Archive for the ‘ADHD’ Category

All Hail The Garden; Daddy And Them Pay A Visit

Tuesday, July 21st, 2015

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Exactly,” the most precise response I had.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, fuck Walmart!


Print Friendly

WSOP News; Pope Francis Bushwhacks Little Jebbie

Friday, July 3rd, 2015

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck Walmart!

Print Friendly

Gassing Up For Summer; A Johnson Family History Lesson

Wednesday, June 17th, 2015

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck Walmart!

Print Friendly

Walk A Mile In My Shoes; Grandmother Sex For Dummies

Friday, June 5th, 2015

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck Walmart.

Print Friendly

Memorial Day Melody; Soldiering On Without Christ

Monday, May 25th, 2015

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck Walmart, y’all.

Print Friendly

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

Wednesday, May 20th, 2015

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who wants to go first?” Mother asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Print Friendly

Burnt Tire Residue Blues; Soul Cleansing For Lunatics

Sunday, May 17th, 2015

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Again, they, and I, laughed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Print Friendly

Maggots To Monarchs; A Macabre Look At Life

Wednesday, May 13th, 2015

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

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

Confused?  Me too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



Print Friendly

Class Confusions; What’s Your Strength?

Monday, May 4th, 2015

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re here as Cat Cora, right?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Did that make any sense?  Fuck Walmart!

Print Friendly

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

Saturday, April 18th, 2015

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, what was the question?

Fuck Walmart!

Print Friendly

Spring, Sprang and Sprung; Needlepoint For Beginners

Friday, April 3rd, 2015

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

“Hey, baby, how’s it hanging?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Print Friendly

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

Sunday, March 29th, 2015

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anyway, I need to pee.  Fuck Walmart!

Print Friendly

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

Wednesday, March 4th, 2015

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



Print Friendly

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

Thursday, February 19th, 2015

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bitch,” I called her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’ll finish this later.  Fuck Walmart!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Print Friendly

Magic Dirt For Sale; Adjusting To The Great Radiator

Thursday, February 12th, 2015

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Print Friendly

Evaluating Happiness; You Need More Fingers Than That

Friday, February 6th, 2015

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Print Friendly

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

Sunday, January 25th, 2015

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck Walmart!


Print Friendly

Prophetical Chat Stew; Electric Windows As Weapons

Sunday, January 18th, 2015

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And She was gone.

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe I need a beer.  Fuck Walmart!

Print Friendly

The Great Radiator- Part One; Je Suis Charlie

Friday, January 16th, 2015

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And you can call me Sandra.”

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

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

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

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

I hate that fucking word “metastasize”.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Je suis Charlie, and Fuck Walmart!

Print Friendly

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

Friday, January 9th, 2015

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck Walmart.


Print Friendly