Archive for the ‘Prostate Cancer’ Category

Looking For Dr. Goodbar; How Bad Is That Good News?

Monday, January 15th, 2018

So. I find myself at another of Life’s great crossroads—one of those places in time when a milestone has been reached—and I’m clueless as to how to think-feel-act in reactions thereto. As I always attempt to keep my feet and jumbled brains firmly planted in whatever reality it is that is, I have long attempted to look at these Life intersections from whatever true perspectives there are. And as Perspectives is my middle name, there are many and varied that lie—lay perhaps—within the reality of this new situation in which I now exist.

Let me stop for a moment and reflect upon whether I have used the correct word, or not, when I said “milestone”. I know that most times that particular word is used to define moments of great positive gain or achievement—like first landing on the moon, or Constitutional Amendments. But can’t milestone also be used when a negative momentous event occurs? Me- I can faithfully say to you that I think Trump’s election was a milestone, and not a good one from any of my perspectives. Unless, of course, it affects a massive backlash and a return to more civilized government.

OK, stop. Before my ADD causes me to accidentally hit the Big Red Button, some background. On a Monday morning a month ago I wrote to you, and among other things I mentioned that I had finally determined at what point of pain and suffering I would consciously choose to check out of this mortal mess we call Life. I had been in conversation with my God and my Big G seemed to confirm my thoughts. What I left unsaid was that I had an appointment later that morning to meet with my urologist to discuss the latest routine checking of my PSA and digital inspection of my rebellious prostate gland. This routine monitoring had been confirming that the visits with The Great Radiator three years ago had punished my criminal prostate into continued good behavior. Much like electro-shock therapy as I see it, radiation can elicit remarkable behavioral changes in treated subjects.

For those not already in the know:

  1. Urologists are the physicians charged with doctorating on a man’s prostate, a hateful little bag of both pleasure, and pain;
  2. PSA is Prostate Specific Antigen, a measure/marker used to determine just how naughty a prostate has been, and;
  3. A digital inspection is when a urologist, or one of the other medical professionals, pokes a hopefully greased finger up your ass to massage the small orb in order to assess its size and texture to determine if it has grown abnormally and if it feels like any tumors or other growths have started. It seems this personal intimacy is an important aspect of prostate treatment.

For my part, back to when I was diagnosed, investigated treatment options and then had treatment administered, I had so many fingers poked up my ass I started to like it. And like any child having discovered something new, I wanted to control the happiness.

“Hey Doc, can Stacy do my inspection today? Hey, or what about the new girl? You know, the new one who checks my insurance? Alice, I think is her name and I’m certain she’s at least twenty. She has pretty hands, don’t you think?”

Not every medical professional is good at these inspections. I had this one guy, this asshole tech for one of my pelvic MRI tests, shove his finger up my ass like he was angry at the world. Little fucker disappeared rather quickly after I promised to grab something with a long handle from the janitor’s closet to probe his ass when my test was finished. I guess what I’m saying is that you want your digital probers to be gentle but usually you hope they are in it purely for medical and professional reasons, unless they have a pretty smile and interested eyes.

Again, I must admit that I used “usually” correctly right there.

But I digress. In Santa Fe my doctor was a kind, thoughtful and highly respected urologist with a big heart, fantastic resume and a slow hand. Here to Tejas, my new insurance has required I be relegated to a man who did the following:

So, later that Monday morn, I drove over to my Texas urologist’s office and sat for almost an hour before getting into the exam room to get my periodic PSA results. The doc walked into the room, only nodded at my, “Good morning,” and said to me, he looked me in the eye and said, “Your PSA has spiked and you’re in trouble. You had aggressive cancer to begin and it’s aggressively growing again. But there is hope…MD Anderson has an experimental surgery where they remove your bladder, prostate, anus, a length of colon, testicles, lymph nodes and some other stuff. I can get you a referral. It’s major-major surgery and recovery is difficult but it will save your life. You need to get another pelvic MRI and a full-body bone scan. You need the tests no matter. Get those done and come back and we’ll discuss it.”

And he walked out. That motherfucker dropped the “You’re dying” shitbomb on my head”, tells me that my salvation is to become a human outhouse, and walked out. As I was too stunned to properly organize my thoughts, I didn’t hunt that cold asshole down and rip his lips off. It wasn’t until I’d spent a half-hour in the car back to home, whimpering like a baby, that I became pissed. When I told the Squirt my newly-hatched plan to wait outside the doctor’s office to kidnap him and lop off his lips, eyelids, ears, nose, pecker and scrotum with these nifty garden pruning shears I got off Amazon Prime, she tells me, she says, “Look, asshole, please don’t do that unless you plan to give the goat dog and me our suicide pills. I’m too old to break-in another human and Yoda’s too dumb to make it without me.”

She convinced me that my last major act on Earth should not be acting out an actual murder, and she remained unconvinced that the doc would live after I mutilated him. We decided to update our pill stashes. As I mentioned, I had earlier decided what my terms for continued life would be during a dream a few hours before this medical revelation, and becoming a human outhouse would be enough to get a thumbs down.

I made appointments for the two tests, then the dogs and I started making end-of-life plans. We decided who we wanted to see one more time, food and drink we needed to savor, places to visit and how to go out in style. But to make a long story short, let me give you an update.

I did both tests and met Doctor Shithead, this time 45-minutes late, to discuss the results. He walked in the exam room reading from the computer tablet he holds instead of a clipboard filled with paper medical files. He obviously hadn’t looked at my test results because he ignored my greeting and says to me, he looked up from his screen and mumbled in surprise, “Well, it seems that your bone scan and MRI are completely clear and clean. You do have some arthritis and other joint problems in your hips, knees and elsewhere, but your cancer is still contained and you haven’t developed any new tumors. We’ll continue watching you and monitor your PSA. When it hits 10.0 we’ll talk about treatment options.”

For a second time my having been stunned saved him from a bloody final hour and me from prison. While not facing imminent death, it seems my life clock skipped all the ten o’clock hour and restarted at 11:45. And for a second time I’m facing a cancer battle and this one will have fewer, less palatable options than the first. While I don’t have one of those “You have X number of months left” diagnosis, I do have a serious cancer issue with no palatable treatment options.

I’m working hard to not totally freak and I’m resisting the urge to say, “Fuck it, I’m getting a key of coke, an AK-47 with a few thousand rounds, and going asshole hunting.”

I had this dream one time where I somehow managed to remove every major political asshole in the entire country and was awarded with the Congressional Medal of Honor and a lifetime subscription to Oprah’s O Magazine. I was able to maintain the pace for all that political removing by snorting coke. As snorting coke would still be one of my favorite things should I have the money and health, one of my plans is to spend my last, dying $25K on a big bag of that shit. Inhale the last line with my last breath.

Anyway, as my psycho therapist, Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, always asks, “What’s your point in all this, Mooner. What, precisely are you trying to say?”

The answer is: I don’t fucking know. I’m sad? I’m pissed? Scared? I still have a couple good years left or several miserable years with experimental surgery. There are many facing far worse dealios than am I, but mine seem more important when contemplated by me.

And now, Walmart has done something nice for its workers. Not salvational nice, but any wage increase for Walmart workers is important. So Fuck Walmart, but use lube!!!

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Burnt Tire Residue Blues; Soul Cleansing For Lunatics

Sunday, May 17th, 2015

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Again, they, and I, laughed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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Maggots To Monarchs; A Macabre Look At Life

Wednesday, May 13th, 2015

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

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

Confused?  Me too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

Thursday, February 19th, 2015

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bitch,” I called her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’ll finish this later.  Fuck Walmart!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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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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Evaluating Happiness; You Need More Fingers Than That

Friday, February 6th, 2015

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sunday, January 25th, 2015

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck Walmart!


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