Archive for the ‘Godvisits’ Category

Seasons Greetings From Humbuggerville; Imaginations Of An Addled Mind

Monday, December 25th, 2017

So. The holiday season is in full swing, and I’m nuts. I don’t mean that the season makes me crazy—which it most certainly does—but, rather, I wish to say, “‘Tis the season,” and as a separate issue, “I’m nuts.” The season part should be obvious to all but the most oblivious, and the nuts part—while obvious to many—has an additional hidden and somewhat obliterated component, the lid on which shall stay closed for a while longer. Something is brewing and the end product’s qualities are not yet known.

Me, I’m long a humbugger and Xmas detractor, an inclination that began with my first childhood memories of praying to God for my Jesus Birthday wishes. My Baptist mother insisted that we pray to her Christian God for our Christmas wants rather than write to Santa because, as I later learned, Santa Claus is an imaginary being. Reimagine that!

She didn’t overtly attempt to prevent my sisters and I from thinking Santa was real when we did believe, but she did overtly, covertly and with great impunity, attempt to force us into accepting that her other imaginary being was the real thing. OK, maybe that should be “Real Thing.”

But for me, once the fairy tales of Santa, Easter Bunny, Tooth Fairy and the Boogeyman became exposed for the farces they are, it wasn’t long before I questioned, then challenged the realities of The Southern Baptist Convention. Admittedly, an adolescent exposure to a Baptist Deacon Boy Scout leader who specialized in the Pedophilia Merit Badge provided fuel that flamed the fires that burned my religious faith. It’s mighty hard to sell a loving-God faith-concept to a child whose life has been wrecked by the same asshole teaching the kid’s Sunday School Class.

I have long believed that we humans invent imaginary entities to do our dirty work, like discipline kids or enforce rules those we govern won’t like, and also to cover our asses for those unexplained situations in human life—like death and calamity—and likewise, we conjure-up imaginary characters to instill blind faith in others. Somewhere along the line there was this one guy who first tried magic mushrooms and had an “otherworldly vision”, a direct instruction from some God.

In my senses of history it’s been the stoned, the insane and the megalomaniacal who have invented Gods, and for all the same reasons we dream up other imaginary things. To me, our gods and devils are cut from the same cloth as Santa and the Tooth Fairy—each an imagined idea developed to add either peace of mind or disciplinary control. Or both.

The only reason Santa isn’t a God is that he was created with a specific, short shelf life.

Then, again, the first god might have been invented by a lunatic who needed no hallucinogenic assistances to have conversations with some invented deity. The younger of my two sisters—the one who died a couple years back—had this imaginary buddy named Miss Meanie. Until she killed her bad news friend by tying her to the railroad tracks to be smashed by the train, my sister never did anything wrong, it was always the divine Miss M. When caught red-handed, little sis would claim M. Meanie made her do it.

Me, I don’t see my five-years-old sister’s imaginations any different than inventing a god. I guess the flipside of being the smartest animal is not having the smarts to answer every question, so when we humans can’t prove it, we make it up.

But I have often wondered what was the base causal issue behind the original imagined deity? Why and when did the first god get invented? Was it the fear of dying or perhaps was it some early leader wishing to gain a third-party supporter of infinite magnitude to assist with keeping the masses controlled? Maybe it was both. Was tribal chieftain Grog having trouble getting his guys to go Mastodon hunting because a big Saber Tooth Tiger was lurking the Masty herd and everybody was calling in sick for the weekly hunt for red meat?

“Look boys,” says Grog as they sit, hungry, by their sacred campfire. “The Fire God will protect you from the Devil Tiger, and if you die, you won’t be dead—He’ll put you up in this nice cave over to the other side of the Great Mountain Gorge with three young wives, a fire that will never go out and never-ending Mastodon steaks. Now, let’s all hold hands and ask Fire God for some favors.”

Don’t you think the whole seventy-two virgins bullshit is a bit excessive? I think Grog was closer to the perfect number. Maybe if I was younger I could see my way to properly husband more than three wives at a time. While I’ve had my share of now exes, there was no duplicative habitations, and I must say that when fully-engaged with a woman, I’ve got my hands full concentrating on the one.

As an atheist I have to admit that my life would be easier if I still believed. As a kid, praying for forgiveness and thinking that God forgave me was a required, nightly absolution that prepared me to start each next day with a lightened heart. It also made it easier to slip up that next day because I knew that God would forgive if only I prayed for it end-of-day.

As an old fart, how much easier would it be to face my final days if I believed that I would go to a better place when I die? What worries could be eased if only I could convince myself that God raped a young virgin who lovingly bore Him a bastard god-child who would later be sacrificed by his daddy-o for me so that I could spend eternity in Heaven with both the slain bastard son and God his veryownself? OK, that might be Veryownself, with the capital “V”.

When I think of these original imaginers of the first gods, I’m reminded of David Coresh and that guy Jim Jones and Chuckie Manson—those sellers of some god’s evil intentions. Three among those who have told followers to castigate and deny all other gods except their own. Hell, Jones actually proclaimed that he, himself, was god. My thought is that since any time you gather more than two people together, political and cultural ideologies will be structured- a cult will form. Tribes form, power is vested in someone, or some thing. Disagreements and arguments cause tribes to splinter and the next thing you know we’ve got The Third Baptist Church of the Northeast Quadrant of Southwest Dallas.

We also end up with Judge Roy Moore. Feeling a little like you’ve contracted the ADD?

OK, I have a point and here it is. I had a discussion with this guy at the poker table about my atheism. He told me that without his Christian God there would be no morality, “Think the Ten Commandments.”

My reply was simple. “What you are telling me is that your fear that an imaginary being will punish you if you don’t do the right thing is why you do the right thing? Me? I do the right thing because I decide to do the right thing because it is the right thing to do. I choose to be moral, I’m not forced to do so out of fear.”

Of course also not said is that the Devil never made me do anything either. While I’m often tempted to explain my inappropriate behaviors with blame on a higher force field, truth is it’s all on me.

Now, having said all of that, I do have a god who for some reason only manages to visit in my sleep or at those times when I’ve been mellowed by one, or more, of Nature’s magical elixirs. My god is pretty cool on comparison. Other gods visit as snakes and burning bushes and elephants and that sort of stuff. Mine has come-a-calling as Jane Fonda in Barbarella, Jeffrey Holder and Harry Belafonte singing a Calypso duet, Salvador Dali’ and a giant fly, as examples.

My imaginary god has way more imagination than yours and he’s not quite the asshole that some others seem to be. Bottom line? (Sing to the tune of “My dog’s better than your dog”:

“My god’s better than your god, my God’s better than yours! My god’s better than your’s is, ‘cause my god’s the only god!”

So let’s all get in the holiday spirit and FUCK Walmart!!!

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Rotten Apples Can’t Fall Too Far From The Tree; Creepy Crawlers And Other Silly Shit

Thursday, August 27th, 2015

So.  I just got back from a four-day trip up to Colorado.  The intentions were for this trip to be a short respite for the dogs from their daily grind, a chance for me to get my sweaty self in some cooler air, and I fully intended to play a lot of poker.  As the old saying goes about good intentions, our road was paved to Hell when the six-hour drive took—and almost precisely—ten hours.  Santa Fe to Denver is six hours any way you cut it, except and unless our fossil fuel-warmed planet decides to shit all over your plans.

Just south of Colorado Springs, my front seat companion says to me, she says, “That looks like a string of taillights ahead, Mooner.  You better not get us stuck in a traffic jam…  You know the goat dog gets sick in stop-and-go driving, and he got into the compost pile just before we left.  Ate two of the rotten apples you let roll off the heap to the edge of the fence.”

The speaker was Squirtie Girl, my darling puppy harnessed beside me as our copilot, and the goat dog would be Yoda, eater of all things organic and not so organic, who was tethered in the back seat. The severe hail storm that never fucking happens in Santa Fe that happened a month ago banged dents and gashes in what apples it didn’t strip from the trees.  I thought the remainder left clinging to their branches would make it to my kitchen to be washed and eaten, but as the sugars developed so, too, did the rot.

“How the Hell did he get to them through the fence?” I asked Squirt.

“You watched too much news about that shithead who tunneled his way out of a Mexican prison,” she replied.  “He dug a ditch under the fence where you left a gap in the underground wire.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Yoda.  I’m not the one who beat you and slit your throat, I’m your savior.  I’m the person who has made your life better.  Why am I punished with your cleanup?”

In reply, my chastisement was met with a crooked grimace, an emotional whimper and a lick to my hand.  The white-haired hair brain was formerly incarcerated in Oklahoma’s version of Guantanamo Bay for dogs—this puppy mill run by lowlife scum, Christians one and all.  They beat much of the good sense from his tiny skull and cut his vocal chords to quiet his bark.  What is left is a dumb and soft spoken dog that has become my beloved third son.  Gram has talked me off the ledge several times as I packed for a quick trip to Oklahoma for some retribution.

“You ain’t never been in a single Okie jail, Mooner, don’t know any Okie lawmen neither.  Me, I ain’t breakin’ yer ass outta no Okie hoosie cow.  Talk bad ‘bout um over to yer blogeration an’ let it go.”

Good advice from my grandmother, and a clear sign that I still have the ADD.  Since taking the trip to the Coors Beer and Legalized Pot State with the dogs, my focus is worse than that of a Brownie camera.  Remember Brownie cameras?  Only person I know who could make good pics with a Brownie might be my buddy Squatlo over to The Squatlo Rant.  Brownie cameras are what took America’s middle class photos for nearly seventy years, and likewise what made Kodak an everyday name.

Of all the family photos I possess, it is a pic taken by a Brownie—a medium close-up of three ADHD-addled Johnson men—that is most prized.  My grandfather, father and I had just finished painting the barn and were celebrating with icy-cold Carta Blanca beers.  Arms on shoulders, beers held forward, toothy grins all around.  I was thirteen and it was mid-July, maybe a month before the pedophile Baptist deacon Boy Scout leader raped me in the back end of an Oldsmobile Vista Cruiser.

That photograph holds a bundle of mixed metaphoric emotions for me.  It reminds me to be grateful in my own life and to be thoughtful when looking at the lives of others.  And it makes me ever vigilant for pedophiles.

The string of taillights, as things turned out, was caused by a line of severe thunderstorms that covered Colorado’s landscape (and highways) from fifty miles north of The Springs, all the way to our final destination.  An hour of stop-and-go was all Yoda could take before disgorging a belly full of Costco Organic Kibble, two rotten apples and what looked like the remains of a baby sparrow.  I think the neighbor’s cat left the sparrow, but who really gives a shit?

I cleaned the mess from the plastic cover I place under Yoda when we take long road trips, held him tight while scratching his head, and got back on the road to creep our way to Denver.  Which reminds me.

America is starting to give me the creeps.  Our political scene has become a fucking reality show for the benefit of, produced by, and paid for by billionaires.  Billionaires whose amazing greed is so vast that they want ever more $Billions.  $Billions they wish to strip from the crumbling infrastructure of natural and human resources of our once great country.  $Billions stolen from we “commoners”.  $Billions that half of our populace seems willing to give them—hell, eagerly give them.  Some almost beg the rich to steal from them.

It’s fucking creepy, and that reminds me of something else.  I have a slogan for the new female sex-drive drug:

“Puts the recreation back into recreational drugs!”

Someone needs to monitor Bill Cosby’s Medicare drug program—audit his purchasing activities.  Makes me wonder if this new drug works like the mystical Spanish Fly myth from back to the 1960’s.  I guess Cosby’s Roofies served as an actual Spanish Fly on all those women he (allegedly) drugged and raped.

Which brings up a question.  How is a rapist like Bill Cosby any different from Jared the Subway Pedophile?  Children are vulnerable because of powerlessness and inability to understand what is happening, the self-same conditions that are the side effects of a Roofie.  And that brings to bear another reminder.

To the best of my memory, it seems that America was founded and settled by people who, A. Wanted to get away from the established religions of their European homelands so that they wouldn’t be forced to abide another man’s religion, or, B. Wanted to get away from the feral, oppressive class systems whereat the wealthy and well-born exerted great economic and political power to keep commoners under control.  Those countries had indentured servants and slaves, feudal class societies, and a few very rich with many poor.  People were executed for professing to the wrong deities.  There were no middle classes in those societies.

Now, here to modern day Murca, we seem to be willingly pushing ourselves to become what we were founded to escape by killing our middle class.

And that reminds me that I seem to be doing a lot of writing about fuckhead Republicans and dog puke.  Instead, why haven’t I told you that my blood pressure has been in the one-teens over the high sixties with pulse rates in the upper fifties?  Why haven’t I mentioned that I’ve had six conversations in-a-row wherein Mother has been sweet as apple pie?  Why haven’t I told you that God paid me a visit and told me that everything is going to be OK?

Why haven’t I focused my attentions on the positives in life?  OK, I have no attention, what with the ADD and the giant grasshopper hanging to the rough stucco wall outside my office.  He’s a really big sumbitch, which raises a question that I had in vacation Bible school.

We were studying the locus blight from the Bible and were told that the grasshopper invasion was a terrible thing.  Earlier in the summer Buddy Tanner’s dad had come back from The Philippines, whereat he was on a temporary duty assignment for the Air Force.  Buddy shared the various food-grade bugs his daddy brought back as a gift to show cultural differences.  Candied and fried and pickled ants, grasshoppers and worms.

“That doesn’t sound so bad, Mrs. Browningwell,” I instructed.  “Even if the grasshoppers ate all the crops, like you said, they could have eaten the grasshoppers.  The fried ones taste like salted peanuts and the chocolate-covered ones aren’t any different from a box of Whitman’s Samplers.  This sounds like a whole lot of bitching about nothing, like that Noah and the Ark thing.  Do you really expect me to buy that load of crap?”

Second year in-a-row I was early dismissed from Bible school.  And that reminds me to say, “Fuck Walmart!”

 

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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!

 

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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!

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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!

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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.

 

 

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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!

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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!

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Reflections In Death’s Mirror; 2,160 Words To Say Nothing

Tuesday, November 4th, 2014

So. Here we all are on the eve of midterm elections and the effects of the Citizens United SCOTUS ruling has now, and likely forever, handed the reins of our democracy over to the wealthiest among us. While it’s the conservative big money that concerns me the most, I am likewise unhappy that rich liberals can wield the same power using nothing more than money. Whomever has the most gold rules, so it seems that the Republicans are going to control both Houses of the US legislative branch of our government. Even though this shit is driving me nutso, I actually don’t see that as a bad thing.
One of several things will happen. One, those silly conservative assholes will propose one stupid bill after another and have them vetoed by Obama; two, the Democrats will filibuster the Senate as have the Repubbies and deepen the grid lock that is placing our democracy and public infrastructures in jeopardy; three, there might be some actual compromises on important issues, or; four, none of the above. And as my Gram always likes to say, “Who gives a shit, Mooner. Ain’t nothin’ gonna git done ‘till them Kookie Brothers run outta money.”
I love my grandmother, and OK, maybe a fifth distinguishable option would be that my ADHD and ADD will cause a global calamity that gets the President to issue Martial Law and then cancel the next session of Congress. My already poor focus has been seriously diminished for the last week. I’m all over the place. I can’t see anything being different in DC until Obama runs out of days and I think he’s become milk toast anyway. Unless the actual people rise up and make their collective voices heard, America will continue our downward spiral.
Which reminds me. I had another visit from my God—the one and only true God from among all the many Gods—the good God. My God isn’t one of those pagan asshole Gods Who sends mixed messages, my God is a straight-shooting, helpful deity. My God doesn’t encourage me to hatred and violence. Fuck your other Gods, and I mean that in the kindest possible way, and having said that, let me inform all you right wing Christian assholes that I have a new tracker program on my bloggie dealio that can find you when you attempt to hack and damage my business.
My God’s better than your God, so nanny-nanny-boo-boo!
The weather turned cold yesterday when this moist cold front passed through New Mexico. Dumped half-an-inch of rain and then an inch of snow over that. I had been watching TV as New England obliterated my adopted Broncos when I noticed that it was snowing. I’d also been consuming icy cold Carta Blanca beers watching the game and had sampled three of the new harvest mushrooms that arrived in Saturday’s care package sent by the aforementioned Gram. It was halftime when I looked out at the falling snow and the mushroom induced purple haze made each snowflake sparkle independently in my vision.
I love to sit in my backyard under the big pine tree when it snows. It always reminds me of the opening of Slaughterhouse Five—the scene wherein Billy Pilgrim is running through the snow in WWII Germany seeking escape from Nazi soldiers. I can sit with my eyes closed there in the backyard and visualize that movie—hear the music, see his breath, and feel the thud and rustle of Billy’s labored flight through heavy snow. That scene might be the most visceral five minutes in all of moviedom. Snowflakes—fat and wet as they cascade from the sky—seeming to carry the music on their feathered, downy falls. The angelic look on Billy’s face—a look that you’d think out of place in his predicament, what with the Germans hot on his trail.
Wait. Is moviedom a word? Should it be? I could have said, “That scene might be the most visceral in film,” but saying that would include actual war footage of guys attempting snowy escape from other guys in WWII Germany, and that can be visceral with actual viscera. How about movieville? Movieland?
I sat out back in a wrought iron chair with both dogs in my lap, lit a fat joint rolled with Cherry Bomb medicinal, took a heavy drag and washed it down with a long pull from a fresh beer.
“This is the life, Squirtie girl,” I told the adorable lump of lap warmer, “only thing missing is a good woman to complete this idyllic scene of modern Americana.”
The dog looked up at me like I’d lost my mind.
“Oh, alright, we resemble the part of America that doesn’t like guns or bigots. We’re the part that thinks a man can have too much money.”
Squirt seemed to buy my modifications on the good life so I took another drag and tug of beer—both somewhat less of volume than the prior—and added, “What did you think about that nice lady over to the hardware store? You know, the woman with the purple and pink hair and pretty face that I accidently tripped over.”
We were in the paint aisle looking for a two-inch finish brush to do some touch-ups here to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe. The dogs have scratched a couple of the window stools while looking at the outside world and I wanted to freshen them. There were no two-inch finish brushes visible behind the marker tag stating, “2-INCH FINISH BRUSH $5.98,” so I turned to the side, reached and peered in to see if there was a brush hidden way back behind the empty slot for the desired brush, and heard a sweet voice say, “Oh, what a cute little puppy you have.”
Since I’d taken the Squirt with me to encourage just such a conversation, I turned, somewhat abruptly, caught my sleeve on the metal hanger dealie the brushes that were not there would have hung from had they been in supply, shuffled my feet, which tangled in the dog’s leash, and tripped ass-over-teakettle across the back of the stooped-to-pet-the-cute-puppy lady.
“Oomph,” was all I could manage as I landed on my hip.
“Are you all right?” she said in return.
“Are you OK is the real question.” I outweighed her at least two-to-one.
I was, she was, and we talked cute puppy and paint talk before her teenage son came to check on her. Smart boy. Took his mother by the arm, gave me his manliest stare and led her away. Quickly.
Squirt looked up at me from my lap—snow on her adorable nose and whiskers—and with that same look a parent has when telling her child a fact of life. “Not your type,” she told me. “She seemed rather meek—like she’d feint at the sight of blood—and you need a sturdy woman with a strong stomach. Besides, what you don’t need is a teenage boy counting on you for any fucking thing.”
She was right. “You are quite right, little lady. What with me having the growth on my prostate and all, I might not live long enough to raise a teenager.”
We discussed raising children and lumpy anal glands while finishing both beer and joint and when that mission was accomplished, I lay my head back on the cushion to let the tiny flakes of snow that could filter through the pine needles hit my face. I was stoned enough for the ice to feel refreshing and drunk enough to fall asleep, which I did. Not certain how long I slept but I awoke to the sound of the Squirt in animated conversation with Ali McGraw. Ali lives here to Santa Fe and I spot her often. As she has a boyfriend I’ve stopped chasing her, but I do, however, still hold her as most desirous.
“He’s a really good guy who just can’t help but mess things up. Treats me right, rescued the goat dog from that fucking puppy mill and he cares about other people. Has the dreaded ADHD but won’t take the medications. Says it makes him feel weird. And I think he really has learned a few things from his ten prior failed marriages.” That was Squirt talking to Ali about someone.
“I get all that,” Ali McGraw answered the Squirt, “but like I told you, I’m not actually Ali McGraw and I’m not the kind of God to interfere with an unsuspecting woman’s love life. Besides, Mooner needs to get his shit together before he infects another woman.”
I struggled awake to see my God sitting in the chair next to us, undressed, in the visage of the character Ali played in Love Story. The snowflakes had stuck to her hair, eyelashes, brows and cold-erect nipples…And the fine silken hairs on her belly and what I could see of the rest of her. Her skin was pink and lustrous.
And somebody needs to answer me this. How is it that some women have perfect skin? You know, that skin that seems to have never been dry and rough, seen a pimple or ingrown hair. I’ve been married to three perfect-skinned women and that might make me the luckiest man in the world. I bet fewer than one from a thousand women have that skin and I married three of them. Take that, Mickey Rooney.
“Jesus Christ, God, don’t you know how long it’s been since I saw a real live nekid woman? You’re gonna give me a heart attack putting Ali McGraw this close to me.”
“Just wanting to get your attention, Mooner. I need you to pay me some attention.”
And just like that God turned from Ali McGraw into Walter Cronkite. I guess God chose old Walter because my Granddaddy always said that you can trust Walter Cronkite to tell you the truth. Newscasts had more integrity back when news was just that, and I’m guessing that most of those national news guys were trustworthy. I think Dan Rather might be the lone wolf of that generation still on the air.
“Look at me, Mooner, and listen carefully,” Cronkite God said. “You’re of a certain age now and shit is starting to go wrong with your body. This growth on your prostate is age related and the first of these things for you to face. You need to spend time in careful reflection and do some planning for the rest of your life. I won’t have you bitching and bellyaching about what you didn’t do before you die.”
“Is this prostate dealio going to kill me?”
God looked at me with sad eyes. “What difference does it make, Mooner? Don’t allow it to matter. Look in Death’s mirror, son, it gets you one and all. And don’t forget that any man who lives long enough will get caught and killed by his prostate. Most of you simply don’t live long enough to get got.”
“Could you change back into Ali McGraw, Sir? I’d much rather hear this lecture while looking at her.”
“Goddammit, Mooner, it doesn’t matter what I look like, it matters that you pay attention to me. You are spending way too much time in worry over politics and what it is doing to your country. Your country is what it is. Stop fretting and do a bucket list—start getting some shit done.”
“One thing I’d really like to do is kiss Ali McGraw. I know you can arrange that.”
“You are a gigantic pain in the ass, Mooner.”
“Please, sir. Pretty please.”
Without another word, God turned back into Ali, got up and straddled my lap. She took my face in both hands and pressed Her lips to mine. I melted.
“Wake up, shithead. We’re freezing our asses off.”
It was the Squirt all up in my face, not Ali McGraw. It was Squirt’s hot breath on my lips and nose, normally a major disappointment. All my exposed skin was wet and steaming in the cold air, and ice was crusted on the legs of my jeans. But I was smiling anyway.
“You’re not Ali McGraw, sweetie pie, and I’m not the least bit disappointed. Let’s go make us a bucket list.”
My first bucket item is to see if I can open a hot dog franchise here to Santa Fe. I’m tired of driving an hour each way for a decent hot dog. Squirt’s first to-do is to go to Paris and pee on the feet of the Eiffel Tower. Yoda? Well, the little goat dog wants to go back to Oklahoma to take a nip at the balls of the owner of that puppy mill. I told him I’d hold the shithead down.
All reasonable requests if you ask me, and all attainable. To Fuck Walmart, and have Walmart fucked by many others might be second on my list. So, Fuck Walmart!!!

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Cat News; A Ghost Story

Wednesday, January 22nd, 2014

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ugh. Ugh-ugh-fucking ugh!

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

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

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Happy 4th; Fuck Walmart Always!

Monday, July 8th, 2013

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My sentiments, exactly. Manana, y’all.

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Perils Of ADHD; A Tale Of God’s Visit

Sunday, April 7th, 2013

 

So. It’s a cut crystal sky awakening in the view from my office window, and the dogs are back asleep in the bed. I’m sitting here with soggy eyes and nose from the juniper pollen still filling the enchanted air of my new homeland, and I just realized that God paid me another visit last night.

“Why, Mooner,” you might ask, “does sitting at your desk with three pounds of crusty snot plastered on your face remind you that God made a house call to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe?”

“Because, dear reader, I’m an ADHD-riddled fuckball who has absolutely zero controls on his thoughts.”

OK, stop. Do I lack controls ON my thoughts, or, rather, would it be more grammatically correct to lack controls OF my thoughts? I do know that I would ponder ON my thoughts should I be in a pondering mood—which I am—yet, and alas, I now realize that the aforementioned ADHD has taken control of the steering wheels of my brain and has every intention of driving us into a ditch.

To emphasize this notion, I got a call from Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson Thursday afternoon for a scheduled psycho therapy session. While the original intent of that particular session was to, and here I’ll quote Sammy with some precision when she said to me, she said, “I’ve been meaning to speak with you about your blog posts, Mooner. I think it’s good for your audience that you are not posting so many of your whatever it is that you post on your blog. While it might be good for you to write your loony thoughts often, I think you should consider the fact that your kind of crazy might be contagious.”

Huh? Did my lovely first ex-wife, babies’ momma and psycho therapist just tell me that I’m making other folks nutso? “Are you saying that my writings make other people crazy? Really?”

“OK, maybe I didn’t say that just right when I said that your sort of lunacy MIGHT be contagious.”

I blew my snotty nose and wiped the hardened pellets of tears from my eyes while I thought of an appropriate response. After thirty seconds of careful debate I responded into the phone. “Bitch.”

The good doctor did that “Tsk-tsk” noise that has always pissed me off. I added, “You sound just like Laticia Browningwell—the other bitch to ruin my life in a significant way.”

Mrs. Browningwell is the wife of my family’s Baptist preacher and was my school teacher in three different grades. And that thought re-reminds me that God stopped by for a chat last night.

I was maybe a little drunk, maybe stoned, and was certainly under the influence of my grandmother’s mushroom tincture. The three of us were sitting out to the portal admiring the sliver of dusty light made by the moon as it dripped its way through the darkend sky. The Squirt was in my lap almost purring as I scratched her back just above her tail, and the goat dog was in the far corner of the yard eating his fill of the newly-hatched weedy fodder Spring-sprung from the dusty soil.

“Yoda’s gonna be puking all night long, Squirty girl. I bet he’s eaten five pounds of green weeds,” I mostly mumbled as I scratched the little dog’s back.

“He can’t help it, Mooner, he still has fears of going to bed without any supper,” Squirt informed me. “I guess when you consider that he was caged and beaten and sent to bed hungry as a routine…”

She was referring to the fact that the little white dog spent the first years of his life incarcerated in a puppy mill over to Oklahoma, where they beat and otherwise abused him. Rotten pig fuckers even cut most of his vocal chords to quiet his plaintive pleas. To hear him bark is to want to slit the throats of animal abusers.

OK, maybe slitting their throats is a tad bit harsh. Perhaps a better thought would be to crush their nuts with a ball peen hammer.

Anyway, I had dinner Friday night with two new friends I met through my Realtor. Georgia and Mary Michelle are a lovely pair of ladies who have been in a committed relationship for decades. They are smart and funny and thoughtful people for whom I hold much admiration. To me, any same-sex couple who has stayed together for the last few decades are admirable in so many ways.

As we sat on the portal last night watching the moonlight move through the big Ponderosa pine tree, I heard the rustling and scraping sound of a metal chair moving on flagstone. “Ah, now this is what life is all about.”

I knew the voice. It was Jeffery Holder’s rich basso-profundo from one of those Seven-Up commercials back in the day. I didn’t bother to look His way when God spoke to me, and in response I said to Him, I said, “Hey, Big Guy, how’s it hanging, Sir? Are you in the form of a tall black man or did you come as Ali McGraw again?”

“Too many questions, Mooner my man. And just so you know, Ali McGraw is out of your league.”

I turned to give God a piece of my mind only to discover that He had appeared in the visage of Montana Wildhack from Slaughterhouse Five—my favorite movie of all time. I was somewhat stunned and mildly aroused. “Holy shit, Sir. Are you telling me that I’m in Valerie Perrine’s league?”

God laughed—a huge and hearty sound that vibrated dead needles from the big pine tree. Needles floated like heavy feathers and covered the four of us. “Your little white dog will be OK, son, I’ll see to it. So stop worrying about him. And you need to leave Yoda’s puppy mill torturers to me as well,” and God laughed again.

“Alright,” I answered. “Is that why you’re here tonight?”

“Nope, I’m here to give you some advice. Ask yourself a question, OK? Ask yourself why it is that whenever you first meet homosexuals you feel obligated to demonstrate your support by telling them every single fucking incident in your entire life where you were supportive of a gay person?”

“Huh?” I responded, “I don’t do that… Do I?”

“Yeppers, you certainly do.” Now God sounded like my good buddy Lloyd. Lloyd and his husband are two of my most-admired human beings. “Look, Mooner, gay people realize that you understand their plight and support their causes by intuition. But you act silly and try to impress-just like you used to act around black people. Remember?”

Oh, yea, I remembered. Anytime I was in the company of a black person I would conjure up every instance of my support and interaction with black people for my entire life. I even married two black women, but not just because they were black. I married them because I had sex with them and until recently, that would have been my modus operandi. Until recently, I had had sex with ten women and, therefore and to wit, I have ten ex-wives.

“I think you might have something here, Sir. But could you cover your breasts so I can concentrate?”

Valerie Perrine had the most adorable breasts I had ever seen, and many was the night they filled my passions. OK, many the night, morning and afternoon did my Ivory soap and me visit memories of Montana Wildhack in the scene wherein she first lands in Billy Pilgrim’s domed world.

“You think I should call Georgia and Mary Michelle to apologize? I really like them and don’t want to have driven them off.”

“No, shithead, that would make matters worse. Just treat them like any other friends you have and let sexual orientations be their topic of conversation.”

And with that, God gave me a chaste kiss with Valerie Perrine’s lips (or were they Lloyd’s?) and disappeared in a puff of smoke, leaving me to ponder why it is that I’m such an dumbass sometimes. Why is it that I sometimes feel the need to demonstrate that I’m not an asshole to people who have been oppressed and abused by Society’s assholes?

Is it guilt? Do I feel responsible for all the ignorant and prejudicial old white men of the world just because I’m an old white man?

Is it a desire in me to be accepted? Do I admire people who have stayed stable and true to themselves in the face of extreme prejudice, and feel a need to be accepted by them? Do I want them to like me? Am I an insecure shitbrain? Am I the only one?

Ugh. Is it too early for a Carta Blanca beer? Manana, y’all.

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Cynthianne Visits Santa Fe; Modifications For A Mostly Modern Man

Monday, January 28th, 2013

 

So. After a swift yet satisfying visit with Cynthianne from Albuquerque Friday evening, I enjoyed a mostly satisfying weekend. C’Anne came to Santa Fe for a rally supporting the 40th Anniversary of Roe V. Wade and arrived at Del Charro with Gloria in tow. I would very much like to tell you more about Gloria, but I can’t. Not because I know nothing of Gloria—I do—and not because I’m censored in any fashion.

I’ll remain mute re: Gloria because I don’t quite know what to think. Del Charro is bustling and quite noisy Friday afternoons, Gloria doesn’t drink but she’s a smoker requiring frequent trips outdoors for fixes, and to be brutally honest—I, Mooner Johnson, have the ADHD.

Gloria might also be afflicted, but Cynthianne is not, no sir-ee, Cynthianne has the laser focus of a clear mind and peaked interest. She’s exactly who we all thought she would be and I’m better off that she’s inside my circled wagons. She has much to say and I’m trying to get her to say some of it here in a guest posting.

Gloria was too busy circling for me to get a firm grasp on her stuff. She always spoke quietly, almost conspiratorially, in the 90-decibel Del Charro air, and I missed most of her words. I did get that she has been involved with a group who persuaded the US Department of Justice to do an investigation into the Albuquerque Police Department. This much I got because Cynthianne told me when Gloria stepped out for a ciggie break.

Our visit was far too short as Gloria wanted to start the hour-long drive home before dark. I’ll let Cynthianne tell you more whenever she decides to say something.

Which brings up another subject… Sex. OK, stop. Sex, and God, which, of course, would be two subjects. OK, stop once more, as in my eyes this particular conversation regards the single-subject introspections of sex and God as conjoined twin subjects sharing all vital organs. Maybe it doesn’t matter how many subjects there are to you, but the distinction is quite important to me.

Which brings up another subject. In an effort to bring better prose to these pages, I have been reading this silly shit to the dogs before I hit the “Publish” button in my Word Press Admin section. I’m not looking for content editing from the Squirt and goat dog, but rather I’m seeking to find if this silly shit is somewhat understandable. I’m actually watching to see if their eyes glaze over as I read to them.

“What’s with all the modifiers, shithead?” Squirt asked me when I read them my last posting. “All the “quites” and “mostlys” and “particulars” are distracting,” she told me. “Why don’t you just say, ‘the sex was good’, and leave out the mostly part?”

I must admit that I needed to think on that for quite some time before I could accurately answer her. “Well, little darling, if I’m going to hold myself accountable to full disclosure in these pages, I’m required to make modifications wherein I see them as necessary statements, usually.”

“Huh?” the diminutive puppy said. She looked at Yoda to get some telepathic information from his small brain—a brain damaged with abuse at the puppy mill over to Okla-fucking-homa and further damaged from his diet of pine cones and the pretty crushed granite gravel Adrian and I spread over some of the yard here to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe.

“The goat dog thinks that you’re way too fucking wordy, Bwana, he says to tell you that less is more.”

I hate that “less-is-more” bullshit, don’t you guys? I mean I get that sometimes the less you say the better, but when you’re providing the written details of shit that happens you’re required to say what it is with however many words it takes to say it. Right?

“That’s bullshit, sweetie pie, we’re talking about explaining things—we’re not salesmen.”

Squirt looked at me as if I had lost my mind. “What, in the Hell, are you talking about we’re not salesmen?”

“Oh, you know, when a salesman asks for the order he’s supposed to shut the fuck up. The better sales guys will ask you to buy their silly shit and then not speak until you say something in response. That way they can learn what your objections might be so that they can work on you from better perspectives. Unless, of course, they get the order, in which case they take your money.”

I love the part of parenting where you teach your charges advanced insights and stuff. I’m always looking for the right opportunities to give the dogs information to work their ways through this quite crazy world of ours.

“Jesus, Mooner, you really are a nut bag and a confusing nut bag at that. And stop saying ‘of course’ so much. Makes my skin crawl when you say that.”

I know she’s quite right about that. Then again, we’re brought right back to where we started this discourse and that, of course, brings up the meaning of the word “discourse”, which is, “A serious piece of writing or speech.”

How can that be, because dis means “…apart, asunder, away… or having a private negative force…”, and course, of course, means in this case “… a series of actions…”

And that, dear friends, brings me back to the main topic in mind when I started this. Sex and God. Why is sex and God so much on my mind? Because, by God, I need me some sex!!! My hands are so chaffed and rough from spending so much time lathered with Ivory soap that I didn’t need to buy sandpaper when I refinished a night stand this weekend.

I do need some psycho therapy though. OK, and help me with this one. How can you be a smoker without drinking? Only way I could ever stand my own fucking mouth after smoking cigarettes was to drink or commit oral sex.

Maybe I should stop for now and simply say, “Manana, y’all.”

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Contemplations On The Dark Side; Godsmack For Dummies

Monday, January 21st, 2013

 

So. As if there didn’t already exist enough evidence that we have too many of the wrong guns in America, a child of fifteen years murdered his entire family over the weekend in another gruesome assault rifle massacre. As this kid’s father was a dedicated Christian chaplain, my first thoughts upon hearing a few details were, “This is a child abuse scenario.”

Upon sleeping on it and with additional information, my thoughts this early am are that, “This is a child abuse scenario, and maybe this incident will help stimulate actions to better control gun violence in America.”

Then again, I can just hear the Fox fucking News commentators:

“Well, Bill, if only those little girls had had their own AK-47’s locked and loaded in their bedrooms, the dead headcount would have been reduced.”

Asswipe right-wing conservative gun-promoting goat fucking shitheads.

Which reminds me of the dream I had last night. The Squirt has had loose bowels since her visit to the vet Saturday morning. This visit was to check for a bladder infection and they gave her an enema to clear the obstructions for a clean pic of her innards, but her system didn’t take well to the glycerin they pumped up her ass. The little puppy’s constant need to go outside last night somehow disturbated my normal sleep patterns, causing me to have one of those in-and-out dreams—you know, the ones wherein you pick up where you left off each time you get back to sleep.

This dream was a real corker. It was a sex dream, nekid dream, and God dream all balled-up into one convoluted pot of peasant stew. In this dream, God showed Himself in several formats: As one of my former fathers-in-laws, an alligator, the hood ornament on a Mini Cooper, and at last as Allie McGraw.

OK, stop. Is it “fathers-in-laws” or “father-in-laws” or “fathers-in-laws” when you have ten of them? OK, and what if one of them is a retired cop and one an attorney? This particular father of an ex-wife was a fine man and the Chairman of the Austin Public School Board when I graduated High School. My diploma was signed by this quite good man. I might have learned something from him if I’d paid attention. Then again, paying attention is not one of my attributes.

I’m a good watcher but I can’t pay attention for shit.

Anyway, this dream started with me as an employee of this giant company filled with coworkers from my actual life. My boss was God in the form of the ex-father-in-law, I was still married to first wife Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, and in my section of the interesting dream business office were numerous assholes I’ve known over the years, the most pivotal, dream wise, was Pastor, the Dishonorable Dr. Browningwell.

Dr. Shithead Browningwell is Mother’s Baptist preacher back to Austin, or at least he was her asswipe pastor before she enrolled and entered the retirement home there to San Antonio. I think Mother only watches him on TV and speaks to him on the phone these days, yet that limited contact seems to keep my mother’s venom sacks filled with angry poisons.

God Boss wanted me to move to Vicksburg, Mississippi, to work with a branch of the company that made movies and did event coordinating. “Look, Mooner,” God told me, “I need somebody I can trust to go over there and run things. The guy I have there now is a liar.”

“Look, God” I answered, “I love singing the Mississippi song and living there would provide me many opportunities to do just that, but I don’t know shit about movies or event planning, plus you know that I can’t follow instructions.”

God morphed into an alligator—one of those alligators from the old movie Fantasia. Man do I love that movie. There was this time way back in the early 1970’s when they showed Fantasia at the Alabama Theater in the Montrose section of Houston, Texas. It was their Saturday Night Matinée dealio and a bunch of us dropped some acid and went to watch it. Fucking alligators scared the shit out of Patrick and he almost peed his pants.

“Dumbass is way far better than liar as Branch Manager, Mooner. At least I can turn my back on you.”

God was right up in my face as He said this and His breath was something awful. “Your alligator breath smells like rotten potatoes and iguana shit, Sir. Can’t you back off just a touch?”

“No problemo, son, now get dressed and go pack your bags,” God said, and He disappeared.

OK, wait. I have forgotten to tell you the other times when the Squirt awakened me during this dream. The next time was just after I realized that I was dreaming life as an actual employee of a company. See, except for when I was a kid throwing papers or doing dishes over to the Wishbone Fried Chicken Restaurant, I’ve always been my own boss.

First time I fell in love with a black woman was when I washed dishes there to the Wishbone. I was twelve and working the 3:00-to-11:00 pm shift that summer, and the head cook was a woman named Ruby. Ruby was an onyx black woman who always wore a black-and-white checkered apron over her dress, and she tied the apron in back with a perfect bow. The apron’s bow ends always dangled over the curve of her round butt, and often one, or both, of the strings would nestle into the dress’ light crease at her butt crack.

As I was twelve and Ruby was a woman, and I’d never been up close and personal to a black woman’s quite tight and rounded ass—what with the neatly-tied apron strings marking targets for my eyes—Ruby’s ass was a major source of excitement for me. Before my second day of work, I rummaged through the cupboard at home to find our last bar of Ivory soap to take to work with me. Since I had already learned the dangers of unexpectedly stiff peckers this one time at school, I wanted to do what I could to work-off my teen angst while on breaks from the steamy dish machine and Ruby’s steaminess.

“What c’hall doin’ in there, Mooner boy? They’re runnin’ outta spoons in the dinin’ room,” Ruby said to me that day as she banged on the kitchen’s bathroom door .

I hurried my business with the Ivory soap, rinsed myself and went back to washing spoons. Ruby made the world’s best banana pudding and we were always running out of spoons. I guess my face was flushed and I likewise had some stiff pecker residue bulging the front of my shorts, and I also guess that Ruby both saw and analyzed the situation accurately.

“Well looka there, Mildred, looks like Mr. Mooner Johnson has got him a thing for the dark meat.” Mildred and Ruby looked at me askance and started laughing.

“Mmm-mm-mmm,” Mildred said. “I’ve never crossed the fence myself, but if that one wasn’t so skinny… We need ta get him filled-out—put some meat on his bones. Fix that boy a plate a chicken, Ruby.”

OK, wait just a second. This was early 1960’s Texas, where racism was still the prevalent weather, so these women’s words need to be read in that temperament. The fact that they would banter with a white boy was a sign that they were strong women and comfortable bantering with me. For my part, I thought they were making fun of my pecker size until I got home and told the story at dinner.

After listening to me recount the event, Gram said to me, she said, “Ah, Hells-bells, Mooner, they wasn’t talkin’ ’bout yer little pecker, son. They want ya to get some muscle on yer skinny ass. They don’t wanna hurt ya.”

Then the entire table laughed at humor I failed to see. It wasn’t until years later that I understood what Gram meant and, luckily, I’d filled-out.

So, I was getting dressed in my dream and wearing a clown outfit that was way too small for me. Dr. Sam was acting as my valet and trying to get the funny pants buttoned. She was pushing at my pecker through the flimsy clown material in attempts to move it away from the buttons. This is another time when the Squirt awoke me to go take a crapper. “Wake up, shithead, time to head out.”

After washing her adorable furry, brown backsides, I went fast asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow. The dream started once more and I found myself standing at the rear of one of those 4-door Mini Cooper cars where Sammie was attempting to stow my giant clown suitcase. The case was brown leather with fat leather straps to hold its bulging sides shut, and the leather was blackened with hundreds of shuttings and stowings before.

There were tattered stickers and stamps from many ports of call plastered all over it, one of which stood out to me. I peered at it around the fat, bulbous and red clown nose glued to my face. “Catch-22 and then Catch Some More,” it read. It was written in Russian Cyrillic script, but I somehow knew its meanings.

“But looka here, Sammie,” I told my ex-wife and psycho therapist valet, “God knows that Slaughterhouse Five is my favorite movie. Catch-22 is several slots down the totem pole.”

“Not about your favorite movie, Mooner, it’s about my favorite movie.” It was God, again, and His voice was coming from the front of the car. I quickly realized He spoke from the hood of the little car in the form of a Jaguar hood ornament—a visage misplaced on the Mini.

“Jaguar’s the wrong image here, sir. You might try for something more fitting,” I said. “Oh, wait. Maybe I should have said you should look for something fitting more.”

I guess that even in my dreams I make marked attempts to be grammatically accurate.

“OK, big boy, how do you like this look instead?” And with that, God transformed into Allie McGraw draped upside down—feet on the roof, long legs draping the windscreen, and torso lying sideways on the hood. Allie-God’s head was resting on Her hand and Her nails were painted red talons at the end of slender fingers. She wore a filmy gauze gown that provided us a view of her spectacular stuff.

“Holy shit, God,” Dr, Sam I. Am-Johnson exclaimed in my dream. “I think I might be a dream lesbian.”

That remark would mark the moment I was reawakened by the lump of brown fur and loose bowels I call Squirt. She was on my chest and in my face, pressing her nose into mine. “Wake up asshole, I think I’m gonna explode!”

“And I might spend too much time in contemplation of sex and my pecker.”

As I took too long to get dressed and take her outside, the poor little puppy had to stop in the hallway to cut loose. “My fault, little lady, don’t worry,” I told her, “let me clean the carpet and then I’ll get to you.”

“Forget your silly rug, asshole. My bottom is on fire. Hose me off and do it now!”

I met some new people Saturday night and one of them asked me what it’s like to have the ADHD. Maybe this helps.

Manana, y’all.

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Choosing Better Targets: Not A Short Story

Monday, December 17th, 2012

 

So. It’s Saturday night on a another snowy day in Paradise. I’ve spent a third week painting and just for the record, next time somebody tells you that the way to eliminate the soreness caused by doing something is to keep doing that something that made you sore—kick them in the nuts. Or twist their nipple.

I had been thinking it’s the dogs sleeping habits that are giving me the recent spate of interesting dreams that invoke visits from God, but now I think differently. I’ve about decided that it’s the aches and pains from painting that are generating the strangenesses visiting me almost nightly.

OK, stop. It’s likely the dogs and the painting pains combined with copious quantities of mind altering substances causing these dreams. It’s just that I almost always dream and remember them, but I rarely have whopper dreams like lately and have never dreamed those whoppers on consecutive nights. But I’ve had these dreams nightly almost since we started painting.

As for God’s visits, I think it’s the lunacies of human beings that bring God to my doorstep. Like, for example, my mother’s inherent meanness or the slaughter that occurred in Connecticut yesterday.

Which reminds me. My ADHD seems to have entered an unusual phase. It’s been spinning my brain with multiple thoughts as it always does, but I haven’t been fritzed for a week. Not that I haven’t fucked stuff up as is typical, it’s just that I haven’t been too bothered by any of it, and that isn’t what I was going to tell you about when I was reminded of something when I spoke of the dreams starting with my aches from painting.

Have you ever noticed the structure of the word painting? It fucking STARTS with pain!!!

What I intended to tell you when I was interrupted from telling you about my dreams was this: my entire life I have been a muted color sort of fellow. White or gray cars for me, blue jeans and khaki pants, soft plaid shirts and off-white walls dominate my color palate. One of my several wives once painted my dining room back to the ranch in Austin a “pale peach” color. I had gone to Costa Rica with Streaker Jones for a couple weeks and she had decided to redecorate some shit out of boredom. Boredom or maybe spite.

Pale peach walls, an orchid colored tablecloth and this giant silk flower arrangement containing every bright color from a Crayola 64 Jumbo Box festooned the small formal dining room of the ranch house in Austin. Except during this particular marriage, all of our family meals have been eaten at the big kitchen table. The kitchen is the center of Johnson family life. This wife, however, determined that each evening meal was a dinner, and dinners were served in the dining room.

I tried my best to live with the dining room colors, but the not-muted shades instigated my gag reflex whenever I tried to swallow any not-green vegetable. Potatoes, carrots, turnips and such could all turn my stomach at will.

That wife was Roshandra Washington-Johnson, my ex-wife number five. Roshandra is an Austin Police Sargent and keeper-of-the-gate for the City Council, and Robin Quivers’ double in a woman’s extra-large. Buy my stupid fucking book and you can learn way more about Roshandra.

“You puke on my new tablecloth there’ll be hell to pay, Mr. Johnson.”

Roshandra called me “Mr. Johnson” when she was pissed at me. If you’re ever been mated to a confident black woman, you know that I didn’t ever quite puke on her orchid tablecloth.

My point is that I have lived my entire life in lighter shades of pale. Until now. Until I moved to Santa Fe and started painting this house. With this house I’ve splattered five gallons of bright turquoise all over the portal and shed out back. The inside walls are Sherwin-Williams’ Melon, and Pale fucking Peach, and Golden Globe and Abalone Shell—a color that can only be described as just a shade darker than “lady parts pink.”

When the Squirt walked into the den yesterday afternoon after Adrian and I had finished painting the walls, the little hound said to me, she said, “Don’t let your mother see a picture of this room, shithead. She’ll be scheduling you for one of those Christian interventions to keep you from being a homo-sex-u-al.”

Mother always says it that way—“homo-sex-u-al.” Like it’s as dirty and disgusting a word as it is, again in Mother’s words, “A lifestyle choice.”

And that reminds me of last night’s dream. I had been tossing and turning for several hours in feeble attempts to find a position to lay for sleep that didn’t hurt some fucking body part. The goat dog would move each time I flipped or flopped and each time he settled back in the same spot when I stilled. Yoda would wait for me to quiet after moving, then he’d stick his cold nose in my ear and then slowly turn in a tight circle until he screwed himself into the crook of my neck and shoulder. He’d turn and turn—wedging himself tighter and tighter until he could get his hip pushed under my shoulder and one paw under my neck. His other front paw he would drape across my throat and he’d jam his snout against whatever side of my face was showed to his.

The Squirt—as she always does in cold weather—camped in my crotch.

Remember those two-piece, covered cast iron pots with long wooden-tipped handles? The ones where you placed a burning ember in the pot and then used it to warm your bed back to the oldie times—those pots? Sleeping with these dogs is like having two of those pots in bed with you.

So. In this dream I was cooking griddle cakes for a big roomful of people and their pets. The room had a checker board floor of lime green and peacock blue 16-inch ceramic tiles, and the only clothing I wore was a bright purple paisley-print arm sling on my right arm and a matching headband. For some reason I thought I looked like Jimmy Hendrix.

My arm has been aching and cramping like crazy from the painting and some of the pets were exotics—a kangaroo, a herd of penguins, thirty-three hermit crabs that lived in soup cans for shells, and some other interesting shit. Each hermit crab had a Navajo name and their owner kept repeating their names and the kind of soup can they inhabited.

“Yawa’ba’, he lives in a Campbells Tomato can, and Ben Shelly—he won’t habitate anything but Progresso Lite Salt cans. Bina’ha’sdzu lives in a Kroger generic chicken broth can and Elizabeth Warren, she’s a Swanson Oyster Stew kind of girl. New England style and never Manhattan.” The speaker was an elderly man wearing a name tag that read “Bill”.

“Bill,” I asked the man, “would you please say that Binha’ name for me again? That’s the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard.”

Bill spoke the name repeatedly, the soft rhythms rolling from his mouth in hushed impulses of breath, like lovers’ moans. I was, in the dream, reminded of a time last summer when I went to a late dinner at Long John Silvers down on Cerillos and sat next to a Navajo family. The grandmother was speaking to her granddaughter in her native tongue and I was mesmerized.

As I mentioned, I was dream cooking griddle cakes. Not pancakes or waffles or Johnny cakes, I tell you, I was cooking griddle cakes. Not that I have any fucking idea what a griddle cake is, but I was in a big auditorium filled with people and animals and standing at a huge, fiery hot grill, flipping griddle cakes with my left hand while I tried to keep my pecker off the hot steel cooking surface.

In this dream I had what I can only describe as a giant pecker adorned with a Salvador Dali mustache. It was about as big around as a liter plastic bottle and I never did get a gage on its length. It was wrapped around my waist and sitting atop my right arm in the sling so I knew it had some heft. Its mustachioed head lay on top of my upturned palm and peeked out at the crowd. My shoulder throbbed under the weight of arm and pecker in the sling.

A very attractive lady approached the griddle to order seconds. She was wearing tight jeans, a camel cashmere sweater, and her hair was in a long pony tail that was tied high near the top of her head. I’ve always found high-tied pony tails attractive, but the pit bull lashed to the lady’s wrist by a thick stainless steel chain was a turn off.

“May I please have another serving of your fabulous pancakes, Sir?” she requested. “And my doggie would love a bite of your bone.”

I was thinking of a proper dream retort to the woman’s requests when I was awakened by the Squirt. She was standing on my bare chest, looking down in my face and breathing heavily.

“Wake up, shithead, and go to the bathroom. Your having what might become a wet dream and we’re not ready for that.”

“They’re griddle cakes, ma’am, and I don’t like pit bulls… Oh, it’s you, Squirt.” I had to shake my head to get the woman’s pretty face off my mind.

I got up and peed and since I was up, went to the office to check emails. I looked out the office window into the chilly night. In the halo of the neighbor’s yard light I could see tiny, icy snow crystals falling, and the beautiful sight made me sad. Twenty-seven humans will never see another snowfall because America’s politicians are controlled by the NRA.

“Love the tittie pink walls in your office, Mooner. And things won’t change until these killers choose different targets.”

It was God, again, sitting at my computer and reading my thoughts. “Have you ever noticed that these shooters always seem to choose innocents or men of peace, son? JFK, RFK, MLK, Gabby G., school children and Christmas shoppers—those are the targets of assassins and gun nut crazies, not religious zealots or Republican Senators or big business tycoons.”

“Huh?” I was both startled by God’s presence and by the message of Her thoughts. “Uh, OK, Ma’am,” I stammered in surprise. “First question is why are you back again so soon? You were just here within the week and while I like you and all—please take no offense—but you’ve got bigger fish to fry than me. And my friends are starting to look into clinic vacancies for me.”

God looked like that woman from Pakistan, Benazir Bhutto, who was assassinated by their military to prevent the injection of sanity into Pakistan’s government. She wore what I believe to be a Sari of the same colors of Roshandra’s dining room centerpiece, and her stunningly beautiful face was without makeup. I wanted to kiss her.

“No touching, Mooner,” God informed me, obviously still reading my mind. “I know it’s been awhile since you’ve had any sex but you can’t touch me without invitation. You know that.”

“Right. Salt pillars and all of that shit,” I said. “It’s just that your lips look so soft and I…”

“Focus, son. What you need to know is that the gun issue in your country isn’t about the Second Amendment, it’s about greed and control. As long as the victims of this violence are innocents and peace loving, nothing is going to happen to change things.”

Huh? “You mean that until some shithead buys an assault rifle at Walmart and then shoots up a Walton family reunion or the set of The 700 Club, we’re going to go through these massacres?”

“That wasn’t exactly what I said, but you seemed to have boiled my words into an essence, son. Think of it another way. If Phil Knight was required to work in one of his shoe factories gluing the soles to the uppers on Michael Jordon sneakers, do you really think Nike shoes would be manufactured in Indonesian sweat shops? “

She had a point—God had a point. “So, if we make the Koch brothers drink water from wells in aquifers where they frack the shit out of things, they might stop fracking the shit out of stuff.”

Maybe that’s a way we can solve many of America’s problems. Put these retailers and product manufacturers to work in the factories that produce their products, force oil executives to live with the byproducts of their activities. Force Wall Street shitheads to live in cardboard boxes after they wreck a market.

Make our elected officials wait four years for medical procedures when they deny the funding for veterans’ medical and rehabilitation after sending them to fight needless wars.

“Now I get it,” I told God. “We should find ways to hold influential people accountable, right God?…. Ma’am…”

She was gone. God left me without confirming my notions. But I don’t think I need confirmation to feel on solid ground here. Ever since Ronald Reagan started deregulating America’s business enterprises, our businesses have gotten more and more out of control and our country has gotten more and more impersonal. Like children without parental controls, big business has run amok.

OK, stop, Mooner. This is going nowhere. Almost every politician in America is fucking owned by special interests. Until Senator Bernie Sanders can be elected President, nothing will change.

I’m worn out with this shit. I’m sick to my stomach from reading about massacres in schools and I can’t do one thing about it except to say:

“Fuck the NRA, Fuck Walmart, Fuck the Koch brothers and Fuck our politicians who allow this shit to continue!”

Manana, y’all.

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Mooner Johnson: Modern Day Prophet or Simply Pathetic?

Monday, December 10th, 2012

 

So. It’s snowing in Santa Fe. Finally, it’s snowing. It will be just a few inches of fluffy moisture but we are in need of it. We need it for agriculture and water supplies, and we need it in order to open the Northern New Mexico ski slopes.

The “not created by mans’ sillinesses” global warming trends have already altered the ski seasons in the Western US, and this year has been brutally dry. Here to Santa Fe, the hoped-for Thanksgiving opening of ski slopes is now a Christmas prayer.

Which reminds me. God paid me another visit last night and it was the strangest of all Their (God’s) appearances. The dogs and I were sleeping and I was having a quite weird dream. I was in my mid-twenties and working for an older gentleman selling orthopedic shoes in his store. I was dressed in an Armani pinstripe suit—medium gray with tiny, thin lighter gray stripes—and I wore a pair of highly-polished handmade oxblood Oxford dress shoes from England. The tops were sewn to the sides with thick, waxy threads, and the expensive shoes’ soles were comfortably cushioned for walking.

I could see my face in the reflection off the tops of my shoes as I hoofed my way from the retail store to home. The face that blinked up at me off the shoe tops as I looked at my walking feet was a not happy one. My eyes were narrowed and my mouth was screwed up into a tight knot.

It was the face I seem to always have these days when disconnecting the phone after talking to Mother.

Home was a dream house I’ve never owned and occupied by a dream wife I’ve never married. She was a stunning, nubile young woman wearing a silk muumuu swirling with colors, and her perfect breasts were outlined on her chest as she lounged atop a pile of plush velvet pillows. The sight reminded me of that one time when I saw this 100-carat opal that was nestled in a cushioned display case—beautiful, colorful. Cold.

“I know those breasts,” I said to myself as I approached the wife.

The wife stared lasers at me. “It leaked again, shithead,” she told me as I neared her, “you, Mooner Johnson, are a terrible husband.”

“You’ve got great titties, wife, but what a bitch you are,” my feeble response.

“I’m a bitch and you’re a complete failure; we’re the perfect couple,” she said with what seemed like glee. “Go look for yourself. It’s a mess.”

The wife shifted on her pillows and her lush hips rippled waves in the silk of the filmy dress. The sight of her gave me instant night wood but I passed her by. Somehow my desire for sex was overridden by good sense. Not my awake life Modus Operandi.

I walked to the master bedroom of the big house and found water on the floor. I remembered that I was supposed to be at work and called my boss at the shoe store. “I’ve got problems at home,” I told the older man, “this may take awhile.”

“Home IS your problem, Mooner. Fix your leaks and love your mother.”

“Huh?” I said aloud.

When I looked down at the floor, the water trailed back from where I had just come, and several men from the home builder’s office were standing in the bedroom with me. They wore uniforms with their names on the chest. One said “Larry” and the second read “Moe”. I looked at the third man’s name and it was in an Arabic script. I somehow knew him to be Curly.

I was on one side of a giant four poster bed across from the men, and there was a huge spider web hanging off the posters and rails between us. Sunlight glistened from the ropes of the spider’s ladders and drops of sticky moisture ran down the central spine towards the bottom.

“That’s from the scene in that James Bond movie where Sean Connery impersonates a Japanese man and the bad guy on the tiled roof kills the pretty, sleeping girl by accident when the poison drops slide down the silk line into her mouth by mistake,” I told the men. “I masturbated to the memory of that girl.”

The men were nonplussed.

It was a classic movie spiderweb and there was a fat rat spun into a cocoon of the spider’s twine. The rat hung like a miniature ham from a smokehouse rafter. I reached down and twirled the little cocoon like a top. I watched as it quickly wound its spider rope into a tight knot and then gazed while it unwound—up and down again, as heavy weights at the end of strings tend to do when twisted by some moron.

I left the room and walked back to the wife. “There’s a giant spider web with a dead rat cocoon hanging off our bed.”

She lifted a glass of Chateau Margaux wine and took an elegant sip. A drop of the wine hung on her bottom lip like a dollop of honey. She tipped the glass to me in a mock salute and said to me, she said, “And I’ve got a killer body and a bottom sheet covered with your stains.”

I awoke on my back with the Squirt’s nose jammed up my ass and the goat dog wrapped on my neck like a muffler. Yoda’s warm breath smelled like a landfill on a sunny afternoon. “Holy shit, you two, you’re making me dream some very weird stuff.”

That’s when I felt pressure at the foot of my bed and heard a deep, hearty laugh. I wedged myself up to my elbows to see the wife from my dream sitting Indian-style at my feet. She held two glasses of wine and a magnum of the Margaux from the dream. “Here,” She said with a proffered glass. “I took the liberty of opening this.”

It was God, wearing the dream wife’s bright muumuu. Her breasts were clamped tight to the front and I could envision the curves of Her hips. I took the offered glass, sipped from it, and said “Nice tits, Ma’am. I think I’ve seen them before.”

God took a swallow from Her glass and replied, “Thanks. Jane Fonda—Barbarella. I remembered how much you liked Ms. Fonda in that movie so I dredged her up for this visit.”

I appraised God with a more critical eye. “You’re square on with the body, God, but that’s not Jane Fonda’s face. Whose face is it?”

“Why, I’m Betty Jo Bialonsky.”

Fire Sign Theater humor, my favorite. I think the world would be a far greater place if everyones’ Gods quoted Fire Sign Theater. Hard to start a war when your God is telling you, “I think we’re all Bozos on this bus.” Or, how do you hate other people when your God says, “Don’t crush that dwarf—pass me the pliers.”

God shape-shifted into an unrecognizable form I can best describe as a ball of metallic colored gas reminiscent of the aforementioned opal. The gaseous ball made me nauseous to look at Him. Her? It, maybe.

“You’re making me sick to my stomach, Sir. Can you do another trick?”

“No, son, I’m getting you ready for Christmas. It won’t be a pleasant trip back to Texas.”

“Whatthefuck does that mean, Sir?” I demanded.

“Not saying. You need to live it in real time, kiddo.”

God can be a real asshole sometimes. “How about I puke last night’s chicken soup, caramel candies and Carta Blanca beer all over your pretty gas ball?”

I heard a loud “Crack!” and suddenly found myself sitting in the back yard with the dogs curled in my lap. I was on the rock wall that we built this summer, wrapped in a quilt and covered with snow. A branch of the big Ponderosa pine tree had snapped off, I guess from the weight of heavy snow.

God—now looking like Sophia Loren—sat next to us. She reached for my hand and placed my palm to her soft cheek. My hand was icy cold and God’s warmth spread from Her face through my arm all the way to my heart. In thickly accented English, God said to me, “Hold your water, Mooner. Your Mother needs you.”

God set my hand into my own lap and started rising into the snowy air. As She rose She changed form into Michaelangelo’s classic God visage. I looked up to follow God’s ascent and yelled to Him, “Hey, asshole, is that all you’ve got? You punished me like this to tell me to be patient with my crazy mother?”

God laughed his deepest belly-buster laugh. “OK, Mooner. One more thing just for you,” and He belly-laughed again.

FUUUUUCK WALLLLL-MARRRRRRRT!!!”

The bellowed God sound reverberated from the walls in the backyard, knocking snow off the tree onto the dogs’ and my head. When God was almost out of sight, He whispered down at me, “Merry Christmas, shithead. Be a good son and surprise me.”

God’s laughter trailed off into the sky—drifting into nothing in the fat snowflakes.

The Squirt, her face dusted with white powder, looked up into my eyes. “Sounds like good advice to me, Bwana. Mother’s been a pip lately, but she’s still your mother.”

“I think I might be a prophet, Squirtie girl. From what I remember from Vacation Bible School, one Godly visit is a vision. Multiple visits make prophecy.”

The diminutive brown puppy stifled a giggle. “And telling folks that God visits you makes for crazy talk, shithead. Think Pat Robertson.”

She was right. Maybe I should keep this to myself and gird my loins for Christmas. My mother has been especially nasty lately and I’ve been thinking about not visiting her in San Antonio when I go back to Texas for a week. I’ve had that whole “Love/Hate” dealio swirling in my skull for days now, so I guess God came by to give me some guidance.

Ugh. It can be hard to be a good son.

Manana, y’all.

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A Message From God; Big Guy Twists Mooner’s Arm

Thursday, November 8th, 2012

 

So. I’ve finally sobered enough after the Elections to sit still and tell you some stuff. I’ve a long list of entries today, so let me start by saying that I rejoice in the American people and their sensibilities shown on Tuesday. We narrowly avoided taking a terrible pathway to the destruction of our civilization.

Hoo-fucking-rah for sanity!

Second, I got a phone call about Gram—American Express contacted me about a questionable charge on the family credit card.

“We have a tire store in central New Jersey placing a $14,696.44 charge on your AMX credit card, Mr. Johnson,” the nice lady, Marlene, told me. “Snow tires, the manager says. It doesn’t fit your Cardholder Profile, and we’re concerned.”

“Do you have the store on the line?” I asked.

“Yes sir,”

“OK. Ask if the tires are for a giant stretch Hummer limo.”

They were and now I know what’s shaking and where my Gram has been. And don’t even start on me about how I should call her or be actually worried over her disappearance. She’s a big girl as often said to me by her, and she doesn’t like me to, as she also says, “Stay tha fuck outta my beeswaxxies, ya little shitbird. I was a wipin’ yer ass fer ya afore ya could scratch yer own balls.”

I guess Gram and crew decided to drive up and see what they can do to help with the devastation up there to the East Coast.

The last thing I want to tell you is that God stopped by again yesterday afternoon, a happening that is starting to bug me. I don’t have enough shit on my plate already that God doesn’t need to add an extra helping on top.

He—this visit God appeared in the visage of a homeless man that used to hang out in downtown Austin many years ago. Man wore an old top hat—tall, cracked and faded—that served as the container for a head of hair that hadn’t seen scissors or soapy water for ten years. Man would take his hat off to salute any donation and reveal a finely-woven log of greasy hair in the precise shape of the tattered old hat.

I was sitting out on the portal with my bare face exposed to the high desert sky. Through my closed eyes, I could see the shadows of the afternoon sun, one of our big Ponderosa pine trees and one of a hovering Abraham Lincoln.

“What’s shakin’, Mooner my main man? You look pretty happy with yourself today.”

I opened my eyes expecting my visitor to be the lone Republican president I have ever really given a shit about. “I am happy, Mr. President, err… Louis?” I answered. “Is Louis still alive, Sir? I really liked that crazy dude.”

“Nah, old Louis met his Maker, Mooner. I just thought I’d use his image to set the tone for this little conversation we’re about to have. I need you to do me a favor, son. A big favor.”

Oh, shit, I thought to my self, God wants another favor.

“Look, Sir, please don’t ask me to kill my firstborn son, he’s doing really well right now. And I’m really not up to starting a Crusade—my knees hurt and my back aches and I’m really much more of a lover than a fighter.”

God laughed at me—a deep rumble that sounded as if it had originated from a cavern. “You’re a hoot, dude. I say ‘problem’ and you think ‘World War III’. What I want you to do is give a message to some folks for me.”

“Thank God,” I said. “I was worried you’d want me to do something I really don’t want to do.”

“You’re welcome, but who said you would want to do this?” God told me. “What I want you to do is tell the losers of Tuesday’s elections some things to help them in the future.”

“Huh? You want me to help those shitheads?”

“Yep. I’ve got some advice for them and I want you to give it to them.”

Huh? “No fucking way, God, I won’t do anything to help those assholes. They’re trying to ruin my country with their idiotic religious insanities. Look, how about I sacrifice my second-born son?”

Again, God laughed heartily. “Don’t be childish, Mooner, this won’t hurt a bit. It’s a simple request.”

Why do people always say, “It’s a simple request,” when it’s never a simple request? “Oh, alright, Sir, sit down and tell me what I can do for You. My neck is starting to hurt from looking up at You.”

God sat in the chair beside me and drank deeply from a bottle of Carta Blanca beer that materialized in His hand. He wiped His mouth on the sleeve of His black Lincoln long jacket, burped and said to me, He said, “I want you to tell the right-wing conservative Christians of America that I heard their prayers for this election. I heard them pray for Obama’s defeat. I heard them pray to send their anti-abortion candidates to Washington. I heard them pray that I would end Obamacare and I heard the prayers to increase the military budget.

“I also heard the angry and bigoted prayers—the ones wishing for the President to drop dead and for his assassination. I heard the millions of prayers asking me to send all homosexuals straight to Hell and give America’s governments over to them, the ‘real’ Christians.”

God took a deep breath and another swig of beer, and He grasped my wrist with His left hand. “Look at me, Mooner, listen carefully to what I want you to tell them.”

I did, and when I did I saw deep-brown eyes shimmering with tears. “Tell them I heard every single one of their prayers, Mooner—Every… Single… One.”

God blinked away the water from His eyes and strengthened His grip on my arm. “Tell them I heard those prayers, Mooner, and tell them they have received My answers. Tell them I responded and that praying louder won’t change anything. Tell them to not ignore me again.”

And He was gone.

Ugh. I thought this was going to be easy. Why does God always ask us to do shit we don’t want to do?

When I showered this morning I was pondering what would happen if I didn’t write about this recent visit. And should that be a capital “V” Visit since it was God’s Visit? I was thinking that I would just tell you about the Gram sighting and some other stuff and I started soaping my arms to wash. When I slid my wash rag down my arm I yelped when I got to my wrist.

“Ouch!” I yelped, “what the fuck?”

I rinsed the soap off to expose a purple bruise shaped exactly in the image of a firm grasp. Maybe that should be “Bruise” and “Grasp”. I finished bathing and sat down here to do my task.

My final word to all of you right-wing conservative Christians out there is this. God heard your prayers for this recent election—each and every one. And He answered them.

Take a hint from His answers.

Manana, y’all.

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