairs, two mike stands, two feedback speakers, and four beautiful guitars racked—two beside each chair.

Did you know that Robert Earl is taller than Lyle? Not me. I always knew he was tall, but thought Lyle was the taller. Not that it makes a shit. My disappointment at missing the horns and saxes and backup singers dissipated as soon as the two men sat—their longtime friendship visible in the comfort they took with sitting at each others side.

A weird thing happened for me at this concert. OK, stop. Background is everything when you try to interpret the words of a backwards-thinking writer, so let me provide you with a little info. Due to my having been genetically inflicted with the dreaded ADD and its big brother, ADHD, my musical comprehension is incredible—for maybe ten bars of every song I have ever heard.

I can provide you a few lines of melody and/or libretto for anything in the catalogs of such varied artists as Harry Connick to Frank Zappa to Amadeus fucking Mozart. I can hum a couple bars of anything I’ve ever heard yet can’t sing you the complete verses of even my most favorite songs. Hell, I even have difficulty with the Star Spangled Banner. After six decades, I still mix up “Home of the free” with “Land of the brave”.

But what I lack in musical comprehension I have been spaded with human and emotional association connected with any song and my own life. I can tell you all the details of my life surrounding any song ever to pass through my brain. Take “In the Jungle, the quiet Jungle” as an example.

I had this tiny crystal transistor radio bedside as a young adolescent. I lay in my bed one summer night—the summer I grew 11-inches between school terms, and every bone in my body ached with the pain of their expansion rates. My legs and feet hurt the most, and this one night I was thinking I could actually hear my bones creaking and splintering as they expanded and extended under my skin. Each night I pressed the zero end of a yardstick tight to my sphincter and measured the distance to my foot—you know, that spot where the smooth skin of your leg turns into the rough sandpaper of heel. I’d mark the measurement on a Big Chief Pad, then measure again in the morning.

Most nights the increase in seam length would be small—discernible, yet quite small. But this one night I actually grew a quarter-inch overnight. Anyway, I was lying there on the cool cotton sheets debating the virtues of masturbation and whether I wanted to get up and make a date with my personal bar of Ivory soap, or just lay there and hurt. I remember that I was thinking about adding steps to my nightly yardstick ritual and see how much my pecker was growing and whether I should measure softy or stiffy.

I had just voted “stiffy” when that silly song squeaked from the paper cone speaker on the radio.

“The lion sleeps tonight, weem-a-wacka, weem-a-wacka?” I asked myself in the darkened bedroom, “What, inthefuck, does that mean? That might be the stupidest thing I ever heard.”

However, I must now edit my teenage thoughts by saying that I had not yet discovered Iron Butterfly at that point. “…Inna gotta da vida, baby…” Really?

So, the memory/emotional responses I got from Lyle and Robert Earl were for/from my buddies Squatlo and BJ. I laughed for Bob at songs such as “She’s No Lady, She’s My Wife”, and I teared-up for Bill with Robert Earl’s family stories. Bill’s mom is really sick and Bob likes silly shit.

And that reminds me that this woman at the Whole Foods asked me a question the other day. She somehow knew that I’d been married ten times and she asked me, she said, “Which of the ten was the sexiest?”

After a lengthy discussion about how each was quite sexy and the many different ways so, she asked me again. “OK, but which was the sexiest?”

I then had a question of my own, that being, “Why do you ask, you blue-eyed sexpot? Are you angling for a spot of Mooner?” a question that did not quite draw a slap to my well-sunned face, but did garner a look that might have shriveled the pecker of a lesser man.

And here I now sit, asking myself that self same question, and have come to an answer. The sexiest of my ten ex wives is as of yet unknown to me. I will, however, ponder the solution and report herein my conclusions. I can say for certain that if your idea of sexy is a woman having an insatiable appetite, then I must go with Roshandra Washington-Johnson, the gun-toting Nubian warrior guarding the headquarters of the Austin City Council. If mystery is your clue to sexiness, then maybe it’s number seven. OK, stop, maybe mystery would be number four, the shortest-lived of the ten. Then, again, mystery is a word of mysterious definitions in its ownself, and the understanding of the very word “mysterious” provokes a myriad of interpretive adaptations.

Ugh. Mother will be here in four days. Buy my silly fucking book and you’ll understand more. Manana, y’all.

Print Friendly

The Garden Is In; Yoga Is For Lovers

Sunday, May 19th, 2013

 

So. The dogs and I have been landscaping and garden planting, and I must admit that I find myself both impressed with our results, and, likewise, satisfied with the efforts. The reasons I’m impressed with the results are obvious—good design, personal preferences considered all around, and strong team participation.

“No, no, shithead, get ones that already have tomatoes on them. I’m hungry.”

That was the Squirt when we were over to the Aqua Fria Nursery yesterday choosing garden plants. If you know anything about us Johnsons, you know that we are absolute freaks for homegrown foodstuffs and totally bonkers for tomatoes raised by our own hands. Squirtie and I were in the big greenhouse where the nursery keeps the dozens-of-varieties of heirloom and regionally-adaptive tomato plants that thrive here. We were arguing about “is it smarter to get healthy, barren plants or weak ones already fruited”, and I was pushing for strong starter plants. The diminutive brown-furred smart mouth wanted weak plants pre-adorned with snacks for the ride home.

“Sir,” a not all that friendly voice said from the open entry in the plastic-covered greenhouse. “There, you, sir, the big man in the dirty shirt with the noisy dog. Do you also own a white dog that looks like that Star Wars gremlin?”

“Why that would be my Yoda, sir. Isn’t he a cute little shitbird?”

“That ugly mutt of yours just ate our last three flats of Thai basil, five one-gallon spinach, and is now started on the Greek oregano. Will you be paying cash or credit, sir?”

When we finally had a tabulation on the damages, I told the Squirt as we were checking out, I said, “Well, at least his farts won’t smell so bad. Asshole’s been eating the stink weed growing behind the shed and he’s had the gag gas.”

My puppy giggled and said, “Yea, he’ll be farting Pad Thai and spanikopita gas. If he gets a-hold of the Italian parsley, he’ll be an international fart festival.”

Reality is often different than imaginations. I was awakened last night by bedsheets billowed with rancid dog gas and a pile of plant stems that had been puked half on the edge of my bedside rug and the other half on my socks. Which reminds me.

Am I the only one who has become more tolerant of stuff as I age? Ten years ago, just the thought of a mouthful of short dog hairs would stir my gag reflex. Now, I simply think of it as roughage. I don’t gak up fur balls like a cat, but I do often crap small patches of brown and white fabric. I clean up animal turds as a routine and don’t even bitch so long as it’s solid.

OK, stop. As I sit here bragging on my maturities, I realize that my growing tolerances are with animals and I’m becoming less tolerant of asswipe humans. The number of humans I want to thump on the nose grows daily. If I’m ever to meet that right-wing goat fucker, Texas Senator Ted “Cruzin’ for a Bruzin’” Crudz, I’mma wind-up a nose thwack like never before delivered.

Anyway, I was sitting here early this morning with my first cuppa Joe. It was a quite strong and bitter brew, my favorite. As I gazed at the small, just-planted vegetable garden through the open window of my office, the dogs were out back standing—tails wagging—with their snouts jammed through the small crack between the back gates here to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe. Squirt left the gates and walked over to push her head through the rabbit fencing I placed around the tomato plants. She grabbed what appeared to be the largest Cherokee Purple that was a week from harvest and trotted back to the fence. She pushed the dark purple orb through the crack, wagged her tail and ran toward the house.

I watched as the goat dog started grazing in the dill and mint section and heard tiny puppy toe nails ticking on the wood floors. The Squirt skidded the corner from the hallway into the office, jumped into my lap, planted front paws on my chest, jammed her face into mine and said to me, she said, “Shit, shower and shave, asshole, and put on your tights and that new Humane Society tee shirt you got from the animal shelter last weekend. We’re going to go yoga.”

“Fuck yoga, little lady, we’re cleaning this house today. We’ve got company coming the next three weekends, including Mother.”

Squirt jumped off my lap and headed from the room. As she left, she flipped over her shoulder, she said to me, “Fine with me, shithead. But just so you know, Rooster the Dalmatian knows a Chow dog from Second Street who knows Ali McGraw’s dog, and Khan—the Chow dog—says that Ali does yoga most days at the place up the street.”

That was six hours, one shit-shower-and-shave, and four hour-long yoga classes ago, and who would name a Dalmatian “Roster”? I’m cramped from ears-to-knee caps and I can’t feel my pecker. Balls are swollen from the natural squishing that happens with some of those stupid yoga positions, but that’s not a happy ball swelling. Happy ball swellings occur differently, more naturally.

Anyway, I couldn’t last long enough to see if Ms. McGraw made it to an afternoon yoga class today and now I’m too sore to clean house. And that reminds me of that tantra yoga shit—you know, that yoga wherein you’re supposed to have six-hour sex.

I now believe it’s possible, and that reminds me to tell you something that I have already forgotten. Fucking ADD. I’m having a cold Carta Blanca while I decide about dinner. Manana, y’all.

Print Friendly

Fuck The NRA- A Capitalization Offense

Sunday, May 12th, 2013

 

So. I’m wondering what it is about America and Americans that makes us think we’re so fucking great. I know the words we use to tout ourselves, I’m just having trouble translating the conceptualizations contained in all this “America is wonderful” rhetoric into actual actualizations. After extensive research and memory searching, it appears to me that the most common “sell America in as few words as possible” sales pitch would be contained in the old tried and true axiom stating that America is:

“The Home of The Free, Land of The Brave.”

Really? Home of the Free? Free what? Free to love who we want? Free to make decisions about our own bodies? Free from economic suppression? Free from the autocratic edicts of another’s religion?

Land of the Brave? Really? Like brave enough to vote for simple, smart gun legislation?

Bullshit. It’s like the same thing as I see on the sides of police cars. “Protect and Serve,” might be written on the sides of more American automobiles than the word “Police”. Ask those three young women up to Cleveland in the O-hi-o about the quality of protective services rendered in their favors.

Which reminds me. Whatthefuck is up with the grammatical usages of the words “who”, and “whom”? Why does it even matter? Is there a single English-speaking non-moron on the face of the Earth who wouldn’t know what you meant if the two words were merged into one?

OK, maybe that should have been, “…non-moron whom wouldn’t know…” See what I mean? It’s the same thing with I/me. And answer me this. Why, in-the-dog-shit, do we capitalize I and not me? Hell, if I’m so important to deserve capitalization why aren’t me and mine? For Christsakes, I am me. And what about you and her and them? Why does my shit stink and I don’t?

Talk about your capitalization punishment. I say we string up all the grammar Nazis by their nipples until they fix some of this shit. I think it’s time for a little Grammatical Anarchy!

We need a slogan and a name for our cause. How about “Free Americans for Brave Grammatical Change!” as our name? Oh-oh, and our slogan could be, “It ain’t about whom, it all about Who?”

And speaking about stringing-up by one’s nipples, there was this one time when one of my ex-wives visited her buddy up to New York City. I’ll not tell you which of the ten exes I’m referencing herein, except to say that she’s the one with aureoles the size of porcelain saucers and nipples you can hang your old letter jacket from while role playing “Cheerleader meets football hero”.

Anyway, this lovely and buxom woman had this buddy living to the big city, and on this one trip to visit, the friend took my wife to one of those bondage clubs. Wife comes home with an extra suitcase of what she called, “This is a case full of sexual delights, Mooner my main man.”

After a short discussion as to why I was her “main man” and not simply her man, and, likewise, numerous slapping of my hands when I attempted to open the suitcase, I was instructed to, “Go take a shower and shave yourself from your belly button to your knees. Then put on the pink Speedo I bought you and meet me in the basement.”

And don’t even start with me about the pink Speedo. I never went swimming in it and you, likely, have never seen nipples the size of Little Smoky Sausages get hard enough to cut glass. So back off on the pink Speedo.

Me, I should have had the presence of mind to carefully examine my lovely spouse’s words. See, the “shave yourself from B-button to knees” part was a key phrase. Shaving my hairy ass alone is a two-hour process involving the dulling of three new razors, so the half-day it took me to get skinned and make it to the basement in a pink thong gave the wifey-poo plenty of time to adorn said basement with her newly-purchased sexual delights.

I slid the pink swimsuit up my legs, settled it into place, and took a look in the mirror. “Holy shit!” I said to the surprised look on my own face, “Half of my man package was fur!” I then spent a few minutes fluffing myself and then went to the basement, which was locked.

Me, I’m thinking that my finding the key and doing a “breaking-and-entering” scenario was part of the plans. After finding the key I decided to sneak in like a cat burglar. So I craftily opened the door and crept (creeped?) down the stairs where I fully expected to find a pair of giant, oiled breasts awaiting me.

“What about that? Is that one there fer you twatter er yer titties?” I heard from behind the big stone column that supports the floor above. It was my Gram’s voice, and “that one there” was a pair of car battery clamps with mink pads, fastened to a fancy bungy cord.

The wife’s voice answered her, “Here, let me show you.”

There was a yelp, and then, “Oh, baby, that’s what I’mma talkin’ ’bout!”

I turned the corner around the stone column and saw a sight that still gives me nightmares. Wife and grandmother—both naked—were standing at my work bench with the opened suitcase atop. I can only describe what I saw by saying, “Think battery boosting competition.”

Remember how the Bedouins used to make water bottles out of dried camel stomaches? Pin jumper cables on a pair of those nomadic water jugs and you have a perfect visage of Gram. Think “instant wood” and you’d gain understanding of the lovely ex-wife.

Have I ever told you that I have the dreaded ADHD and its little brother ADD? I have no fucking idea why I called this meeting other than to say, “Happy Mothers’ Day!” to all you mothers, and that reminds me that my very own mother is coming to visit in less than a month.

Ugh. Please send drugs. Manana, y’all.

 

Print Friendly