So. The dogs and I have just returned from what should have been a relaxing trip down to Ruidoso, New Mexico. Ruidoso is a beautiful little mountain town, situated dead-center of the state, with a big horse racing track, ski hill and a casino. The Apache Tribe owns the casino and, as it turns out, fucking Texans own everything else.
“Holy shit, Mooner, look at all the Texas license plates. It’s like we never left Asshole Land!” the Squirt exclaimed to the crowd in our Mini Countryman stuffed to the gills with the three of us plus enough dog provisions to support the two small puppies for a year. Packing for weekend trips with the small bundle of brown fur and bad attitude I named “Squirt” has become worse than back to when I was married to an opera singer.
“Ahh needhs eenouff klo-theengs to match eenie ohhcashhh-ion, Moo-near mon cheri amour.” That was how my mocha brown skinned ex-wife had put it to me as we stood at the Delta Airlines check-in counter, her thick French accent dripping with sex and honey.
“But, my darling wife. It’s gonna cost an extra thousand dollars for the last six chunks of luggage, and we’re only going to be gone for a week,” my meager attempt to save a thousand smackeroos.
And that reminds me. Santa Fe has what is truly a world class opera. Set rather than inside a stuffy closed box with acoustics that have been enforced with the rigid, manufactured materials sound engineers use to make things sound “natural”, our opera is housed in an open-roofed natural amphitheater that can deliver the actual sound of a sharp intake of breath from the stage all the way to the last seat a hundred yards away. OK, maybe it’s eighty-six yards.
But who really gives-a-shit, right? Eighty-six or a hundred yards, it’s all the same dealio.
We were just arrived into Ruidoso and were stuck in quite heavy traffic there to Sudderth Street—the main drag when entering town from Roswell, the direction Texans enter to shit on our pretty state.. “You’re right about the Texas plates, little lady. I haven’t seen so many Cadillac Escalades since you jumped out of the GTO at the Austin dealership to chase the fucking cat.”
Honor, said and same fucking cat, had decided she was unhappy about something that cats get unhappy about and had left the car when we stopped for a red light over to Research Blvd. Now, and as I’m reminded to tell you, Honor has been AWOL for what is now a month. Last two fish skeletons have gone without her attentions, and if I don’t stop this brain swill right now, my ADHD will drive us right on over the cliff.
Seems that Texans have invaded central New Mexico and centered that invasion on the environs of Ruidoso. Texans everywhere—at the motel where we stayed, the restaurants, stores and the casino wherein I played. I was playing no limit Hold “Em Saturday night with a table full of cowboys just finished with a day at the horse races. And let’s be clear here when I say that maybe one of these sanctimonious assholes was an actual Texas cowboy. Rest were typical pretenders to cowboydom, the standard Texan’s posture. Maybe that should be “cowboyness”.
After they bored of talking racing horse stories the subject turned to the terrible crisis they think Texas has with the invasion of brown-skinned children. I endured maybe fifteen-minutes’ worth of their bigoted bullshit before I’d had it.
“Here’s a foolproof way to stop all those little urchins from crossing your border, guys, and I’ll give it to you for free.”
I guess my having taken several of their stacks with superior holdings gave me some deference as they all looked my way for this supposed solution. I made them ask several times before I said to them, I carefully explained, “OK, here’s what you do. Pack all your shit and every Texan from around the world goes home from wherever-in-the-fuck it is they are that isn’t Texas. Stay there and mow your own lawns, clean your own houses, pick your own fucking cotton, dig your own ditches and work in the fertilizer plants your own damn selves. That’ll solve your immigrant issues and mine as well.”
And that reminds me of what I meant to tell you in the first place. I’ve long been monitoring this entire charismatic Christian bullshit wherein some are claiming that the second coming of Hey-soos is just around the bend. Seems I’ve discovered another sign that they might be on to something. Every day our local newspaper prints the previous day’s police blotter and I read it each day. Last Friday’s Santa Fe New Mexican police blotter had an entry, and I swear to God this is the truth. It read, “On August 10th, a burglar stole twenty pieces of gold from a home at …”
When I read the listing to the Squirt she told me, “Looks like some asshole is preparing to shit in Jesus’ mess kit a second time.”
We laughed until it dawned on me it might be true. So fuck Walmart while you still have the time.
Archive for the ‘ADHD’ Category
So. The dogs and I have just returned from what should have been a relaxing trip down to Ruidoso, New Mexico. Ruidoso is a beautiful little mountain town, situated dead-center of the state, with a big horse racing track, ski hill and a casino. The Apache Tribe owns the casino and, as it turns out, fucking Texans own everything else.
So. I’ll begin this posting with another attempt to outsmart my Word Press bloggie software. I’ve so far made attempts in vain, efforts that have nothing to do with vanity, another of our language’s many vagaries and conflicts of interest. If the outline format and numbers appear once more herein, please know that I will continue my attempts at correction. I realized earlier this beautiful New Mexico morning that first, my lack of computer knowledge is a handicap and, second, my ADHD both handicaps and trumps my lack of knowledge.
If there truly is a God as the modern American extremist charismatic Christians seem to see It, then one man would not be required to be dumb AND have less focus than the cracked lens of my old Brownie camera. Plus, said loving God would require—and I do mean require—all His/Her/Its followers to look at both sides of every situation rather than to focus on only the one side. The side that suits their bigotries.
Having made that preamble, please allow me to tell you that I took a break from mourning my sister’s death—and gritting my teeth at my mother’s actions thereabout—and hosted a neighborhood meeting for the New Mexico Democratic Party. I’ve decided—at my psycho therapist’s urgings—to get myself involved with local politics in a more proactive way. The little soiree was attended by maybe thirty-five likeminded residents and held in the adorable back yard here to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe. Lucky we were like-minded, as an hour in a big thunderstorm blew through and forced the entire crowd to bunch up on my portal.
For those of you not familiar with our culture, a portal is an outdoor living space some would call a covered porch even though calling it a covered porch doesn’t quite cover it. Our portals are often separate structures, and here I’ll stop myself from getting into all the whys as to how our New Mexican portals put your covered porches to shame.
The honorees in attendance last evening were our candidate for Lt. Governor, Deb Haaland, and the wife of our state’s senior US Senator, the most honorable Jill Udall. Lovely women in all ways were they both. The Democratic runner for Lt. Governor is a Native American woman with the perfect background to be a leader, and lucky for us all that the previously-mentioned psycho therapist had admonished me earlier in that day to, as she put it, “And look me in the eyes, Mooner Einstein Johnson—I said look me in the eyes you inappropriate numbskull—do not, repeat do n…o….t use this meeting as an opportunity to meet women!”
I spoke with the Squirt after, when we were cleaning up the meager trash, and she said to me, she said, “I saw several qualified prospects, Bwana, including the future Assistant Governor.”
When I tried to tell my little brown puppy that a Lt. Governor isn’t an assistant governor, she almost scolded me when she said, “Listen to me, shithead, and listen good. That is a smart, strong and focused woman. She’ll assist and then she’ll take over.”
As host, Jill Udall felt compelled to spend a few moments interacting with me, moments she likely regrets. She thanked me for hosting the event and complemented me on my quite comfortable and attractive back yard. We discussed local politics for a minute and then she excused herself to go to her next event. I made some silly-assed comment about how she must be busy, what with her husband up for reelection this November, and then as she turned to leave, she turned back and said to me, “I’m sorry, Mr. Johnson, but I have to ask you. How did you come to be named Mooner?”
I showed her.
“Oh for shit sakes, Mooner,” Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson scolded me in my Friday session the next morning. “Don’t you ever think before pulling your ass out?”
“I don’t understand what the big deal is, Sammie. My left cheek was already shaved to say, ‘Vote for sanity’. I’d have finished but my new shave artist is having trouble balancing the right cheek to match it. Seems “Vote Democratic!” is difficult for one cheek’s worth of fur,” I thoughtfully explained. “My plans are to stand on various street corners and encourage people to vote sanely.”
The good Doctor stared at me over the Skype machine for what felt like ten minutes. “You’re wasting my therapy money, Sammie, so say something.”
“OK, asshole, try this on for size. Have you thought—even once—that you flashing your backsides on a street corner would create an urge in sane people to vote sanely?”
After some careful thought, I shaved both cheeks this morning so the hair will grow back evenly for a new slogan. I’m thinking “Vote for Women- Vote Democratic!” will fit the appropriateness bill. That one doesn’t have all that push-pull.
Anyway, yesterday I went to another Democratic soiree attended by Senator Udall and his friend, Senator Al Franken. I love the word “soiree” and it was a doozy. Fodder for another day. So:
- So. I’m attempting to set a new Santa Fe record for consecutive days writing, this making three such productive days in a row, and I’m finding it difficult to talk about anything not related to my new retirement. My psycho analyst tells me that is because I’m sad and hurt by the events that prompted my early departure from what had been a fun and fulfilling work experience. But there is this annoying Windows 8 dealio that places outline numbers into my postings for no fucking reason. Anytime you see these examples of bad format, Blame Billy Gates, not me.
(Editor’s note: When I started this shit it was, actually, for the third day of writing in a row, said writing to have been published for the third consecutive day. Today is now Friday, and I’m hoping to actually finish and publish whateverthefuck it is that I’m trying to say before today becomes Saturday. See, on Monday I got a call from a buddy asking me to discuss some stuff with him, so I closed this down, showered and dressed, and went to his place to talk.
We then discussed what it was he wanted to talk about. OK, after first talking about the wonderful rain we’d had the night before, we discussed what it was he wanted to discuss, and then after all that stuff, we talked about poker—my new profession—and what my plans were for the day. One thing to another, and it slipped my mind that I planned to set a new Santa Fe writing record as I went to the casino. What comes hereafter was previously written Monday save, and except, for some editing and infill.)
Which reminds me. I spent the day yesterday (please read here yesterday to mean “last Sunday” as I was writing this Monday) doing nothing but mindless chores and other shit with the dogs—cleaning the carport and shed, trimming landscape, running the vacuum, reading a poker book—and it was the most pleasurable day I’ve spent in a year. I forced myself to be, as Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson calls it, “in the moment”. In the moment is another word for enjoying what you are doing as you do it. OK, three words, but who really gives a shit?
And speaking of living in the moment, my mother’s dementia is worsening by the day and I’m speaking of the actual worse rather than her previously pretended memory losses. Until recently I could never tell when Mother was gaming me with her dementia, whether she was acting like she didn’t know or was it for real a moment of forgetfulness.
Now, it’s for real. For very fucking real.
Last night the phone rang and I could see Mother’s San Antonio number on the little display of my cell phone. “Hey, Mother, how’s it hanging, baby?”
“Why doesn’t your sister ever call me? I can understand you abandoning me, but never your sister. The lesbians have told her to abandon me and it’s all your fault.”
When all I could do to fill the blank time was breathe heavily, Mother added, “I just wish the Lord Jesus would just take me right now!”
“Mother, you and I were on a conference call with Sister just an hour ago—remember? We discussed my son’s wedding this fall and we tried to help you make decisions about that happy event—do you want to go, would you sit in the car for an hour with Sister and her wife or would I need to drive four hours out of my way to pick you up, and why didn’t either of your children ever call you? Do you remember any of that?”
“Who’s getting married?”
Oh, for fuck sakes, I was thinking. “For fucksakes, Mother, I’ve discussed this with you for the last month.” I’ve been trying to say the word “fuck” so much around my mother. Seems she has begun to think that her sweet Jesus will think less of her for what I say and do.
“I don’t know why the Lord doesn’t take me now before you swear me all the way to Hell. I worked so hard to bring you up the right way and my reward will be to burn for all eternity in the fiery pits of Hell.”
“That’s fine, Mother,” I told her, “save a set of chains for me, will you?”
Her response was to ask me, “Where are you?” and then we did the “I’m in Santa Fe/what are you doing in Santa Fe?” dance. I’ve done what I consider to be my best to heed my buddy BJ’s advice and not be angry or tormented by Mother’s mental deterioration. It appears that my hard work has resulted in less motherly meanness, yet more motherly memory loss. Maybe I should stop retaliating. Maybe I can feel better about Mother by enjoying her newfound niceness rather than trying to punish her.
A trade-off I need to discuss in my next psycho therapy session.
Anyway, I promised you that I would provide you with a copy of the short presentation I devised years ago to aid my employees with their decision-making processes and behaviors. Here it is:
Integrity from the Top Down
Leadership Principles for Success
- Critical Thinking on a Critical Path- the Scientific Method.
- Stop Peeing on the Campfire (It’s never too late).
- The Man in the Mirror.
This was designed by me because I have this business philosophy related to my employees. It’s pretty simple, actually, and it goes like this: I want every employee to be a leader, reach their full potentials, and do those two things even if they find another, better job or go out and start their own competitive company. Good, smart thinking and decision making skills are critical to business success, and better businesses make for a better life.
I’ll leave that with you to ponder and if I remember to follow up, I’ll fill in the blanks on what should have been the fourth day in a row. In the meantime, help me with my Hobby Lobby protest sign slogans. Everything I think of is too long and clumsy to fit on the stiff corrugated plastic signs I favor for protesting work. And by the way, has anyone seen the fucking cat?
- I find myself retired, again, and for the second time not by choice, and once more, again. My first retirement was at the hands of Texas Governor Rick the Prick Perry, a small-minded asshole with giant eyes for political shenanigans. The compost company I built into a major player in the state was dependent upon the Texas Highway Department for much of our business. I’d developed ways to control erosion and grow serious vegetation in mostly sterile soils using compost-two important developments to TxDOT engineers—and TxDOT hungrily adopted the slightly more expensive, recycling methods for their significant improvements to roadway projects.
At the peak of the growth cycle of compost use by TxDOT, the Prickster stole $2 Billion from TxDOT coffers and used the funds to cover other State budgetary shortfalls caused by his mismanagement of my former home state’s budget. Net result- Texas highway project fundings were ravaged by the loss, and anything declared “optional” (read here compost) by the Governor’s lackeys was, likewise, declared off limits to purchase. The loss of that business forced me to make the tough decision to fire myself and save my salary.
One of the many reasons I dislike Little Pricky Perry.
This second enforced retirement is a horse of a quite different color. I hate to say “again”, but I fired myself, again, this time for different reasons but resulting in the same ending to my employment. I want to be angry, but the stoppage of me banging my head with a New Mexico adobe brick has led to a renewed sense of calm. And that reminds me of the scientific research study just announced that states, in part, that the hallucinogenic properties of magic mushrooms can produce healthy brain function and assist depressed and anxious people adapt to life’s conditions.
Well fucking duh!
I could have saved them all that frustrating critical thinking bullshit and the bother of experimenting down the critical path. Clear thinking logically is a skill lacked by many business people but thank goodness that scientists are required to do so before printing their conclusions. The mushroom conclusions, basically, state that mushroom juice broadens a person’s emotional ranges while putting a lid on ego, thereby crafting a civilized human who cares more for wellbeing than for personal, egomaniacal gains.
Again, well fucking duh! My family has been promoting the humanizing effects of mushroom juice for three generations. Hell, my Gram is personally responsible for most of the civility in Central Texas for the past sixty years. When she called last night to tell me about the study, she said to me, she said, “Looka here, Mooner. I’mma cash cow it in on this new dealio. I gotta batch a new potion I’mma callin’ “Who’s Yer Broad’s Mind A Risin’ Now?” I’m gonna be rich!”
She hung up to go check on her potion before I could ask her, “WTF is who is your broad mind’s rising now?” It came to me an hour later when the last batch of my Gram’s mushroom juice took hold on my own brain.
“She’s talking about broadening your horizons, Squirtie girl,” I announced to the adorable bundle of brown fur and sharp-tongued sweetness I call “Squirt”. “Sounds like Gram has finally got scientific support for the medical use of mushroom juice.”
The dogs and I were cooking hamburgers to celebrate the birthing of our nation, and Squirt was at my feet the entire time, waiting for me to spill something. I always spill something. Yoda was busily poking his snout at the double wrapping of rabbit wire fencing that envelopes the tiny garden here to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe. The tomatoes have just fruited, and the goat dog loves tomatoes.
“What are you going to do now, shithead? I can’t have you sitting around here all day pestering the bejesus out of me,” Squirt asked.
“I’m so worn out from working my ass off unappreciatedly that I’m vacationating for a while. Then I’m going to play more poker to replace the lost income and write more bloggie stories,” I answered. “Oh, and protest. I’m gonna start with those pig fuckers over to Hobby Lobby.”
I’m a decent poker player when I can control the ADHD-ravaged cauldron of swill I call my brain, and there’s a HL store less than a mile from here and I’ll be giving them a part of my mind. I need to develop snappy slogans for my two-sided anti Hobby Lobby sign. But my brain is too tired to come up with anything that works. I need help.
Anyway, Fuck Walmart and Hobby Lobby and the United States Supreme Court! Fuck those godless religious fanatics.
So. Here we all are sitting in the darkened rooms of our domiciles with no light, save, and except, the glow from our computer screens. I read where some 50 million-plus Americans sit at their computer screens late at night either reading news from blogs and Facebook, or watching porn.
If you’re reading the shit I write here to Loonyville, you’re managing the deft act of doing both—that is to be a reader of pornographic news. Take another sip of your evening cocktail in salutation to you, your veryownself, as you, dear reader, are special.
Me, I’m sitting in my darkened office because the Squirt feels ill, having consumed one too many cat turds from the sand pile out back, and consequently having puked a trail of cat turd bile from the top of my right slipper not quite tucked under the chair upon which I place my next-day’s clothes, across three rugs from bedroom-to-kitchen, and culminating in a waffle-sized pile on the kitchen floor where I stand at the sink. I discovered this trail of tears and smears upon my late arrival back to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe earlier tonight. I was quite tired and not in the least interested in cleaning eight piles of cat turd puke from floors and rugs.
Ever smelled dog-emitted cat turd puke?
Squirt asked me to sit quietly in the den and not bother her with any threats, as the tiny brown puppy so carefully explained to me, she said, “My stomach is still uneasy, shithead. Let me rest quietly or I drop a deposit on your pillow.”
Since I’m still up at 2 am, fearful of disturbing cat puke girl, I figured I’d write to you about something that has been on my mind. Maybe I should say, “Something that has been swirling in the toxic swill that is my rat-infested and ADHD-addled grey matter.” This thought has been pestering me for several months, ever since the jet streams caught my attentions. Then, again, many things catch my attentions and swirl around like a frog in a blender inside the cauldron I call my skull. However, this thought has managed to survive processing with little damage other than tattered sails.
As we all might know, the jet streams are the ribbons of super-charged wind travelling up to 250 mph at 6-7 miles above Earth’s crust. It is these waggling wind ribbons that make, and change, our weather patterns. In my simple mind, I see our planet’s rotation inside its atmosphere as the initial causal effect of the jet stream. And I see the variations of land and water temperatures—many of which are caused to change by these self-same jet streams—as causal forces in controlling the directional adjustments in the jet streams.
[Editor’s note: Yes, science assholes, we do know that the Sun’s activities can also effect jet stream movements. Howsoever, as this is a rant on global warming, and we earthlings have yet figured a way to ruin the sun, we’ve restrained ourselves in limit and causal scopes for the pages herein.]
The jet streams’ activities caught my varied attentions a few months back as I spent a drug-fueled evening gazing at the Weather Channel, and I’ve carefully studied them since. As I’m not a scientist and likewise lack the common sense to exhibit sound judgment, you might sense the temptation to ignore everything written past this point. Howsoever, and once more at that, please do so at your own risk.
I waited months before making the first jet streams-related prediction, and said first prediction was spot-on accurate. The evidence of this prediction’s efficacy is currently visible through the window from which I now view the outside world, as a massive thunderstorm currently rages-off its energy at the beautiful landscape of northern New Mexico, a storm I predicted three days ago when I likewise predicted yesterday’s storm, said prediction being part-and-parcel to a larger set over overall predictions made by me as the resulting recalibrations and adjustments to my senses of the Earth as it relates to future climactic conditions.
As is my method when encountering strange run-on sentences, I have carefully studied that last paragraph and found it to be more than an accurate depiction of my true thoughts, reason enough for you to tune me out without consideration to the simple fact that I have absolutely no credentials.
But having said all of that, I’m one-for-one in climate change predictions, and this first one was a dramatic win. The weather prognosticators had predicted Santa Fe would have a few thunderstorms and maybe a half-inch of rainfall this holiday weekend. As of my return to find cat puke plastered across the house earlier, we had gotten more than 2-inches here to La Casa. My guess is that this current storm has added a third-to-a-half-inch more, and it’s due to rain on manana.
Which reminds me. You’ve gotta love the Italians. My kind of problem solvers, the Italians.
“Hey, Luigi, listen up. I been thinking on this whole national debt dealie and I got us a solution. What they’re saying is our Gross National Product is a slipping so’os we got too much debt to pay based on the national income. Asshole fucking bankers are hitting us with higher interest rates, right? Fucking economy isn’t hitting on all cylinders yet because those same fucking bankers wrecked the entire fucking world back to the two-thousand-and-oughts. Fucking bankers.
“So, me and Carmine—you know Carmine, right, fat fuck runs the pasta joint over to the Coliseum there on Pope Johnny the First Boulevard—we was out for a good time the other night—Tuesday I’m thinking—an we ran into Roldolpho, bought purse and a bag of coke. Ever since he lost his leather goods store to the fucking bank, he’s been dealing coke and shit. Still selling them Gucci purses he gets from Lithuania or whereverthefuck it is, but now you buy a knockoff handbag for a hundred bucks, you get a change purse full a coke.”
“What you boys doing after this?” Rodolpho asks us. “My cousin, Michaelangelo, he lost the concession stand over to the Vatican to the fucking bankers and he’s renting-out his wife and her sister by the hour, poor sonofabitch.”
“So, Sophia—that’s Mikey’s sister-in-law, you know, skinny broad with bad teeth—she’s blowing me and I’m watching Carmine trying to get it up to bang Mikey’s wife—Carmine’s wife, Maria, she’s friends with Mikey’s wife, an he’s taking a couple minutes to digest things—and I get to thinking about the fucking bankers, an’ boom! I got this whole GNP problem all figured out.”
Gotta love those Italians. And fuck Walmart!
So. How many ADHD brain-addled fuckballs does it take to poster a story to a bloggie? From the evidence herein contained, the clear answer is, “At least one more than you, shithead.”
Not a complaint, mind you, but I’m way busy with my work and trying to keep far too many balls in the air, and doing so in the face of strong oppositions. I guess some folks don’t like you messing with their balls, an actual life situation that would be a welcome respite for truly yours.
And don’t even start on me with your silly “it’s ‘Yours truly’ dumbass” bullshit. You, dear reader, spend the same 45-minutes in careful thoughts as I did pondering as to whether “yours truly” or “truly yours” is more accurate when making the express statement previously made, herein, above, in the specific contexts as those thoughts weighed by me when I was in said quandary in real time, and then tell me I’m wrong.
And whyinthefuck isn’t it “truely”, with the “e” left inside?
Which reminds me that I’ve been having these really interesting dreams lately. In one recent dream I decided to adopt this busload of school children I found abandoned on the side of the road that runs from Cimarron, NM, through the back mountains to Eagle Nest. I have traveled that road recently for work and saw a bus load of kids parked on the side of the road near a spot where you can get to the river and trout fish. I dream wondered what they were doing stopped, where they were fishing or taking a pee break, or whatever, and now I have another question.
Why is it “traveled” and not “travelled”? This shit is pissing me off. Evil goat fucking grammar shitwads.
The kids were a rainbow of colors and spoke as many languages as they bore hues. In the dream, the kids debated having me as their father and decided that they’d rather stay orphaned and wandering endlessly through the mountains looking for places to make pee stops.
“You look deranged, Mister. We’ll keep on trucking.”
I also had a dream—the one that has stimulated me to get up at 3 am on a work day to write to you—about which I’m finding myself inarticulate. I can’t seem to find enough of the right words to use to express my sentiments with any adequacy. Let me lay it out for you by telling you the basics of the dream.
So, I’m sleeping with me spooning the Squirt as she lay with her back against my chest and her adorable head under my chin, and Yoda was spooning me with his one leg draped over my neck and his snout draped over that paw. We’d had a take-out salad from Joe’s Diner—this with-chicken affair garnished with six pounds of fried garlic on top. The garlic had made its way through our systems and into our skin and breath before bedtime, and in sleep our combined odoriferous emissions were peeling lacquer from the viga-beamed ceiling, one of several architectural features of the master bedroom that are New Mexico trademarks.
Having said that, I find myself required to address viga beams. A viga is a natural log beam used as ceiling and roof framing here to New Mexico. The exposed beams are usually covered with a tongue-and-groove planking that serves as ceiling on the inside, and roof decking on the topside. The resultant wooden features are considered to be one of Santa Fe’s charms.
Sleeping soundly with draped-dog warmth, I felt the subtle movements of the mattress made when a person, or a fucking dog, attempts to mount the bed and slither under the covers. The presence moved carefully from the bed’s foot to a position behind me where a second person would sleep on my king size mattress. The newbie settled, fussed with the covers—an action that normally pisses me off—sighed deeply, and started snoring.
It was, at first, a light snore. It was the sweet sound of a new lover after a sweat-drenched hour of first-time sex. “Been awhile since I heard that sound,” I said, dream aloud, to myself and whomever it was lying next to me.
“It will be quite a while longer, Sonny Boy, if you don’t find some time for yourself.”
The throaty sound of Sharon Stone’s Basic Instinct voice added, “You need a vacation, asshole.”
Dream-realizing it was my God who had slipped in beside me for another late-night counselling session, I whipped over and sat up to face Her. Said actions caused both dogs to jump-start, and begin barking at God.
“It’s OK, kiddies, it’s only God come to fuck with me some more.”
This visit, God looked like Raquel Welch in Myra Breckinridge, and she was dressed in the nurse’s outfit from the movie.
“Uh, hi, God,” I dream stammered, “please don’t tell me you’re here to peg me, ma’am. I’m not that young anymore, and I’m unsure my heart could handle the stress. Uh,” and here I stuttered some more, “uh, uh, ah. Um… OK, you sound just like a sassy Sharon Stone but look like RW when she played that man eater in Myra Breckinridge. What’s up, Ma’am?”
God kissed my open mouth with Raquel Welch’s lush lips. As a young man, I had often wondered what it would feel like to kiss those lips. I’d fanaticized the soft, sweet taste in my youth. As a dreaming old man, this not so chaste kiss did not disappoint.
“You’ve been working quite a lot and I thought I’d pay a visit to remind you to have a little fun. You need to have a little fun, Mooner.”
I dream thought a minute. “OK, Ma’am, how about you pull those covers down and show me your breasts. The most fun I can think to have right this instant would start with my head nestled between Raquel Welch’s breasts.”
I awoke suckling the rubber nose of Yoda’s stuffed bunny rabbit. Sad to say that my garlic mouth tasted worse than a month-old dog toy, but “Truth and the American Way” is my middle name, and foolish behavior my modus operandi.
“Fuck it, kids, I’m getting up. You two might as well stay in bed because I’m not feeding you at three in the morning.”
I unsettled and sat on the edge of the mattress dressing to a growl from the goat dog and Squirt’s, “Eat shit and die.” I paddled in here and started writing and now find that I will be late for my 6:30 am work start.
But before I go, I want to say one thing. I want to say that racism is alive and well in America. I want to say that somehow, some way, we have allowed bigotry to re-infest and re-infect our civilization to the same epidemic levels experienced in the 1950’s. We need to stop this near-pandemic disease before it ruins us. Big Money is fueling divisiveness and using it to pit common men against common men, women against women.
Take a stand against prejudice before it’s too late, and:
The Clarity Of Thoughts From An Impure Mind; Is That A Run-On Sentence Or Are You Just Glad To See Me?Sunday, March 23rd, 2014
So. Having been missing from the pages herein for several more days than it took to fill the month on the calendar since the last time I wrote silly shit for printing and posting here to my bloggie, I find myself in a quite unique and unenviable position, as a writer, whereat I have so very many things to say—and so little clarity of vision as it relates to said things—that I’ve sat in quandary for the last three fucking hours and, and alas, said nothing.
Likewise, after reading that last sentence in a check for clarity of thought and vision, and crystal clear communication of thought, I find myself in the untenable position of wanting—yea, needing, yearning—to explain myself for having written an almost perfect first declaratory statement in what might be a pivotal tome in the histories of writings here to my place.
A bit of that history. I, for my part, having never allowed not having anything to say stand in the way of blabbering on for thousands of words, sit with the counterintuitive perplexities of a writer, and an author as well—having written the book of some 400-plus pages here-to-rights available for purchase by performing the simple act of clicking a few times over there ===}}} to the bloggie roller—of having everything to say and not the word first to say it.
OK, let’s stop right here for an ADD and ADHD gut check. I have a coworker and now friend I’ll call Stan, with whom I’ve been required to spend quantitatively extended periods of time. Smart, focused, thoughtful, kind and humorous would be ways to describe Stan should you give a shit to know. My time spent driving between my adopted hometown of Santa Fe and the big city of the ABQ with Stan at the wheel of the tiny hybrid import used by us for such travels, made several times weekly, reminds me of a story from my book, Full Rising Mooner, heretofore mentioned.
See, Stan is several inches taller than am I, and the tiny shoe box-with-wheels driven to transport us anytime we travel without the need of a ladder requires the both of us to collapse ourselves in much the same way as one would a sixty-four optioned Swiss Army knife with all sixty-four options opened for use. As Stan is decades younger than I, he simply makes the folding actions required to slip into the driver’s seat quietly, without remark. Me, the twisting and folding maneuvers I must endure to park my fat ass in the gray-colored, funky fabric-covered front seat are accompanied by grunts and curses.
And, as it turns out, I have a specific grunt sound that I seem to make with other, not always similar acts of effort. Like lifting. Or bending. Or twisting and sometimes hard thinking.
Turns out that I’ve developed a coping skill with getting older that involves emoting a sound somewhat akin to the quiet voice of a baby seal. I go to get out of a low-slung chair, I grab the arms and start to rise and, “Ooort, oort, oort.”
OK, maybe it isn’t always a quiet “oort”, but I “oort”, none the less, with nearly every exertion of physical effort, and why do I have so much difficulty with placing commas around the various usages of quotation marks? Proper comma placements often look awkward and wrong, and saying that brings up another pointed question.
Who, inthefuck, decides who gets to make the final decisions re: grammatical placements? Who are these people? From where does their power come, and what are their names. I want their fucking names!
OK, that was several questions, and saying that reminds me of my mother’s current conditions. Mother is getting sweeter, almost by-the-day. A recent conversation was actually without bitter reminder of what a lousy son I am. My friend BJ, from over to middle Tennessee, harps at me to be a better son. I’ve listened to his sage advice, and Mother has seemed to respond in like-kind. In fact, it appears that news of my kindnesses has spread.
I was sitting—lounging actually—in the den watching Wichita State playing in the NCAA tourney. As one of the Koch brothers sponsors the Wichita State Wheat Shockers, I put the considerable power of my personal protest efforts on display in a push-back effort. As usual, since Koch State was trouncing its foe, the power of billions-of-dollars plays much louder than the voiced protestations of a seal-man.
Fucking Koch brothers.
“Why is it allowed for wealthy assholes to buy college sports teams?” the Squirt asked me.
The tiny brown bundle of dog fur and wonderments was laying (lying) with her head on my chest as I watched and bitched about the Kochs. “Well, little lady,” I started to respond when the phone rang.
“Hey, Gram. How’s it hanging, baby?”
“High an’ tight, Mooner, high, an’ tight. Reminds me a tha time when yer granddaddy bought me them cock-a-doodle-doolie dealios and his pecker swoled all up. Guess I pulled tha lockie a tad too much an’ then when I stuck tha spurs to him…” she stopped. Thank God she stopped.
“What chu done to yer crazy fuckin’ mother. She ain’t bitched ’bout chu fer a month. You druggin’ yer mother, peckerhead?”
Huh? Cock-a-doodle-doolie dealios? Am I drugging my own mother from seven-hundred miles distance? I’ve thought about it, but not acted. “Impulse control” is my middle name, and I got it- cock rings, my grandparents played with cock rings?
“Don’t be silly, Gram. Much as I’ve thought about it, I’ve decided to listen to the Beej and attempt to be extra nice to Mother.” Then I thought to add, “OK, stop the presses. Is Mother telling you I’m not nice to her?” It would be just like her to stick a stake in my side for sport.
“No, an’ that’s what’s buggerating tha shit right on out’a me. Mother ain’t bitched tha time first ’bout chu. An’ you stop yer fuckin’ pressin’ on me. I’ll kick yer skinny ass over there to Allyergordies.”
Huh? My grandmother is going to kick my ass to Allyergordies? “What in the world are you talking about, Gram? I’ve been extra nice to Mother and she’s not bitching because she’s got nothing to bitch at me about. Wait. There’s nothing about which to bitch.”
“Don’t chu pull that granmar school marmie shit on me, Mooner Einstein Johnson. Einstein my rosy red ass. You be nice ta yer Mother. An’ find me one a them charmin’ Navaholie men ta date. Big, strappin’ one,” the old gasbag requested. “Do them two things an’ I’ll come ta visit.”
The phone clicked off in my ear and I asked the Squirt. “What did she mean by ‘Allyergordies’? I got the “charmin’” part, that’s a shaman, but “Allyergordies’…?”
Squirt eyed me for a second, then said, “Alamogordo, silly.”
That reminds me how much I dislike Walmart. Walmart and the Koch brothers. Fuckum both!
So like I was saying, I make seal noises and Stan makes fun of me for so doing. Stan also fucks with me and my ADD for sport. I’ll be in the middle of saying something of somewhat important nature and Stan starts asking questions, the subjects of which have absolutely nothing to do with whateverthefuck it is about which I’m speaking.
Gets me all discombobulated.
And that reminds me of a recent time Stan and another guy from the office and I were in the cramped quarters of the tiny tin can hybrid car driving down one of our city’s narrow, downtown streets. We were minding our own business when a high-end sports car backed from a “special customer” parking space at one of the high-end retail establishment on the other side of the street. The car backed partly into our lane to head towards us and had to stop that action when it became apparent to the two women inside that our boy, Stan, would pay no heed to neither their expensive ride nor the simple fact that Ali McGraw was driving it.
In slow motion, I saw the small angry face she made at the notice that Stan would not slow for her, and then a flicker of recognition as she saw my face pressed to the windshield as I “Oh my God, it’s Ali McGraw’ed” her.
“Oh my God, it’s Ali McGraw! You just almost ran over Ali McGraw, you asshole,” I barked. “Jesus fucking Christ, Stan, I’ll never get a date with Ali McGraw if you kill her!”
“Who is Ali McCraw?” asked the voice from the backseat—the voice of a thirty-year-old man.
“It’s Mc GRAW, not Craw, shithead. Graw, Graw with a ‘G’ McGraw, and she’s the woman of my dreams ever since Goodbye Columbus.” I was steamed. “You don’t know Ali McGraw? Let me tell you who Ali McGraw is. Enough protein was wasted with impure thoughts of Ali McGraw in the 1970’s to sink a battleship.”
I wonder if Ali remembered me from that day up to Museum Hill. Maybe she likes awkward men. Large and ruggedly handsome men with the ADHD and smooth, awkward moves.
Anyway, I’ve dogs to walk and clothes to buy and hay to make. So, fuck Walmart!
So. It’s another glorious day here to Enchantedland and I’m headed to a funeral. A friend’s husband has died after a protracted illness, and the services are to be held at the big Baptist church over to Old Pecos Trail. I have sworn to stay out of churches save, and except, for funerals and weddings, so I will not be in violation of my promise to myself when I enter the doors of the church.
I have long known that the friend and her husband were quite large charismatic Christians—not Baptists by the way—and I have understood that their Christianity was the linchpin that held their lives together, and bytheway once more, why don’t we spell linchpin “lynchpin”? In spite of their beliefs, I like these two people. I’ve long understood their positions on abortion and gay rights and the rest of the bigoted modern Christian dogmas, but they don’t try to push their shit my way. They always have allowed me to have my beliefs without the confrontational judgments so many Born Agains practice.
Knowing the depth of their beliefs, I’m guessing that they pray for my heathen soul. Often.
Whatever happened to “Judge not lest ye be judged”? Why aren’t more Christians acting like this couple’s model? I think it’s because their religions have been hijacked by charlatans and politicians. And why do I seem surprised, a rhetorical question if ever was one.
Assholes throughout the continuum of human history have stolen the mantle of righteous causes and used the believers as cannon fodder for their societal invasions. Using Biblical drama, ever since Cain killed Abel—setting the precedent for assholes through the millennia—a never ending chain of power steals has marred the human conditions, and destroyed civilizations.
OK, stop. Maybe using Cain and Abel was a touch dramatic and not at all to my point. Maybe I’ll reuse Cain’s striking down of his bro when I write about the Stand Your Ground Laws.
Anyway, today it seems that the false religious assholes are stealing actual believers and turning them into zealots at a rate that rivals a vicious computer virus. Here in America, right-wing Christian zealots are stealing state governments and legislating away some human rights that I, at least I, thought to be stone pillars of our semi-democracy.
Which reminds me. I just had new, modern windows installed all around La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe. The original windows installed over the seventy years it took to build this place into its current format, were, I’m told, purchased from the demolition deaths of other, older structures or, more than occasionally stolen from construction sites around the state. The net results of that materials acquisition plan was a drafty and daffy old stucco living space which, as one designer describes it, “This place is as schizophrenic as my grandmother.”
I was required to install new windows of size and heights to meet modern building code, and that has opened several rooms to additional light and views. As I sit writing you, my office view has expanded from a corner of the roof, a small section of the big Ponderosa pine tree, telephone pole, mountaintops and patch of sky, to all of that plus a panoramic vista of the tidy and interesting back yard. I can now swivel my chair to the right and gain purchase of the entirety of my veggie garden—I can now watch the dogs to insure they stay the fuck out.
And that reminds me of just how delicate life becomes as the light at the end of our tunnels grows broader, brighter. I’m at that age where my friends and acquaintances are dying at a remarkable rate. I’ve once again become my parents twenty years ago. This marks the third time I’ve encountered a twenty-years parental catch-up. The first was when I finally felt I was an adult and deserved to be treated as one. The second was when my kids were adults and I felt it was OK for you to call me “Sir”.
Each of those first two catchings-up were good things to me—events of human growth to be desired. I especially remember the pride, and joy, at realizing that I actually was the man my daddy wanted me to be. I likewise remember same when watching my own spawn demonstrating the maturities of their adultdom.
But this time it’s quite different. I don’t know why as this next-to-final catch-up is the most expected of all so far. As a child, it wasn’t thought by any adult that I was destined to ever reach adult maturities, in fact it was anticipated by many that I would not. It was thought that I would either never reach the age of maturity or that I would piss somebody off enough to put the end of days on me.
For reaching those milestones I was proud and joyous. And having my own children mature was likewise surprising to not a few.
“Mooner Johnson should not be allowed to father children. His species needs to end here.” So said was the edict of Mrs. Leticia Browningwell. That old battle ax was my teacher and Baptist preacher’s wife rolled into one gigantic pain in the ass. But I’ve fooled them all. I’ve managed to pass through the first three of life’s stages and I’m still nuts.
OK, let’s stop and regroup. I see life’s stages simply, like a baseball game wherein there are four bases to touch: first base is reached when attaining adult maturity; second base is seeing your own kids mature; third base is when people close to you are dying; and fourth base is when your own body has begun its final decay. If we’re lucky in life, four each, twenty-year base paths.
And that re-reminds me that first I discover that I’m the old man who stinky farts and now this. Next thing I’ll find my scrotum dragging against my knees and my pecker playing sleepy turtle.
Ugh, but I’m a maudlin sumbitch this morning. Fuck Walmart!
So. Something has been happening to me over the last several months, and this particular something has had a quite unsettling effect on my countenances. The affected countenances run the gamut of a person’s varied composures and tolerances from one end to the other.
OK, stop. That first paragraph of this morning’s writings might be one of the most perfect strings of words I’ve ever produced. If I got it right from the grammatical perspectives, that is one amazing paragraph of human communication as related to the human condition. If I effected proper usages and affects—and you, as a reader, properly interpreted my meanings—then we, together, have had a mutual human enlightenment.
I’m finding mutual human enlightenments between people engaged in interpersonal relationships as difficult to encounter as actual apologies.
Take, for example, memories. I can remember with great clarity every aspect of certain childhood memories, yet can’t remember shit about six minutes ago. As, for example, Big George Martin, or “BGM” as everyone but his wife called him. BGM was my granddaddy’s best buddy from their youth, and a man of massive appetites. BGM lived his life to the fullest in every possible way—food, drink, information, adventure, friends and life in general were all consumed by him in gluttonous quantities.
BGM was that jolly old man we all knew as a child. I think everyone had a man or woman like BGM who populated our lives in youth. Always happy, unafraid of anything and happy for the encounters, and not a single bone of shyness. Old BGM could fart the gaseous swill that can only come from the residuals of a dozen-and-a-half of Mrs. Garcia’s sweet bean tamales—a fart that would empty a church full of cripples at an Ernest Angley Miracles Concert—a feat accomplished when The Right Reverend Angley visited Austin’s Capital City Church of God back to the early 1970’s.
And for those of you donning the uniform of the Appropriateness Nazis, back to the 1970’s we called handicapped persons cripples, and did so without bigotry or insensitivity.
The smell of those farts moved like the unhinging of the lid on a crate full of cockroaches and dropping them dead center of the second row on the cushioned seat at the old Church of God. The balled mass of ten-thousand crustaceanous rats would roil for a second and then scream off in every direction and crawling all over everyfuckingthing. Roaches in your clothes and hair and all up in your face. Then you’d walk a hundred feet from the drop site to shake all the roaches off, inspect yourself carefully to find no residuals, and walk out to the car only to have a half dozen jump from your hair and into the upholstery.
And before the dreaded AD-and-HD drag us so deep into the swampy waters of my thoughts, it was not Streaker Jones and me (myself?) who dropped the crate of cockroaches in the auditorium of William B. Travis Junior High School just after the second act of Mrs. Browningwell’s Ninth Grade Health Education play she entitled, “Good Christian Girls Don’t Do It!”
Maybe it was just the horrible memories of those nasty, gassy things, but I could sometimes smell the BGM fart odor hours, days later. Sometimes a dish would be cooking in the kitchen days later that would contain a whiff of some small essence of BGM’s fart, and I’d skip my dinner.
I don’t skip many dinners.
“Oh, my… heh-heh-heh,” old BGM would laugh after one of those farts. “Sorry, ladies, that ‘un just creeped out on me. Any a y’all need ya a tissue?”
Those creeper farts were incredible. I can still vividly remember the smell so strong you’d consider puking, the eye-stinging pungencies. My mother would swear she needed a shower after she was in the room when BGM farted.
Old BGM swore that those nasty-ass farts had a life of their own—that he never knew when they were going to debut or what they were going to smell like. “Ain’t ate nuttin but oatmeal an’ raisins all week, children. Mrs. Martin, she’s got old George onna diet.”
“Nuttin bout boiled oats inna smell a that rascal,” BGM once told us at a picnic. “Asides, them suckers jump right on out—give a a man not the warning once.”
As I’m running out of time and must head to work, let me summarize the intentions of this bloggie posting. The evolutions that are my personal aging processes have decided to include my morphing into “Old Stinky Fart Guy”. I’m becoming Big George Martin.
“Run, everybody,” has become the two-word combination most often shouted from my lips. And when I say, “Everybody,” I also mean me, myownself. My old geezer farts are so stinky even I can’t stand them. I used to have farts with olfactory complexities that would rival those of a fine wine. These fuckers cause temporary blindness.
I farted inside my truck yesterday afternoon at just before 3:30 pm—an effort aimed to leave the offensive gas behind and not unleash it on the crowd standing to get food from the food pantry next to my office. I farted and then jumped from the truck and slammed the door, and flapped the tail of my shirt on my way to my office. Safely inside, there was but a trace of odor left on my hand that waved the shirttails.
At 4:45, my coworker and I called it a day and were discussing a project we were contemplating. I unlocked the truck, opened the door and sat backwards into the truck seat still facing the other man. “OK,” I said, “we’ll discuss… Arrrrrrg!!!”
I jumped from the truck and ran his way. “Holy fucking shit!” I cried. “I’ve become Old Stinky Fart Guy!”
I’m hoping to develop an immunity to my new self quickly. I’m thinking that these farts might be a particularly effective weapon at the poker table. If I can learn to sit through the pungent fog, I’ll have the best bluff move in the game.
“I’m all-in… Frrrrrrrrrrt!”
Ugh. It’s a bitch growing old. And fuck Walmart!
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.
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.
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.
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.
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?”
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.
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:
- Chocolate chip cookies with M&M’s serving chip duty.
- A 55-gallon barrel of popcorn—regular, cheddar cheese and caramel, all three segregated by cardboard dividers.
- A Mason Jar filled with holiday-colored foil-wrapped Hershey Kisses.
- A box of hand-thrown chocolates from this nifty Seattle chocolatier.
- Three personalized, pork-based doggie bones handmade by my Gram, one for each of us.
- Chocolate covered cherries.
- 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.
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.
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.
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.
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:
- Why is this video quality so poor?
- Those uniforms are so last decade.
- ESPN-U has really shitty graphics.
- Oh, would you look at that—Arkansas has another Stoerner at quarterback.
- This Stoerner kid looks just like his big brother except slower.
- Clint had more zip on his passes.
- Wow, look at the fog.
- OK, I need to read the sports section more carefully. Who inthefuck coaches Tennessee?
- This looks familiar.
- 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!
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.