Archive for the ‘Apply Here To Help’ Category

Delivering Daily Mail; Choosing The Chosen

Thursday, March 3rd, 2016

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck you, and Walmart too!

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Now Hiring; Cleaning House

Friday, April 16th, 2010

All righty now, let’s do a little housekeeping. It is Friday and half way through the month so I want to clear-up a few things with corrections and additional information to insure your reading pleasure.

First off, I am not a writer for the Chelsea Handler E! Entertainment conglomerate, nor do I write anything for anybody else. As my Gram likes to tell me, she says, “Mooner, if I’d a wanted ya ta put words in my mouth I’d a gargled with pig shit.”

Then she’ll add, “That wud leave a better taste in my mouth.”

Knowing where my Gram’s mouth has been- I think mayhap she doth protest way too fucking much. Like I would want to pen dialog for my grandmother. Imagine what words would have escaped old Billy Shakespeare’s plume had he encountered my Gram. He’d title it, “Lady Mac Goat Bladder.”

Gram and the P-cubed spent another weekend locked up to a dormitory over to UT. That’s the University of Texas at Austin for my out of town guests. Last Friday we were cutting some of the spring calves away from their mothers out to the ranch- Gram, Streaker Jones, SAC Ellen and I. The SACster had never been around cattle before and thought it might be fun.

Is fun for like maybe a half-minute until you see the look in those little calves eyes as you rip them from their Mommy’s breast. I mean literally from their breast. Gram kept telling me to, “Hurry yur shit up, Mooner. Stop yer grabby assin with Miss Ellen an grab them calves fer me.”

Then she added, “P-cubed and I got us dates over to the UT.”

When I asked her if the computer majors had called for an encore she told me, she says, “Nah, we’re takin tha car and lookin ta find somethin sportier.”

Sounded to me like she was taking her Ferrari to look at trading it for something faster. I told her, “Look, Gram, you don’t need anything sportier. What you’ve got is already more than you can handle.”

“Mind yer own beeswax, Mooner.”

Anyway, this last weekend Gram and P-cubed took the Ferrari down to the Drag to troll for some college men and ended their journey in one of the athletic dorms. Little did I know that she was looking for something sportier than computer guys. That saddens me deeply.

I love UT athletics and to think that she might have scarred the psyches of my football team, well that is just too much for me to handle. I did call Deloss Dodds, he’s the big-time boss man for men’s athletics over to UT, and I offered to pay for Dr. Sam I. Am to come over and help straighten things out. He said he’d think about my gracious offer.

As for my Gram, she’s had a smile plastered on her face that looks like it was branded on. And she keeps doing this cheer, she goes, “Hit um agin, hit um agin- harder boys, harder boys!”

Gives me the chills to think it over. And the drizzle squirts as well.

Anyway, next I need to talk about the lack of development here to the bloggie and attached webber site. Or is the attachment a reverse-ways dealie? Whatever, there has been no development other than my stumbling over the map locater that shows you where visitors come from when they click onto the map.

I was looking for a bed and breakfast place in Alpine, Texas for the SACster and me to stay when we drive out there in a few weeks. I’m clicking around with my mouse thinking I’m making reservations for the two of us for three nights- with the full breakfast option, and the next thing I know I’ve got the map locater and a visitor from Kathmandu.

So. I have spent weeks looking for one, or more, persons to help me with this stuff. You know, design a logo, finish construction of the website, and make the bloggie spiffy. I have interviewed numerous designers and graphic artsy-fartsies, but none have suited me because none has found me to be suitable.

I was bitching about it over dinner last night. We were having cabrito- that’s roasted goat, sweet bean tamales and Mother’s pan fried potatoes. That’s Mother’s one dish best done, regrettably, and we have it often. I bought her a semester to one of the big cooking schools but she has yet to enroll.

Why are women so hardheaded? I mean really, what is up with that? If the dish I cooked best hit the serving plate looking like dried pinto beans and chewed like granite gravel, I’d take myself some lessons.

No amount of salt or pepper or ketchup helps smooth the path for that grit.

But Mother did have a pretty good idea about my need for some help. “Mooner, why don’t you see if you can put your blog to some useful purpose and use it to find some nice young people to help you?” Then she added, “Use young people, Mooner. Students would be best. That will be a mutually beneficial relationship.”

See, a good idea, right. Students will have fresh ideas, they were all weaned to the computer and Internet, and they know what’s hip in today’s culture. And I can get students to work for less! I’ll let them use their efforts for class credit and I’ll give them credit here in ether space. I can help to promote their careers.

So consider this an invitation to apply for work. Tell your friends that I have some work and stuff. Maybe I can even use students for some product development.

Apply by posting a comment.

SAC Ellen asked me why I don’t just go to UT or Austin Community College directly to find student persons. When I tried to explain to her that I have been barred from those avenues of pursuit, she just held up her hand to my face, like a policeman does when he signals you to “Stop”, and said, “No need to go on, Mooner. I get it.”

I guess we two have been dating long enough for us to have that ESP thingie that couples sometimes get.

The camel toe posts have turned-out to be the most popular things to attract visitors here. That surprises me. I thought it would be my erudite dissertations on politics and religion.

Actually, anymore- politics is religion. Wait, maybe that should be politics are religions.

Since I wrote about camel toes, I’m getting approached constantly by women asking me to evaluate their pocket meat. I am A-OK with that so long as I can perform the evaluation you desire without the need for any actual touching of the evaluated camel toe. SAC Ellen approves of my evaluating with eyes only. No touching. Woman carries a gun girls, so don’t push the issue.

And this word to my gay friend Lloyd. You packing your Size 40 ass into a 32-inch Speedo does not produce a camel toe. So don’t be asking me for an evaluation. Even I think that’s a tad inappropriate.

Oh, and I almost forgot. The woman who was part of the great teaching team for bloggers is Nettie Hartsock- and not the other Nettie. That one is Nettie House, Editor of Shit Happens, the newsletter for my compost trade organization.

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