Archive for the ‘Psychotherapy’ Category

A Bikini And Six Tiny Reindeer; Xmas Cheers Too All

Friday, December 23rd, 2016

So. After maybe thirteen attempts to write about Trumpie’s appointments, I have given up. Every time I think I’ve mentioned the dumbest appointments since the invention of assignments, DJT announces another dumbest pick. Like Little PRicky Perry to the Department of whatchumacallit. You know, that one.
After the last attemptation to speak my mind about that insanity, I thought to myself, I thought, “Whatthafuck, I’m tired of this shit, and nobody gives a rat’s ass what I’ve got to say, anyway.”
I heard at my feet, “Having no audience has never stopped you from blabbing before, dickhead, and neither has having nothing to say.”
That was the Squirt, and maybe I had spoken aloud. It seems I’m talking to myself aloud often these days, and maybe I should try to find a mute button. I was over to the dry cleaners on Thursday, there to drop off and pick up shirts. Woman in front of me had a bundle of clothes in her arms that smelled like roadkill from two days of summer sun. I was thinking to myself, I thought. “Jesus Christ, lady, you ever heard of soaking the really bad stuff first? I always pre-soak whatever the goat dog shits on before doing the laundry.”
Woman dropped her load, turned and slapped the shit out of me. Through the stars floating around in my vision, I think I saw a formerly white, blood-stained, puffy comforter heaped at my feet—a bedspread much akin to my very own goose down bed wrap. Mine was there to the cleaner’s place just a month ago for its annual tune-up. Woman teared up and walked to the door without slapping me a second time, what I’m certain was a tough avoidance by her, and greatly appreciated by me. Left the stuff there on the floor in a messy pile.
I was thinking that bloody cloth really stinks, again to myself.
Laundry lady says to me, she says, “Bloody stuff is the worst we get in here. People think to rinse the rest, but for some reason not the bloody stuff. I always wonder what happened, people bring in bloody sheets. I always think the worst—suicide. My best friend in high school committed suicide. She’d tried before. She cut her wrists, but not deep enough. Made a terrible mess on her bedclothes. Then she tried a whole, big bottle of aspirin, but she couldn’t keep ‘em down. Gave her a terrible headache, if you can even imagine that. She even stuck her curling iron in the bathtub. That electric thingie on the wall saved her from the curling iron. What do you call that thing?”
“You mean the GFI?” I interjected, both to answer her suspended question, and, likewise, for her to catch a breath. “Ground Fault Interrupters cut off the electricity in those cases where the curling iron falls accidentally.”
“Yea, I guess that’s what they are, GFI plugs. Who still uses curling irons, anyway? That’s soooo yesterday.” the laundry lady said.
As my interest was piqued, I asked, “OK, those methods failed, so how did she do it, did she jump off a building?” Sometimes I need to let things go.
“Oh, nothing that tidy. You know what a grain auger is?”
As my own granddaddy’s final act here to Planet Earth was to stick his head, accidentally we presumed, into an operating combine, I quite understood. Big John Deere machine. He’d been working on it all morning, and…
Anyway, I was sitting here this morning feeling sorry for myself, wondering why I even write anymore. Is it to communicate? Educate? Elucidate? Entertain? Express? Emote? Emit?
OK, let me back up and provide you with some ADHD revisionist prose. I tried to log-on over to Squatlo Blog for the last several weeks only to be told that I was, and here I’ll quote the message, “Go the fuck away because you, asswipe, are not invited.”
Maybe I paraphrased and repurposed the words there, but that was the gist of the message. As I’d written numerous, unanswered comments there to his scribbles over the last while, I figured what with him having a young charge in his casa, he’d prefer I not stop by anymore. I’m thinking since we’re buddies he didn’t want to confront me, he simply wanted me to go away on my own. And as he’d stopped stopping by here to my place, well, it seemed confirmation.
As quitting anything on my own is a skill set not yet mastered, I made another attempt yesterday for entry to Squattie’s message board only to find a new message that, effectively said, “Go away. I’m tired of this shit and I’m done with it, so leave me alone!”
Seems my buddy Bob has thrown in the towel, which, in turn, made me wonder should I mayhaps do the same, and fuck auto-correct because mayhaps is too a word. After viewing the end of Squat World, I picked up the phone and called my psycho therapist, former Mrs. Mooner Johnson Numero Uno and mother of my kiddos, Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson- MD, PHD, LCSW, LSMFT, M-O-U-S-E.
“Sammie,” I said. “My buddies are discontinuing their bloggies. Reckmonster, Thundercat, and the rest. And Now Squattie. I’m thinking I’ll quit too.” I then went on and on.
“Look, Mooner,” she told me after I’d expressed my consternations, “Writing is therapy for you. It helps you unload some of your insanity—pass it along to the unsuspecting.”
“Therapy?” I was thinking.
“Yes, therapy. Have you been thinking to yourself out loud again?”
I thought carefully, decided I wasn’t.
“Oh yea, you are. If you don’t start developing some filters you’re going to get into more trouble. And you’ll get slapped more often.”
I thought that it was too late on the slapping, and why do I pay her so much for therapy when I can simply write my blues away.
“It’s never too late to be a better human being, and the reason you pay me is to illuminate your path to sanity. Think of the writing as evacuation—like a bowel movement for your mind.”
Now I’m thinking about shit for brains and shitting your brains out—you know, those metaphoric brain/shit dealios. Mental diarrhea.
“Now you’re talking,” Dr. Sam said. “Writing helps you purge your brain of its overload of lunacy. That way you’ll have fewer times when it spills over and gets you slapped.”
With that, she sipped her chamomile tea, set the delicate china cup back on its saucer, and looked at her watch. These things I knew because it’s precisely what she does in every one of our sessions.
Thinking that my time must be up and remembering that the china was from our wedding set given us by her parents, my lonesome libido peeked out.
“Yes, your time’s up. Look, buster. You’re lonely, and that’s a dangerous place for you to be. Take the dogs for a walk. You’ll feel better.”
I did. So, fuck Walmart in the merriest of Xmas ways!

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

Friday, January 9th, 2015

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck Walmart.


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Ugh; The year In Review

Sunday, January 4th, 2015

So.  Here we all are in this happy, new year, and me…

I’m pissed.  I’m pissed at everything.  I’m pissed at my state and federal governments, I’m pissed at big corporations, I’m pissed at the weather, I’m pissed at my ass cancer and I guess I can say that I’m mostly pissed at my veryownself.  I’m pissed, pissed and pissed some more.

Here I sit at a time when I should be grateful for so many things, and all I feel is pissed.  I should be grateful for a (mostly) loving family, caring friends, adequate health care thanks to Medicare, enough cash stashed to live-out my days except and unless I live to be more than 94-years-old with today’s economy adjusted in historical terms throughout the next 29 years, my two constant companions love me and are honest with me, and I’m happy enough with my surroundings to not have too strong an impulse to pick up and leave Santa Fe for the Oregon coast.

Having said all of that, please allow me to add that I might should have taken the dogs—the above-mentioned constant companions—with me to Oregon.  I likewise should say “near” constant companions, a distinction of (to) which the Squirt has constantly reminded me since my return from the misty Pacific coastline of western America.

“Don’t you think we could have used a vacation, shithead…Think we might have basked breathing humidified air…Think we would have enjoyed the company of those nice people…Think maybe we’d have enjoyed naked rain bathing?”

That was the Squirt the first time after I recounted my pet-less visit over Xmas.  She added, “You, you thoughtless dickwad, left us with that nut-bag dog lady for almost two weeks.  I ought to tell the goat dog to pee all over your new memory foam mattress and to shit on all the heating vents.”

Yoda had gotten pissed at me when he found out he was staying with the crazy dog lady, and the night before I left, he took a giant, loose bowel movement on one of the floor-mounted heating grills out to the living room.  Required me to remove the grill, clean it and the metal pipe below, and all the while gaging at the verge of a puke.

As for the nekid rain bathing, I invented that one evening after returning to my room from a day of crabbing and munching on baked pot goodies made by my niece from up to Seattle.  It was actually too cool to lay on the concrete balcony—and I likely too far from reality’s grasp to make good decisions—yet there I lay, pin pricks of stinging rain pelting me from head-to-toe.  Nipples pursed like Mrs. Leticia Browningwell’s lips just before she scolded me in her third grade classroom, pecker hiding deep into groin from cold shock, and my eyes shut tight against the petulant rain.  Might have drown if I’d fallen asleep and it might have been the most invigorating thing I’ve ever done, save and except for this one time I ran from Mexican police with Streaker Jones.  The two of us had taken badly to getting rousted by a cab driver for triple the fare for a ride, and the cabbie called the police.  Seems that was a way for Mexican police and cab drivers to earn extra cash.

But I digress.  I’m pissed and Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson says it’s all about my prostate and me.  “You’re terrified that you’ll become incontinent or lose erectile function from your treatment, Mooner.  You love your penis too much to face those distinct possibilities.”

My psycho therapist is right.  What if I can never have sex again?  What if I actually become one of those limp dicks that we all have joked about?  What if I’ve already had the last consensual sex with another person of my entire life?  What if my Ivory soap bar becomes nothing more than a sanitary servicing device?

I can’t even imagine a life without sex.  Maybe I need to plan for that eventuality, you know, get twenty years of sexing done before treatment ends in case I go all erectile dysfunctional and shit.  Twenty years at once-per-week, a realistic estimate for the sexuality of a healthy older gentleman, would be 1,040 total remaining sexings for me.  To get that number in over therapy’s next two months, I’ll need to do the deed 8.67 times per day.  Not unrealistic.

Except for figurating with whom all that sexing will be partnered, this seems a doable dealio.  In the entirety of my life I haven’t met a single woman one who could, would, do it eight times a day for more than a couple days contiguously.  Personal experience tells me that new relationships can handle twice daily for a few weeks before losing the required ardor to even do it daily.  Using that logic, I’ll need five lovers daily for two weeks, then nine for a month and then thirteen for the remaining two weeks.  That’s a ton of willing women to identify when you consider that it’s taken me two years in Santa Fe to not yet locate the first.  Ugh.

Fucking ugh!  Initial thoughts would be to hire me some talent, but that would be so expensive it would cut my retirement bankroll in half and I’d run out of money before the cancer would kill me if I sought no treatment at all.  That’s not realistic as an option.  Double fucking ugh!

Seems like Medicare should provide this as a benefit to us as prostate sufferers under the mental health coverages part of the plan.  Maybe I can run an ad in the newspaper, maybe find some nice, caring women looking to do community servicing.  Or I can try the N.M. Department of Corrections—have them allocate some recently released detainees in need of social rehabilitations and assist them as they assist me.  Win-win is my middle name.

Maybe the best way to handle my anxiety over losing erections, and the hopefully resulting sexing, would be to write about it.  Dr. Sam tells me that writing about the things that bother you can help you overcome your worries.  I likely have a half-million words to say without giving this any further thought.  So look for the new best-selling novel by Mooner Johnson at your bookstore soon.

I’ll title it My Prostate and Me- the Love/Hate Diary of an Angry Man.

Fuck Walmart happily in this New Year.



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Teeth On Edge, Banana Pants?; Slow Dancing With Linda C.

Sunday, October 27th, 2013


So. Let’s talk about teeth. Maybe we should begin talking about my teeth and go from there. I’ve always had pretty good teeth until age of about fifty-five. Few cavities and very few toothaches. I am a giant pussy when it comes to pain, so after the first time I experienced the dentist’s drill and syringe, I started taking great care of my dentins delicti. Brush, floss, brush and floss again.

But when I hit fifty-five, some of my personal habits started taking a toll on said teeth and causing me considerable consternations. The worst of those habits is clenching my jaw and grinding my teeth—a terrible habit developed by me as a way to assist with enhancing my slack abilities to focus and concentrate. At a quite young age I had determined that a small level of self inflicted pain helped scatter some of my myriad thoughts to leave but a few for my ADHD-addled mental processes to sort through in order to gain a modicum of focus.

Suffering helps me concentrate, a situation that I now realize needs to be discussed with my psycho therapist.

I’ve tried biting my tongue, pinching myself, squeezing my balls, pulling nose hairs and stabbing tiny pricks in my skin with a needle as methods to inflict pain without causing too much injury. I knew a guy in college who cut himself with a razor blade—one of those old timey two-edged jobbers. He’d slide the razor blade across the skin on his arms in bizarre patterns of craziness.

I loved those razors, the way you screwed the knob on the bottom and the top opened up like a set of those little flappy things on the back of airplane wings. Set the blade in its slot and then close the flappy jobbers with reverse twists of the knob.

Me, I loved those razors, but I just couldn’t bring myself to draw the kind of blood that sort of pain set to flow. Besides, cut pain isn’t instantaneous. Unless you cut a nerve or tendon, it doesn’t really hurt until later. I needed to be able to start and stop minor pain at will.

Which reminds me. I was getting dressed this morning and had one of those bizarre deja’ vu moments. I had been slot machine dreaming last night—you know, the kind where your sleeping brain has maybe a dozen different dreams that it totally fucking insists it plays for you before time to arise. Dream a little bit about chasing honey bees across a clover covered meadow while wearing nothing but high-top sneakers in front of a bandstand filled with Dolly Parton look-alikes, and spin suddenly to that time I was back to Tennessee, and Beej and I were visiting over to Chez Squatlo, a wonderful time of frostbite, vittles and sink peeing.

Anyway, I was already confused when I awoke, and somehow managed to get confuseder as I shaved, showered, and to bring us to the having gotten dressed part previously mentioned—I sat on the lid to the toilet putting on my socks while feeling a sense of bewilderment.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, shithead? You look like your eyes are going to start spinning.”

It was the Squirt and she seemed to have a bead drawn on me. Before I could answer, my head filled with the sights and sounds of an eighth grade assembly back to William B. Travis Junior High School in Austin, Texas. In this assembly we kids were treated to a concert of slave songs and African American authored music sung by the choir from Prairie View College from down near to Houston.

“Did you know that “Cotton-Eye Joe” was a slave song—a witty ditty written to be sung by American slaves to help pass time as they toiled for their masters?” I asked the Squirt. “And can you even get your mind around the fact that we Americans had to fight a bloody civil war with our ownfuckingselves before we could abolish said and same slavery?”

“I’m a dog, asshole. Cats have always hated us and always will. Same thing with some cat people, brainless bigots that they are.”

The little dog was right, and that entire American slavery business is mind boggling. And boggling more it is to think that we still have what might be millions of our populace who would like to see the return of those old times not forgotten. Maybe that should have been “more boggling”.

Me, I hear this Dixieland rhetoric and Stars-and-Bars bullshit and I need to just look away rather than warm up my nose-and-ear thumper. Those silly fuckers are much better armed than a cranky old geezer with extra-strong thumb and middle finger. I can make your nose bleed with one heavy thump, but I’m too slow to dodge bullets.

Enough of your secessionist racism, boys, you lost that war and lost it badly.

So, I was sitting on the commode lid with my tiny brown puppy giving me shit, and I closed my eyes to think about gritting my teeth in concentration. As soon as I did, I was sitting in my seat in the school auditorium, eyes wide open as I watched and heard a few dozen black college kids dressed as minstrels sing and sway to slave songs.

The entire sight was eye-popping for me as I’d not before seen that many black people in one place except for down to Ruby’s Baptist church. Ruby was the head cook at the chicken joint I worked as a young boy, and the first black woman I masturbated to. And eye-popping more as there was this one girl singer, woman singer maybe, who held the raptest of my attentions at the assembly. The word in my head to describe her in that moment was “juicy”. I remember that I actually salivated with lust for her.

Mrs. Browningwell had separated Streaker Jones and me by placing Susie Ashburn between us as a preferred method to crowd control the two of us. “You are disgusting, Butcher Johnson!” Susie said when I stood up to clap after what I remember was “Dem Bones, Dem Dry Bones”.

Seems that my lust for the juicy singer had managed to overfill my pecker with blood flow, which had, in turn, pushed a knob in the front of my ever-so-soft, worn tan cord pants. Suzie never called me Mooner, always using my birth name instead. Suzie and her daddy, Doctor Ashburn, play an important role in my silly fucking book, a handsome tome of some 400-plus pages, and a true by-the-word bargain, which is available by clicking over there =====}}}}} to my bloggie roller.

Ever tried to hide a full-on boner after it’s already been spotted and announced? There was this one kid—Billy something—who’d take his out and wave it at you if you made comment. “Boy’s Not Right” was Billy’s nickname.

I remember this one time at the Junior-Senior Dance—the one whereat I was so stoned I couldn’t feel my feet—when I finally got a dance with Linda Crittendon. Linda was a juicy cheerleader and the subject of many visits to the bathroom with an Ivory Soap bar. Our local school band, The Undertakers, started to play one of those asinine Paul and Paula songs—slow tempo music with lyrics that say, “I can’t wait for you to be sixteen so we can screw in the back seat of my daddy’s 1958 Ford Fairlane.”

Anyway, stoned to the point of having zero impulse control, I asked Linda to dance, and for some reason she accepted. My plan was to simply hold her and touch as many of her important, juicy parts as possible without getting slapped. Linda, on the other hand, wanted to slow dance. In the 1960’s to “slow dance” was as sexual and provocative as a teenager could get in public.

I had this gray sharkskin suit back to high school, made of thin, tough fabric that had a silk-like quality. It would ripple and sparkle with light as I moved. As a stoner, I thought the visual effects quite impressive. Linda and I danced and she had pulled me close and pressed her entire body to mine, and I at first simply luxuriated in the contrasting firm and soft of all her juicy parts stamped to mine. At first, she and I were totally into the dance. And as I was quite a good dancer of the slow dance, and Linda a juicy cheerleader, after a minute of the song other dancers began to give us room, and watch.

I think it was at the “…true love means waiting..” part that my pecker woke up and realized that it was slowly rubbing Linda fucking Crittendon’s juicy mound. Totally unannounced, and without any conscious aforethought on my part, it swelled against the thin fabric of my sharkskin pants and wedged itself between Linda’s juicy legs and against the lower edge of her juiciest part of all.

The specifics of the remainder of the dance are a bit blurry in my mind. I do remember that Linda was drinking vodka spiked Coke with her cheerleader buddies and that explained her mood and willingness to dance with a nobody like me. And I do remember that I wasn’t the only one to moan as my woody rubbed against her. And I do know that she whispered, “Let’s go out sometime,” when the song was over.

But I’m missing the approximately three-minute interval between when Linda whispered in my ear with her juicy lips as the song ended, and the part where most of the junior and senior classes were staring in wonderment at the silly asshole slow dancing with himself as “Louie-Louie” was blasted out by The Undertakers.

My best friend since childhood is that man named Streaker Jones. Streaker Jones is a man of few words and was a boy of the same brevity. When “Louie-Louie” ended, I felt a hand on my shoulder and opened my eyes to his face. “Nice stiffy, Mooner. C’mon.”

The most interesting part of all of that is nobody laughed at me and I never was kidded about it. I was never made to pay the price for doing something embarrassing that teens usually extract. Maybe it was one of those once-in-a-lifetime moments that make great scenes in movies. Maybe that was my one best brush with the unattainable.

Makes a person wonder where Linda is today. Would I still find her juicy?

Fuck Walmart, fuck racists of all colors, and we’ll get together manana, y’all.


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Does God Really Hate Gays? Nope, She Doesn’t

Monday, March 19th, 2012


So. What a weekend, huh? Tornadoes ravaging Nebraska, eighty boiling degrees in Chicago and two feet of snow in Ari-fucking-zona, all on the same winter day. When asked if this might be evidence of man-effected global warming, Presidential hopeful and right-wing Christian fuckball, Rick Santorum, answered, “There must be concentrations of gays in Tuscon, Grand Platte and on Michigan Avenue. That’s homosexuals bringing god’s will to bear, not global warming.”

I made up that quote, but little Ricky put the words in my mouth. According to the former Senator from Pennsylvania, homosexuality is why America has any problems it has. For the life of me I cannot figure out how the gay folk of America have managed to ruin our country so terribly. Since that silly prick thinks that god is the cause of all events good, bad and even indifferent, his god must really hate homosexuals.

One of the toughest of these god thingies for me to digest is the concept that a growing population of homosexual Americans is causing god to ruin the institution of Marriage. I can get the gist of Santorum’s thinking on the weather dealie if I shut my eyes, imagine that an Evil Tinker Belle sprinkles my now bald head with Trixie Dust, drive a spike through my frontal lobe and then pretend to be Catholic. As a brain dead blind Catholic under the influence of mind-altering drugs, I can envision a god who might kill people and wreck innocent lives on purpose. Maybe I should say wreck things “with” purpose. I’m saying that this particular god is willful and has an agenda when he kills and maims and destroys.

If I imagine a god who is powerful enough to create all of the heavens and earth, but one who fucks up so badly that he can’t then control those creations, then I can envision a god with anger management issues. If I let my brain go that stupid, I can see this same god starting famines and wars, and stimulating tsunami waves, just for the entertainment value.

“Hey, Martha,” god tells his girlfriend. “Wanna see me trap a couple hundred miners three-thousand feet underground and at the same time how about I’ll send this asshole to a Jewish school over to Paris to kill some little kids? White folks will hate this one way better than when I sent that Army Sargent to slaughter those Afghani women and kids the other week.”

I wonder if god eats popcorn while he watches this shit?

Maybe god has this giant big-screen TV with like a million channels that he watches all at the same time. And Holy shit, god must have terrible ADHD if he can watch a million channels all at once. I know with the help of my ADHD I can watch six channels at the same time, but a million?

I mean, looka here, folks, just like Rick Santoria, our boy Hitler felt he was doing god’s work too. I beg anybody to find a distinguishable difference between Hitler’s justifications for his persecutions and those of today’s modern American Christian right-wing religious shitwads. Hell, I fucking dare you to show me. But since my lobotomy grew back and I’ve grown almost tolerant of Trixie Dust, I don’t think I can buy your bullshit.

My assessment of this theological theory is this: Any god who would kill kids for sport is an asshole god, and if you worship an asshole god, in my eyes that makes you an asshole. Asshole in, asshole out.

But this “gays kill marriage” scenario is so far off base that it makes my head swim. As a group, gay people want marriage to be a stronger institution by definition. While millions of straight people are logging on to Ashly Madison to find another person to help them desecrate their heterosexual marriages, gay people want to enter into marriages to sanctify their monogamous unions.

For every Liz Taylor, Mickey Rooney and Mooner Johnson with handfuls of failed marriages, there are Lloyds and Mikes—gay and married couples with long term, sound unions. For those of you asking, Liz, Mick and I sport more than two dozen marriages between us—the three of us each need two hands to count them.

Lloyd and Mike adopted two teen girls when Lloyd worked in mental health care way back. Both are now women with kids—Mike and Lloyd’s grandkids—and my friends are quite proud grandparents. All through the party Friday night, the grandkids were texting their granddads to tell them whatever it is that sixteen-year-old twin boys text these days.

Which brings up a question for Rick Santorum and his ilk. If gay people are so terrible for Society, why are so many of them Society’s best? And if you try to answer me with that “Well, god moves in mysterious ways” bullshit, I’m gonna thump your nose.

And by the way, I am making the conscious choice to use lower case g’s and h’s when speaking of gods. At least for now. This is my way of protesting against people who use their god to justify stupidity and hate. Maybe I’ll start saying Gay and Homosexual. Maybe I’ll capitalize everything that bugs the right-wing Christians, like Abortion, Condoms, Birth Control Pills, Blow Jobs, Public Education, Science and the likes. Maybe I’ll start lower-casing christians too. Take that, rick santorum, you right-wing asshole catholic semi-christian fuckball..

OK, Maybe I need medication.

Which reminds me. There was a big study done that has now concluded that when a pregnant mother takes crystal meth it can cause serious problems in the kid, assuming the kid gets born alive. No fucking kidding. Maybe those same scientists can do a study to find a connection between electrocutions and electricity.

But rick santorum and Silly Scientists aren’t the only ones who fuck shit up. I took the dogs over to Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson’s house to help me mow the lawn and clean her pool for her. Those services are part of my payments to my ex-wife and therapist for her helping solve the four dimensional Rubik’s cube that is my mind.

“Let’s take the dogs for a walk,” I told her. “It’ll be good for all of us.”

I like to walk the dogs on pavement and sidewalks because it keeps their nails trimmed. I hate trimming their nails.

“You haven’t leash trained them well enough, Mooner, it’s frustrating to walk with both of them together. They’re always under foot and I worry that I’ll step on one of them, or that you’ll trip and crack your crazy skull.”

Well, I talked her into it, and yes, I fucked things up. There was a vulture eating on a dead rabbit in the street and I wanted Yoda to have a chance to chase the big bird, and I wasn’t paying attention to the rest of the world, and… And, well, Yoda got ahead of me and under Sammie’s feet and, “Boom! Down goes Sammie, down goes Sammie, down goes Sammie.”

Bashed and scraped knees, hands, shoulder and face, each packed with loose rocks and grit from the newly-paved street. A very nice Asian couple—Charlie and Jo Ann—saw my blunder and drove us all home. Jo Ann eyed me like I was a war criminal as she fussed over the doctor like a grandmother. Each time I tried to assist Sammie, Jo Ann would shoo me off with a look. I took her to an emergency clinic to discover that her wounds are only superficial while my wounds are deep, and wide.

“Why do you put up with him?” the ER Doc asked my ex-wife.

“Good question without any good answer,” was the answer.

Me, I’m thinking Dr. Sam I. Am will be speaking to me by the end of the week. Otherwise I think I need a discount on my therapy sessions. The one-sided conversations in psycho therapy don’t seem to be helping me.

Manana, y’all.




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Separating The Psycho From His Therapy; Funny Joke Or Disrespect?

Wednesday, March 7th, 2012


So. I had an early morning psycho therapy session with the good doctor this am, but rather than sit/lay on the expensive leather couch in her office, Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson had me bring the dogs to her house for my fifty-minute appointment. The couch is one of a five-piece set of leather covered sitting things purchased, as certainly as my name is Mooner Einstein Johnson, with my cash. There’s the couch, three mid-rise side chairs and her highness’ big chair.

Sam is a short thing—cute as a fucking button mind you, but short—and her big leather chair is throne-like. She uses it to gain physical stature in therapy. This fucking chair has more hydrolics than one of those “63 Chevy Lowriders. Makes this “shisssshhh” sound as she raises and lowers it for effects during therapy sessions.

I don’t know why she needs a chair like this to gain stature. She looks ten feet tall when she stands atop my bruised and battered ego.

“Come to my house for your morning session, Mooner, and bring the dogs,” she told me. “I need to assess the status of your parenting skills and there’s quite a bit of yard work to be done.”

I wasn’t surprised that she wanted me to come over to work in her yard. We’ve been having our Spring this Winter in Austin, Texas and shit is growing on trees.

OK, stop the presses. Try this. The weather has been so nice that the trees and other shit are growing and, subsequently, require my attentions. Doing Sammie’s yard work is the premium I pay to retain her psychiatric services. Yard work plus $195/hour for a regular session.

I actually like the yard work. Everything out to the ranch is done with tractors or other riding machines and I enjoy pushing a lawn mower. My first job was mowing yards and it has stuck with me. There was this one house over to west Austin—lady’s husband was an airline pilot and she was a retired flight attendant—and the husband was gone quite often. I was something like eleven, maybe twelve, and since I hadn’t yet been raped by my Baptist Deacon Boy Scout Leader, I was still all starry-eyed and happy and shit.

This nice lady always had a cold Fresca and a sandwich waiting for me when I finished mowing her yard. The sandwich might change from ham to roast beef or chicken salad, but the beverage was always Fresca. Fresca was a weird drink to me—not quite grapefruit and just a hint of that icky artificial sweetener taste—and I asked her once, I asked, “Why Fresca?”

In answer, she kissed the top of my sweaty head and said, “Covers the smell of vodka. Want some?”

For shit sakes, Mooner, get your ass back on track. Nobody wants to hear about the first proposition you got from an adult woman.

So, I asked the Squirt to tell Honor the fucking cat to behave herself and loaded Squirt and Yoda into the GTO for the trip to Sam’s place. Squirt was reliving the story about that one time where the landscape crew worker in Sam’s neighborhood started some shit and she clamped her mouthful of very sharp teeth to the man’s crotch. We giggled and laughed about the story until we got over to near the Planned Parenthood offices near Sammie’s house.

“Let’s do a drive-by on Catholic Anti-Abortion Lady, Bwana Mooner.” Squirt was dancing around in the limited space allowed by her driving harness.

“Je vais prendre le volant, Mssr., y el flash de su culo!” my adorable little puppy was now bouncing like a jumping jack.

“I can’t give you the wheel on that busy street, Sweetie, you can barely stay out of the ditches out in the country with no traffic. I can’t take a chance of you wrecking my GTO. How about we park across the street and you can blow the horn to get her attention?”

That satisfied her. We mooned the Catholic lady, stopped at the neighborhood donut place for a dozen glazed, and drove the last mile to Sam’s. She was standing at the open garage door as we got there, hands on hips—curvy, tight hips—and the look that says “Why me?” was already screwed onto her face.

I parked the Goat and we disembarked. “Hi ya, Sammie baby, how’s it hanging?”

“I’m about ready to hang your name on a door of the Close Watch Unit at Shoal Creek Mental Hospital, moron,” she answered. “Why me, dear god, why me?”

I tried to ignore this semi-tirade as I searched my brain for what is was that had already set her off. There’s no way that she could know that I’m teaching the Squirt how to drive and Yoda how to moon, and I haven’t been arrested for months.

“Planned Parenthood just called me.. again… and have asked that I get you under control. They think you make matters worse when you agitate their regular protesters.”

“I’m just trying to help. And how did they know to call you?”

“Can’t say, Sweetie. And while I’m up your dumb ass, stop saying psychotherapy as two words. I know you think it’s funny but the humor left that joke twenty years ago. I’m really tired of explaining it to my cohorts.”

I didn’t say, “Too fucking bad, it’s still hilarious,” out loud, but I thought it.

“You might think it’s fucking hilarious, you crazy redneck fuckball, but my colleagues are starting to question my ability to effect change in severely damaged patients.” Here she gave me the dead-eye. Dr. Sam I. Am learned it from Gram. “And if they stop referring to me I’ll simply have to raise your rates by another 25% to offset the losses.”

And I simply have to stop thinking out loud. I noticed how sexy Sammie was when angry and I started to think about how much fun make-up sex was back when we were together.

“Don’t even think about it, Mooner Einstein Johnson. I wouldn’t have sex with you using Snooki’s vagina.” She laughed at her own lame joke and said, “Come on, let’s take a walk before you do your chores.”

I leashed the puppies into their harness with mild trepidations. While I’ve spent hundreds of hours teaching the dogs important shit, like how to burp and fart the National Anthem and mooning and fishing and driving, I’ve not spent much time on leash training. As I slipped the walking harness on Squirt’s back I said to her, I whispered in her ear, “Look, Squirtie, you tell Yoda to follow your lead and then you follow mine, I’ll let you drive home once we get off of Ranch Road 620.”

“Well… I get to drive and you have to feed me lettuce leaves like I’m a queen while I watch The Bachelor tonight.” Squirt fixed me with an unwavering gaze. “Deal?”

Another of the things I’ve found time to teach Squirt is how to negotiate a personal services contract. “Deal,” I told her, and we shook on it.

OK, now let’s stop here and reflect for a moment. I just typed the 1,200th word of this posting and I can’t even remember my point for starting. A look at the first paragraph tells me it had something to do with this morning’s psycho therapy session over to Sammie’s house, but for the life of me I cannot remember the moral to this stupid fucking story.


How about I tell you this. I hate The Bachelor TV show, and Squirt knows it. That’s why she chose it, to get my goat and have some fun at my expense. What she doesn’t know is that I know she doesn’t like it either. I’m planning to wash three heads of Romaine lettuce—big, fat heads from our winter garden—and I’ll sit at her feet and spend the entire hour feeding it to her, and that reminds me of what I wanted to tell you.

It’s only March 7th and my cool weather garden is browning out! I’ve already planted summer veggies and the lettuces are all petering out and everything else looks tepid at best. I wanted to tell you that the next time I hear some fucking asshole politician tell me that there is no global warming, I’m going to give them a chunk of my ass. I’m sick of this shit.

Oh, and by the way, did you notice that the Republicans are keeping the Transportation Bill from passing by trying to add their tacky fucking amendments onto it, just like they keep doing?

November is coming, you right-wing Republican Christian conservative smog loving fuckballs.

Beware the Ides (minus 9) of November! Manana, y’all.

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Back To Normal- A Psycho Therapy Success Story

Friday, February 24th, 2012


So. I have now discovered that I am the Aeolus of shit storms. Sure, Zeus was the Greek’s thunderbolt God but it was Aeolus who controlled the winds—both fair and foul. I have managed to blow a wind most foul and cast a pall over the Johnson family household. And, “Yes, Mother, “ I did spell that non-Christian’s god with a capital “G”[.]

I’m sick of the Christians having the only capital G god. I’m either making everybody’s fucking god a big G God, or they’re all to be small gods. I wonder if it was Aeolus after whom one of my favorite parts of a woman’s body was named.

My hours yesterday were spent getting hammered on all sides about my temper tantrum and what is now viewed as a “threat” to kick my mother out of my house. I didn’t do any such a thing. I told her that if she was so offended by my beliefs that she could move her rosy-red ass out of my house.

It is, after all, my fucking house. I won’t tell you the entire story as to how the Johnson family homestead became mine before the deaths of Gram and Mother, because it would embarrass them both. If I was the kind of man I’m now accused to be, I’d tell you the full-disclosured details and say to them, “How’s that ass taste, ladies?”

What I will say is this. I own this entire insane asylum lock, stock and barrel, and I didn’t want to be its owner. I was forced to take sole ownership in order to keep said asylum under family controls. In the many years the title has been in my name, I think I have been a fair king—a just king. I’m an asshole and likewise crazy, but I’m not, usually, a tyrant.

The only woman in the house who was speaking to me was the Squirt, and the only conversations we had had since breakfast yesterday were on the subject line reading “Mooner’s a giant flaming asshole”[.] “You, Mooner middle name Fuckhead Johnson, are a giant flaming asshole,” have been the words out of Squirt’s mouth.

Save for Mother, who didn’t speak to me all day, I was dressed-down by each Johnson woman at dinner last night. It was pointed out to me that I’m a giant flaming asshole, I act as if my feelings are the only feelings that matter, I throw my weight around like a Sumo wrestler, I speak disrespectfully to my elders, I am inappropriate, and oh yes, that I’m a giant flaming asshole.

Do you guys think the proper grammatical methodology for that would be to add a comma before flaming? Like I’m a giant, flaming asshole?

When my dressing down was complete, I thanked the ladies for expressing themselves in a confident, active way and without passive-aggressivnesses, and I told them that I would take their critiques under advisement. I also apologized to my mother publicly, as she sat poking at the chicken salad on her plate. She hadn’t looked me in the eyes nor has she spoken a word since my temper tantrum. She made no response to my public apology same as with the private one made earlier in the day.

I’ve been in a quandary over this one, having difficulties with what to do. I felt that I should get this issue in front of my psycho therapist with great alacrity, so I made an “emergency” appointment for after dinner at 7 pm. Why I thought I’d get insight in the office of my therapist and first ex-wife is beyond me. The longer I’m in psycho therapy the more I come to understand that the goal of psycho therapy is to create the need for more psycho therapy.

When I called Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson to make the appointment, she asked me, “What is so important that I need to cancel my facial?”

When I told her about yesterday’s indecent, she said to me, she said, “Aaaah. I’ve been waiting for this one to raise its ugly head for years. See you at seven.”

She’s been waiting for this one to raise its ugly head for years? Whatthefuck?

“Look, Mooner, you crazy redneck fuckbrain, those women are all grateful to you for saving the family homestead and providing a pleasant life for them. But when you acted to keep the ranch in the family, you upset the family apple cart. You destroyed the hierarchy.”

I caught that load of shit before my ass was even settled onto her couch. “Whatthefuck, Sammie,” I started, “I don’t abuse or mistreat those women in any way. I’m respectful of their peccadilloes—and trust me here when I say that Chez Johnson has got itself some fucking peccadilloes—and I always try to be sensitive to their needs and delicate sensibilities.”

“This isn’t about you, shit brain, this is about them. How many times do I have to tell you that the yin to gratitude’s yang, is embarrassment?”

“Oh for shitsakes, Sam. I am incapable of pretending to be something I’m not, so what am I going to do about this? And what is this stain on your couch cushion?”

My ex-wife/therapist blushed, then waived-off my cushion stain question with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Mooner, what you are going to do, is nothing. You apologized, you tried to get Mother to understand your side, and we all know that your mother is controlled by her fears. If I were you, I’d pretend that nothing has happened and just go on as usual. Things will settle back to normal before you know it. You do need to control your temper though. It concerns me that you blew up so much.”

“Don’t you worry about me and my temper, I’m managing fine. Well, I was hoping for insight with a keener edge to it, Sammie, but I guess you’ve got this one pegged. Thanks.” And with that I dragged myself off her couch and headed out.

“Oh, and Mooner. Tell Gnat that your bill will show charges for a facial, a bottle of Dom and a triple-times hourly rate for tonight. Some way or another we’re going to get to to act right.”

Anyway, I took the advice to heart and at breakfast I got up early and made pecan waffles, huevos rancheros and pork meat three ways—bacon, smoked ham and savory sausage. As they came to the kitchen I addressed each lady with a, “Good morning, sunshine. Have a seat and I’ll pour you some coffee.” OK, except I popped the cap on a bottle of Carta Blanca for Gram and myself—we both like beer with the rancheros-style eggies.

The reactions from each woman was different but all had the same cool sentiments. “Everybody want runny yolks this morning?” I asked when the chilled matrons were all were seated.

“Can I have mine hard, Mr. Johnson?” Robert asked. “I’m in an agriculture class at A&M as an elective, and the professor said that you should not eat uncooked egg yolks. Not safe.”

“Robert, my boy,” I instructed. “These eggs right here were snatched from the hen’s ass before they were half-way laid and washed in that sink right over there while still warm. I have a pretty good idea where you mouth has been since the weekend, and these eggies right here might be the safest things you’ve had.”

At that, Robert—one of the pair of young Texas Aggies spending the week with us looked adoringly at Gram as if to get her affirmation on the eggs. “What you need to be wary of, Robert, is that look of love in your eyes. That old woman will rip your heart in a dozen places and leaved you wrecked and broken,” I told him.

I fixed all the eggs runny-yolked and the entire table ate greedily. Mother sat in a quiet solitude, her face in the pinched pose of martyred motherhood that has become her permanent countenance. “So,” I started, “how ’bout them Cowboys?” The Dallas Cowboys are my mother’s football team. “America’s team” and all that silly shit.

The entire went still. The half-minute of silence was broken with, “We need a cornerback,” Mother almost whispered. “And some Christian counseling for Dez Bryant.”

“Oh, fer shitsakes, Mother, fuck yer Christian canoing. All Dezzie needs is a little bit of a good woman ta fix his shit. Maybe me an’ tha P-cubed can make a swing up ta Dallas fer ya. Now quit yer bitchin’ an’ pass me tha syrup.”

I looked at Robert when Gram made her offer to head to Dallas and fix Dez Bryant’s shit and the look of shock registered a hit. The other, nameless Aggie ate without uttering a word. Aunt Hilda was telling her shrunken-head-in-a-mahogany-box that the Texas Longhorns just landed a top prospect for the 2013 recruiting class, and Mother reached for the remote and turned on Good Morning America.

She raised the TV sound with the volume button. “…and new in the Republican Presidential race, Rick Santorum said yesterday that Mitt Romney…”

Dr. Sam I. Am was right. Good as new. Manana, y’all.


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Mooner Falls Victim To Stellar Book Review; Requires Psycho Therapies

Wednesday, December 14th, 2011


So. I’ve got quite a few things to cover with you and not enough time to adequately do so, and the net results herein are likely going to be only partially satisfying. For all of us. With that in mind, I’ll do my best to provide clear concepts and information in such manners as to be at my most informative. I do this for you guys and at terrible personal costs, as I am a very busy man.

OK, stop the fucking presses. Could I be any more self absorbed and egomaniacal? Is egomaniacal even a word? Is now, because that is what I’ve become since getting a four-of-five-stars review from Clarion. I’ve become that stuffy, effete asshole who wrote a book and suddenly became someone of importance and too involved with his own importance to be anything other than an asshole.

Next thing you know I’ll be speaking with a Hamptons’ accent and ordering Campari cocktails with a twist. Saying, “my good man,” and calling everyone “Daaahhhling”[.]

Squirt told me she was going to start shitting in or on something of mine each time I act like an asshole over the review. I didn’t take her seriously until maybe a half-hour ago. Does anyone know if fleece-lined leather slippers are machine washable?

But I’m too busy, really, with the ever-growing list of chores and errands with which I’m burdened here at the end of the year. In addition to the routine errands and chores I suffer as the Johnson family patriarch, I’m involved with the planning of the big Book Launch Party for my four-of-five-stars rated book, I’m busy setting meetings and taking lunches with executives with the big book sellers negotiating for shelf space in their retail outlets, and I’ve been working my fingers to the bone on the I-net as I try to run down Jeff Bridges. Yes, that Jeff Bridges.

It has been suggested, and often, that Mr. Bridges was born to play the part of Mooner Johnson in the series of movies to be based upon my life, and starting with Full Rising Mooner. I think Jeff Bridges is a great choice if he’ll allow me to give him some coaching. He has a great, a great instrument, but he’ll need some fine tuning to get me right.

Maybe we can get Justin Beeber (Beaber, or mayhaps Beber?) to play me as an adolescent. I think Justin’s image would get a huge boost from portraying me as I learn to masturbate with Ivory soap, and he can show his acting chops in the gripping scene where my Baptist Deacon Boy Scout Leader rapes me at Aquatic Camp.

Wait a second. The Squirt just lowered her ass over my keyboard to take a shit.

This four-of-five-stars review business is heady stuff but I’ve got a life to run here. SAC Ellen, for those of you who have asked about her, has been missing in action. For terroristic reasons, terrorists like to ply their trades during holidays and this time of year is the mother of holiday seasons. My sweet baboo has been flying around the country in a cross hatch pattern that is mystifying. When I last saw her for a conjugal visit, I suggested that a random pattern computer had assumed the role of her scheduler. She spent the days, or parts of days last week, in Austin, Minot in the Dakotas, Kenner in Loosyanna, San Diego, St. Louis, back to the Fargo area of the Dakotas, and finished her week as she landed in Floriduh late Saturday night.

We got Skype installed on our computers so that we can have some near sex together, but I’m finding Skype sex not nearly satisfying. I’m better off with nothing but my Ivory soap and a little imagination than with Skype. When I’m not too bus with my book I’ll do some serious thinking on the whys of that dealie.

And did you hear that The Donald canceled his personal presidential debate? Waaaaa. Wa-wa waaaaaaa. Poor Donnie. At least I’m not as egomaniacal as that shitball.

I had two psycho therapy sessions yesterday—one regularly-scheduled and one special session due to my having become an asshole over my four-of-five-stars Clarion book review—and I found them both quite unsettling.

“Mooner, the reason everyone is calling you an asshole is because you ARE and asshole. That’s both an opinion and a diagnosis,” said Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, my therapist and first of ten ex-wives. “You got lucky with the review, Mooner, and found that one in a million person who wrote it.”


“Why are you such a bitch over this, Sammie? You haven’t even read Full Rising Mooner.”

“I have read it, or some of it,” her response, and delivered with a snappiness that caught my radar.

“Well?” I questioned.

“Well what?”

I rarely see evasion in the quite lovely woman who is my ex-wife. When I do, it usually means she’s withholding something. Something that she wants to hide from me.

“Come on, spit it out. What did you think?”

The good doctor turned her pretty face from me and looked at the floor under her feet. She whispered and mumbled something under her breath.

“What was that? All I heard was the word ‘admit’” I asked. “Come on, out with it.”

“Oh alright, if I must. I’m about half way through, you know where you tell the story of Mother zipping your penis into a metal zipper. It’s embarrassing to say, but I like it. And don’t you dare print this on that silly website of yours. I’ll never live it down if my colleagues hear about it.”

The zipper story deals with one of the most painful times in my life, but it isn’t often that I have a chance to benefit from my relationship with Sam I. Am. OK, except for the help she gives me with my mental illnesses and her continued love and support. But me, I take ’em where I gets ’em, so you read it here first folks, Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson- psycho therapist super star of Austin, Texas, likes my book. My four-of-five-stars rated book, Full Rising Mooner.


“But you are becoming an asshole, Mooner, and your psyche can’t stand the additional pressure.”

That was the unsettling part of that session—the special session. Her telling me I can’t handle pressure. The second, regular session involved a discussion about my inability to say “No!” to people who ask me for, or to do things.

“Look, Mooner. You are one of the sweetest and caring people I know, but you’re crazy and have no boundaries. You have such a terrible case of guilty conscience that you feel you can only make better by doing anything asked of you. Better stop. Remember what happened last time you over-committed at Christmastime?”

Oh yea, I remember with crystal clarity. “Oh yea, I remember. I over committed on promises and you committed me to stay over at the loony bin.”


“You got so frazzled that you dissociated, sweetie. They called me to come get you from the Whole Foods Market. You’d been standing in front of the organic cantaloupe display for hours and saying, ‘Does anybody know if these are good for male impotence?”

I was having a little problem due to all the pressures and deadlines caused by my over-committing that holiday season. “I hear you. I’ll work on it,” I told her.

Ugh. I’ve somehow managed to fuck things up. Again. I don’t know what it is about me that I keep getting myself into this mess. I mean other than the ADHD, the ADD and that little obsessive-compulsive thingie. And all the promises I’ve made to people.

But what does Dr. Sam expect me to do. I’ve written a wildly popular book, my family depends on me and people know that they can count on me to deliver. I have a reputation to maintain, a good reputation.

Wait a minute.. Do I smell dog shit?

I need a Carta Blanca beer. Manana, y’all.

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Mooner Farts B Flat; Forgiveness Is A 4-Letter Word

Wednesday, November 2nd, 2011


So. I’ve had something on my mind for quite a while that has been a bother and a concern. I haven’t said anything about it because I thought it was one of those dealies that would work itself out with time, patience and practice. Like sex.

But it’s been way over a year, I’m out of patience, and practice has perfected absolutely nothing. A little background, if you would.

We Johnsons are farters. My family considers farts and burps to be naturally-occurring human conditions no different from laughter, crying or anger. Farts are considered emotional and expressive reflections of a person’s well-being. Farts can be a sign of stress, distress or happiness. You can fart in anger, in support of another, or as a tease.

I have been a near world class farter since the Third Grade. OK, Grammar Police, why is the word “farter” getting the red squiggle line bullshit from Word? There is something wrong in a world where farter isn’t an actual approved word.

I think I was nine years old when my Gram first taught me to fart a song. It was Chop Stix, and she first taught me the left hand part, and then the right. We would practice together for hours as I helped around the place with the chores.

I just noticed that my grandmother’s name is way too close to the word grammar for my comfort. In fact, if old Teddy Kennedy was still alive he’d likely call her “Grammer”[.]

My mother was a school teacher before she retired and she lived her life as a school marm. Still does for that matter. Every night at the supper table we’d get the question: “Well, children, what did you learn today?” Every… fucking… night we’d get that same question.

Have you ever noticed how some people never learn?

I always let Sister go first, and not just because she was a girl. My little sis is smart and has maybe the driest sense of humor west of the Mississippi. She could answer the question and drop a load of shit at Mother’s feet that wouldn’t start stinking until after dinner. We’d be washing and drying the dishes at the sink and Mother would be sitting at the table with her little paperback book of daily prayers.

I always washed and Sister would dry, and the adults would sit there to the table doing adult stuff. We didn’t have the giant table that sits there now, it was a boxy rectangle of cedar planks that Daddy and Granddad made from trees cleared to make a garden. I gave that table to Dr. Sam I.-Am-Johnson when she moved out because she loved it so much.

OK, my ADHD is firing on all cylinders. If I don’t get my brain puppies back in their box we’ll have ourselves a major distraction.

We’d be at the sink, Sister and I, and Mother would be reading her silly daily prayer book. I hated that book, as Mother would read that crap to me and act like it was God’s words written for me, and to make me miserable. Sister would be nudging me in the side with her elbow, and giggling, dishwater dripping off her hands. After a few minutes we’d hear a, “Huh?” then a gasp followed by a deep sigh, and then, “Sister, you go stand in your bathroom with the Ivory soap in your mouth until I tell you to take it out.”

Sister and I both have a thing for Ivory soap. I think that’s why I like menudo so much.

This one night Mother asks what I had learned that day, and so Gram and I farted a Chop Stix duet. It was only slightly out of tune and we kept a pretty good rhythm together. I eventually learned to be a pretty good fart singer. Not nearly as good as those guys on the Howard Stern Show—I can’t do Led Zepplin or The Star Spangled Banner—but I could do a mean Poppa’s Got A Brand New Bag, You Ain’t Nothin’ But A Hound Dog and one of J.P. Sousa’s marches. I don’t remember the name now, but one of the popular ones.

Holy shit am I scattered. What I’m trying to bitch about is that I have lost all of my farting skills. The loss is a side effect of the lower peritoneal infection I had, and the treatments and operations required to rid me of it. Ever since I had my ass operation just over a year ago, my farts all fall flat on their faces. It’s very sad.

When I complained last night, Gram said to me, she said, “Oh quit cher bitchin’, Mooner. At least ya ain’t shittin’ in one a them Costco bags like old Mr. Hancock over to tha church. Tha air never does clear around that man.”

She was, of course, right, I don’t need colostomy bags. But I can’t even fart Mary Had A Little Lamb anymore. I can only fart a single, B-Flat note that’s as interesting as it sounds. And I have to be very careful when I crank one loose because I can usually keep my gas in, but I can’t control the stopping once started. Whatever gas I have will escape when the valve is opened. I’m actually quite distressed over this.

I went to see Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson this afternoon to talk to her about my trip. I started the conversation talking about my farting issues and the next thing I know, she’s got me considering forgiving the man who raped me as a child. My ex-wife and therapist can be such a bitch. She said to me, she said, “How can you forgive the man who murdered your grandmother for what he did and not forgive the man who molested you?”

“Easy,” I said, “the poor guy who killed Mother’s mother was crazy. He couldn’t help himself.”

“So…?” Dr. Strange Cure drawled the question like she was saying the longest word in the English language. What the hell is that word?

“Wait a fucking minute. Are you telling me it’s the same dealie? Are you saying that the Boy Scout leader who raped me couldn’t help it?”

I fucking hate psycho therapy. I’m starting to think that today’s addled brain farts are due to me considering Sammie’s question. Could that asshole have prevented himself from doing what he did to me? Could it be that he was raped himself and therefore had the predisposition to do it to me?

Son.. of… a… BITCH! I don’t WANT TO FOR-FUCKING-GIVE him.

Fuck, fuck and fuckeldy-fuck! I need a Carta Blanca beer. Manana, y’all.

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Mooner Matures; Not A Rick (The Prick) Perry Story

Sunday, October 2nd, 2011


So. I realized last night that I am becoming a much more mature man. I’m getting older as well—not a proud moment of self awareness—but my previous remark was addressing my personal growth factors as they would be evaluated by my psycho therapist.

“Wow, Mooner, you are actually showing some signs of maturity,” Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson remarked at my Friday afternoon session. “To recognize that you have no boundaries shows real growth.”

We were discussing my having been seen peeing in the sink down to Austin City Hall. I was there to discuss several issues with a Councilmember and also to say “Hello” to my fifth ex-wife and policewoman extrordinaire, Roshandra Washington-Johnson. Roshandra was the first of my two Robin Quivers look-alike wives. Robin is Howard Stern’s ebony-skinned sidekick and a beautiful woman.

Not that this hasn’t happened before, I mean I pee in the sink at City Hall and some asshole sees me and demands to have me arrested. First of all, sink pissing is not against the law—I’ve done all the research—and second of all, if you want me arrested you need to find someone other than my fifth ex-wife to do the honors. Roshandra has only arrested me once in all of the times the demand has been made, and that was in error.

So, in therapy I was telling Dr. Sam that I felt that I was not taking Roshandra’s situation into consideration when I peed in the sink down there. Since she is the main police protector of City Hall, I should know that it will be she (her?) who (whom?) is required to address my perceived indiscretions.

Therefore, I have decided to check-in with Roshandra before I pee at City Hall to be sure she’s not too busy to deal with the silly shitballs who don’t approve of my bathroom habits. And saving water with sink-peeing is my habit.

Which reminds me. If I’m ever going to set a water-saving trend with my personal habit, I decided that I needed to expand my experience and repertoire. I am learning to multi-task sink pee, ambi- and no- dexterous sink pee, and multi-user sink pee.

My furry four-legged helpers serve as both observers and participants in this endeavor. Maybe I should say these endeavors. Firstly, I have learned to pee while: pecker holding right, left and no-handed; brushing my teeth; flossing my teeth; shaving; trimming the hair in my nose ( I’m still squirting the mirror while trimming my ears); examining the adult rosacea that punishes me for having had clear skin as a teen; applying deodorant, rosacea cream, and Tuscany cologne (on those rare occasions when I have a date); and as I clean my glasses.

I always clean my glasses as an integral aspect of my preparatory compulsions to obsessively attempt to control the diversions caused by my ADHD. If I routinize my daily habits it helps keep me on tracks.

Like now.

So far, in the multi-user sink pee category, I’ve managed to get the Squirt, Honor the cat and myself all urinating simultaneously in the same sink. We’re trying to get Yoda worked into the plan, but he takes up too much sink bowl circumference because as a boy dog, he has to stand sideways to get his lifted-leg side over the sink.

Squirt and Honor back up and hang their adorable little tushies over the edge and let her rip. With the two of them I just need to pay attention. I hang my pecker over the rim and lay it on the bowl surface to prevent splashing.

But we’ll figure a way to get Yoda worked in. We’re working on a strap-on device for him.

Anyway, today is pro football day. We’re filling the cooler with Carta Blanca beer and going fishing first. Manana, y’all.

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Haven At Downwardspiralintothevortex: Mooner’s Hero

Saturday, September 17th, 2011


So. I was up early this incredible Saturday morning because the newest addition to the Mooner Johnson Pet Emporium And Nut House awakened me a dozen times before three am. The soon-not-to-be-called Pi, a cute little shitball dressed in basic white fur with big splashes of multi-hued spots, needed to go outside every half-hour. Since he shits each time he pees, I can’t train him to go pee in the sink. That means a trip to the outside grass with each awakening.

I’d like to be bitchy about this predicament, but I can’t. The little guy… wait a minute, he needs to go out again….

As I was saying, this precious little bundle of Chihuahua blended with Jack Russell terrier was born a captive in a puppy mill up to Oklahoma. Fucking asswipe Baptist shitballs kept him locked in a filthy cage for his entire first year.

I just noticed how similar the word terrier is to terror, not a coincidence, I’m starting to think.

After maybe the eighth trip outside with the dog, I first decided to start cuting him off the Carta Blanca beer at 8:00 pm, and second to sit at my computer and troll the Webber and see what was going on in Bloggie World. I cruised around until I got over to Brandini’s place at My Own Private Idaho—a spot you can acquire by clicking over there -} on my Bloggie Roller.

While there, I read his funny take on his laptop, the one where he thinks it has a clitoris, and then I read through the comments. One was from Haven, and reading her comment gave me a sort of kinetic jolt. Actually, I had no reason to know Haven was a she (her?) except for the jolt. So I clicked onto her name and visited her site.

Have you ever noticed what an incredible array of magnificent creatures lay at your feet with the simple clicking of a mouse button? I fought computers for twenty years, treating them as nothing more than pet rocks with TV screens. Hell, I didn’t even learn how to use a keyboard until I started writing my book three years ago.

Now, with a little push of button that clicks its approval of your actions, you can find an entire world of interesting people. Like Haven.

Haven appears to be afflicted with Borderline Personality Disorder—the psycho therapy industry’s holy grail. OK, that might be the absolute worst analogy I have ever made. Let me try again by quoting Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, my psycho therapist and first-of-ten ex-wives. I am quoting her to you from a session I had when I was in preparations to marry my sixth wife, a borderline woman.

“Mooner, have you thought this all the way through?” Sam asked.

“Oh, you know me, Sammie, I give all important decisions the same thoughtful considerations,” I answered.

“That’s exactly what concerns me, Mooner. Do you understand the we psychotherapy professionals—psychiatrists, social workers and psychologists all three—consider persons with Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD) to be our third-degree burn patients. They are the hardest to reach and help.”

“I think I can grasp that concept,” I told my personal therapist. “But with my ADHD and obsessive compulsions, won’t we have a yin-yang dealie going on?”

“Clueless,” Sammie said. “Mooner, you are totally fucking clueless.”

But we were a good match half the time. I have never had such a wonderfully terrifying time in my life. Sufferers of BPD often have difficulty relating to the world around them, and depression and self-harming habits are common. Our divorce was a forgone conclusion before we even met. I was working on my crazinesses in therapy but she couldn’t stand to look in her mirrors. Literally or figuratively.

I’ve gotten better, somewhat. She simply spent more time with BPD. I won’t tell you anything more about her or our time together except to say it was unfortunate.

But to read Haven’s bloggie was a wonderful experience. She is looking in her mirrors with both eyes wide open and telling the world what she sees. I am in awe of her. Go check her out at: and visit the incredibly strong woman there.

Speaking of awe, the awful football team that was the 2010 Texas Longhorns seems to have morphed into something more recognizable in the rich colors of orange and white. Our trip to LA to play UCLA will go a long way to confirm that notion.

Or not.

The other UT, the one with white and that ugly-ass orange color, is seemingly making the same kind of turn-around. They have a tougher test today than do my beloved Longhorns, but I’m rooting for Squatlo’s Vols as if they were my own. I’m just going to be required to adjust the color on my TV to watch.

Hopefully both UT’s will come home with big wins. Manana, y’all.

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Crazy Is As Crazy Does; I Need Help

Thursday, June 2nd, 2011


So. Have I told you that I’m crazy? Have I said it enough times for you to understand the full widths and breadths of my lunacies?

The people who maintain close proximity to me in my life all know just how crazy I am. As Gram says it, she’ll say, “Mooner, yur nuttier than a fruit basket.”

I’m nuttier than a fruit cake as well. The last time I was serving some time over to the Shoal Creek Loony Bin Hospital, a visiting intern pulled my chart from the box thingie that sits on the wall outside patients doors, and was reading as she walked into my room. They had just admitted me, and I’m found wrapped in a straight jacket tighter than the frijole paste in a sweet bean tamale, and shackled to the bed at my ankles. I was still half dazed and confused and had a granite-hard woodie poking at the fabric of my “personal confinement apparel”.

The straight jacket, dazed look and manly erection were remnants of a significant zapping by the professional-strength taser wielded by SAC Ellen. The zapping occurred upon my very first meeting with Special Agent in Charge, United States Department of Homeland Security, Ms. Ellen McClellan. You know her as SAC Ellen, or the SACster.

So, this shitwad intern walks into my room reading my chart in the distracted asshole way that medical professionals use to establish pecking order with the patient. They ignore you with great precision as they walk in, attempting to look too busy to be polite. This chart-reading shithead walks in my room reading the chart and holds out her best “one minute please” finger before I can utter a sound. I hate that fucking finger motion. Makes me want to break it off and shove it up their ass.

I think they teach that kind of move in some class at all medical schools. Likely has a name like, “Aloof 101”, or “Shitball Snotty-nosed Doctor Moves” or maybe, “101 Ways to Make Patients More Concerned and Uncomfortable and Want to Choke the Fucking Life Out of You”. That’s where they learn this chart-reading move and learn to say, “you will feel a slight pinch,” and get the lesson on how to snap a pair of rubber gloves as they prepare for a rectal exam.

Fucking assholes.

Anyway, this young woman enters my room reading my chart. She gets maybe seven steps inside the padded walled-and-floored “solitary confinement space” where I’m being warehoused, and she starts laughing. Most people don’t know this, but a padded room has padded floors as well as walls. Sounds are muffled in these rooms so conversations sound like you are having them in a snow covered meadow. She walks in and starts laughing and I ask her, I say, “What’s so funny?”

She pushes the already-pointed “one minute please” finger further towards my face, and keeps laughing. She stops laughing and continues reading, motioning with the finger every few seconds as if to emphasize the importance of what she’s doing, and to remind me of my lack of importance to her work. When she finally finishes reading, she chuckles again and looks at me (at last) and says, “Good morning, Mister ahhhh …” She consults the chart, again, and goes on, “ah, Mister Johnson.”

Then she looks me over and notices my woodie. “My, my, but it is true.”

“What were you finding so funny as you were reading my chart, little lady?” I’m used to getting laughed at, but it’s good to know why. Sometimes I like to adjust my behaviors in the face of ridicule.

“Oh, sir, it would be inappropriate for me to comment on that,” she says. “But I have to ask you, Mister Johnson. Does that thing work?”

Huh? “Wait a fucking minute,” I respond. “It’s OK for you to come into my room laughing your ass of while reading my chart, but you won’t tell me what it is that you find so fucking funny?”

“Don’t curse, Mr. Johnson, I’m only here to help you. But really, is that erection for show purposes only, or can you put it to a better use?”

Wait a minute, and hold on. I have not only digressed the shit out of us, I was also starting to tell you a story that comes from the storyline of my soon to be published book. I can’t tell you the story but I can get to my point. Among other things, the young lady intern was laughing at one of my many diagnoses. She said, this was later after we discussed the taser-induced woodie phenomenon, she said to me, “Well, one of your diagnosis is “He’s a totally crazy and inappropriate fucking redneck’”

“That’s my ex-wife and therapist trying to be funny, young lady.” What else could I say. Sometimes the truth is the only solution.

OK, my ADHD has got my head swimming. I wanted to remind you that I am crazy before I tell you what I did. The thing that ended with me in jail. With the cat and dog. Zapped. The cat and I both got zapped.

Ever seen a cat that’s been hit with a jolt of direct current?

Honor, the zapped cat, is still pissed at me. Squirt, who is acting more like my dog every day, is proud of now having an arrest record. When Jeff, my attorney, sprung us from jail, the Squirt was bouncing around wanting to chest bump everybody. She was trying to do gang signs the guys in the cell next to us taught her, but without opposing thumbs, gang signs are garbled communication.

Me, I blame the cat, but I blame myself for putting the cat in the position to flay the flesh off Catholic Anti-Abortion Protest Lady’s arms. But the sharp-clawed little shit is like me with a tub of cream brulee when it comes to shredding the arms of an attacker. I love cream brulee, and neither of us can stop once started.

I’m so fucking crazy. I know better than to go to Planned Parenthood with my anti-anti-abortion protest signs. It isn’t like this was the first time I’ve been arrested over there.

Thinking on it, maybe I better read up on cat scratch fever. I caught some shredding of my own when I released Honor from the lady’s arm.

Ugh, need Carta Blanca beer. Manana, y’all.

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Please Help Me Name This F’ing Cat

Thursday, May 19th, 2011


So. I’m feeling sort of bluesy. You know what I’m talking about, right? That feeling you get with separation anxiety, or mission’s end. My blues come from finishing my book, but soldiers suffer differently.

They say that many soldiers suffer from the loss of the fear-and-adrenaline-fueled battle action when they return from war. They get home and can’t take the boredom they suffer at the loss of the super-charged environments of war. Home life seems unimportant, insignificant even, to some returning soldiers.

I know of one such man, the son of one of my best compost customers. He might have been the model for the recently-filmed movie, The Hurt Locker. Thirty-year-old guy has already spent most of twelve years in the Army, working as one of those bomb disposal guys shown in the movie. Twelve years of dismantling roadside bombs, unexploded ordinance, land mines and suicide bombers. According to him, many of the suicide bombers are now women and children.

This young man keeps doing a tour, coming home and getting into trouble, and going back to war. He comes home and can’t find the same levels of adrenaline, testosterone and stark fear that the Middle East offers, and he acts out. Bar fights, drunk drag racing– any sort of dangerous behavior he can discover.

His daddy and mother are worried to death, but are helpless. Their son just signed up for another tour of duty. The parents worry that their only child is no longer capable of living without the action of war, and will re-up until war kills him.

With each passing tour, this young man has taken more-and-more dangerous assignments and performed each more dangerously than the last. He’s become such a danger junkie that he can’t seem to get enough life gamble to be satisfied.

The reason I’m mentioning this is because the mental health programs for enlisted and returning soldiers have had their budgets slashed by Congress already, and it appears that more cuts are planned. The same war mongering legislators who supported George W. Bush’s stupid wars now want to punish the brave men and women who volunteered to fight them. These people volunteered and this is how we choose to reward them.

Welcome home, soldier. Now shut up and find a job if you can.

Which reminds me. Reckmonster, a mental health treatment specialist for veterans, has made the suggestion that I rename Eighty-three the cat “Oprah” since Oprah is excepted by the spell checker dealie in my word processor. I want to do that because I am working hard to weasel my way into her heart. And her panties.

But I’m passing on Oprah at the risk of personal loss because Oprah isn’t this cat’s name. Can’t explain it, it’s simply so. See, names are a big deal to me and my family. Think about it.

Every important person in my life has a name that is characterlogical of their personality. And if characterlogical isn’t a word, I don’t give a shit. It states word-perfectly my intent, so Word Perfect can stick it up its ass.

Start with my name, Mooner. I earned that moniker because I will drop my pants and show you my ass at any time. Streaker Jones is a streaker– a buck-ass naked runner. The Squirt is just that, a little drop of dog with a big personality. Dixie is a southern belle of a dog– graceful and mannerly. Dixie’s grandmother was Trixie, and that fucking dog got me into more trouble as a kid than I ever found on my own.

Sister is my sister, her wife Anna the Amazon is a giant and beautiful woman, and Mother, my mother, is a martyr. Gram, my grandmother’s name, says it all, and her best friend is the P-cubed. That would be P-cubed, given name Penelope Paxton-Parades. And Woozie Wozniak, Sheriff, and my assistant, Gnat, and so on.

Names for people just pop into my head. Like for Texas governor Rick Perry. My name for him is Prick Perry. Also, That Giant Flaming Fuckball Prick Perry. Asshole right-wing Christian Republican shitwad.

Fuck Prick Perry.

But having said all of that, I’m perplexed with this fucking cat. Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson has decided she won’t take the cat off my hands until I find her a new name. Sammy taking the cat is the final condition to be met in my obtaining the Squirt as my actual my puppy.

So everybody, please help me name the cat. I know some of you are cat people and I need your help. Pretty please.

Drink Carta Blanca beer in a responsible manner, and I’ll see you manana, y’all.

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Zeig Freud! My Cognitive Behaviors Were Punished

Saturday, March 5th, 2011


So. Let me start this bloggie posting by making the following disclaimer:


“I am not a licensed, trained physician nor am I a highly educated and skilled social worker with mad psycho therapeutic skills. I have no relevant classroom training save and except college psychology courses (taken as part of my courtship of the lovely Samanta Ignatious Amorgeretti, aka Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson).

What I do have are: thirty years of usually intensive psycho analysis, numerous stays of various lengths at Shoal Creek Mental Hospital, countless research projects and thousands of hours of conversation with psycho therapists.

No animals were harmed in the production of the following opinion.”


OK, so let’s get to it, shall we?

I think that classical Freudian analytical psycho therapy is basically a big pile of dog shit.

There, I said it. “Arf, arf [sound of doggie grunts] {sound of doggie kicking grass and dirt and stuff over a fresh, smoldering pile} arf,” dog wags tail and looks expectantly at owner.

As commonly practiced on American society, Freudian analytical therapy is dog shit.

The reason I say this is that, IN MY PERSONAL OPINION, most therapists who utilize Heir Doctor Freud’s methodologies are using them to treat themselves in the guise of treating innocent patients.

Said another way, most psycho therapists are nut cases in their own rights and the nutty-most are the ones who practice longterm analytical therapies. What happens, again in my humble opinion, is one of those Alfred Hitchcock double twister plot thingies that I’ll call “reverse/inverse transference”.

Transference inversely reversed. Instead of the client (therapists call us “clients” except for when we’re “in hospital” at which time we become “patients”) taking on the therapist’s traits or falling in love with the therapist, the therapist falls in love with the client’s situation. Then the therapist attempts to heal him/herself through watching the client struggle through years of intensive and expensive sessions.

In their defense, analytical therapists will tell you that only when you delve deep-deep-deep into a client’s subconscious will you get to the “actual” cause of their troubles. They will tell you that you must slowly, carefully and painstakingly peel the layers of the client’s onion to expose and TALK TO DEATH any feelings that come up. They will tell you that their method is the only way any person can get well and that EVERY person needs to get well.

Bullshit! Sorry, dogshit! I need to maintain my literary consistencies.

Except for the exceptionally loony, longterm Freudian psycho therapy is good for nobody except the therapist. When I started my therapy sessions thirty years ago, Freud was the only real game in town. In my very first session, it was revealed that I felt my craziness was caused by the combination of having a killer case of the ADHD and the simple fact that I was raped by my Baptist Boy Scout leader as a child.

Flash forward to today and guess what my problems are?

Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson traded in her Freudian slip for the cognitive approach years ago. She soon determined that helping crazy people adjust to life by working through problems is a far better treatment plan than reducing the client to his primal scream stage. We don’t all need to regress all the way back into the womb to figure out why we’re nuts. Every parent stares their babies naked body for shitsakes. Babies are naked for a very large portion of the time.

But therapists who still cling to Freud’s now archaic practice methods do so with tenacity. They look down their noses at cognitive behavioral therapists. Cognitive behavior therapists help clients identify thoughts and actions that make them feel badly or act badly, and then guide them through options to adjust thinking and changes habits.

Now you might be asking, “Mooner, my man, what is up with this?”

“Simple,” I say. “Last night at dinner I got slapped by an analytical therapist.”

No need to detail it, but I got fed up with this nice lady’s long-winded verbal tribute to Ziggy Freud. At Carta Blanca beer number five I’d had a belly full of it. When the lady made a particularly stupid tribute, I jumped up, clicked my heels together, snapped-out a flat-palmed salute and exclaimed, “Zeig Freud, Zeig Freud, Zeig Freud!”

Likely, I needed the slap. Likelier still, she needs to read this. I happen to know that she is one of my many “closet readers”. Her husband told me.

Manana, y’all.

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Hocus Pocus, I Got My Focus; Kurt Vonnegut At Fault

Friday, March 4th, 2011


So. I’ve had another Ah-ha! Moment, another epiphany if you will allow me a little literary latitude. I have uncovered the root causal impetus for my recent ADHD melt-down.

Starting last Friday night, a week ago, I started fritzing. Fritzing is when my normal jumble of thoughts and unfocused action/reaction responses to stimuli become super agitated. Imagine the million of so sperm hanging out in a man’s ball sack and nether regions when he has a sexual thought. All the little swimmers are down there in a state of high alertness, crammed together with little wiggle room for each.

If you looked at the little buggars through a microscope, you would see some activity and you could sense the pent-up tension, but most of the spermies are docile and but a few are agitated and seeking attention.

That’s the thoughts in my normal ADHD-addled brain. Like all of the many sperm (sperms?) in a nut sack, my thoughts are simultaneously abundant in population and with only several fighting for the attention of my focus.

Brain fritz is when the entire reservoir of my thoughts start pushing to the forefront of my conscious mind. Imagine of sack full of sperm after they just got the message to, “Prepare for launch!”

That would be my ADHD-addled brain on the fritz.

In a speech to her colleagues some years back, Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson described my thoughts as follows, “In this particular adult male patient I can best describe my feelings as his therapist by telling you it is like working with a bathtub full of red wiggler worms. My attempts to find a tangible line of treatment is akin to identifying the fattest worm in the tub.”


But she’s right. Brain fritz is awful. Identifying it’s root causes is satisfying. And because last week’s episode of fritz was significant, having discovered the cause is most gratifying.

Last Friday, I picked up Kurt Vonnegut’s masterpiece Hocus Pocus. Since its first printing in 1990, I have read it maybe thirty times. My copy’s pages are stained and well worn from my readings.

Since 1990, I have had approximately thirty incidences of major league brain fritz. I didn’t put this together until last night when I picked up the book to start where I left off last Friday, when I went off the deep end.

I got maybe two sections into my rereading before my brain started misfiring. If you don’t know Hocus Pocus, Kurt uses a unique writing style wherein he compartmentalizes thoughts into segments– most short and some longer sections, and then he organizes the sections, which are segregated in the book.

The segments dance from subject-to-subject and bounce around in time. This book it written like I think. All helter-skelter and hocus pocus.

When I told Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson about this in my regular therapy session, she says to me, she says, “Wow Mooner, now you know what it’s like for those of us who must put up with you.”

I told you she’s a bitch.

“Bitch,” I called her.

“Look, you are catching additional ADD from the book in the same way we catch ADHD from you. Your contagious ADHD is contagious to you.”

Then she starts laughing maniacally.


Basically, it seems that I’m allergic to myself when I encounter behavior patterns that mimic my brain. How fucking sick is that?

But I caught the problem early and knowing it was caught has limited damages. I’m feeling really good. Reckmonster is getting back into the dating scene and I want to help her. I think she needs to have all of her potential dates get on the Skype machine with me and do an interview. I need to assist her in weeding that garden.

Holy shit do I feel good. I’mma have myself a frosty cold Carta Blanca beer.

Manana, y’all.

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#ADDA: Mooner For President

Saturday, December 11th, 2010


So. I have recently become aware of the group known as #ADDA, which is short for Attention Deficit Disorder Association. Their motto is, “Helping adults with AD/HD lead better lives.”

At least I think you’d call it a motto. Maybe it’s important enough to be their creed. Of course, it might also be unimportant in the greater scheme of things and simply be a saying.

Anyway, I went to their website and blog and found E-stuff that shows a high degree of organization and professionalism. You could see the attention to detail, how they stayed with their style and the lack of typographical errors.

My antennas started twitching instantaneously.

For starters, the hyphen they place between the AD and the HD is the telltale sign of a mental health professional. I could recognize their tracks if I was blindfolded and had my hands tied behind my back. Like when you find bear shit in the woods you can be reasonably certain that a bear was there. It is possible that some silly fuckball moved a pile of bear shit just to screw with people, but I find that highly unlikely.

I mean really– will you find enough people who can distinguish between a pile of bear shit, and say a load dropped by a guy looking for bear shit to pick up and move to fake people out, to have a large enough census to make it worth the effort? Not many piles of fake bear shit.

As for calling the ADHD “AD/HD”, we chronic sufferers will never separate our deficits from our disorder. Won’t do it. Hell, I can’t do it.

Mental health professionals, on the other hand, have no trouble with attempting to break the bonds that bind us up. People like Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, my ex-wife and psycho therapist. She absolutely hates it when I separate her psychos from their therapy, my favorite joke, but she gains a certain relish from hyphenating my malady.


I asked Sammy about ADDA in my Saturday emergency session this morning. “They are quite well respected in my community, Mooner. They can, and have, helped thousands of AD/HD sufferers lead better lives.” Then she added, “That’s their motto.”

I guessed that one right. “But it’s not run by ADHDites, it’s a bunch of mental health professionals. They need to feature stuff from crazy people so they can better relate to us.”

“Look, Mooner,” she started, “don’t get revved up over this. It’s not your fight.”

When I looked away, she showed some awareness on her face– the look I get when she’s caught me up to something. “Mooner, what are you planning?”

“Nothing,” I said. “I’m just thinking of who all I need to get holiday presents for. What with all of the Christians and Jews and Muslims and Buddhists in my life, I don’t feel right calling it Christmas any more.”

Now I get the stern look that says, “You are fucking with me, Mooner.”

“Are you fucking with me, Mooner?” she asks.

“You’re right,” I tell her. “I should have said I was thinking of all the persons for whom I need to get presents.”

“Mooner, I’m warning you.”

I look away and don’t answer again.

“Mooner, do I need to lock you up to keep you out of trouble until Christmas?”

When I don’t answer this time she says to me, she says, “You know Shoal Creek Mental Hospital s number 2 on my speed dial.” To underscore her point, she picks up her handset and points a prettily-manicured finger at the 2 on her dial.

I have always liked her hands. She’s small-boned anyway, but her hands have always been delicate– long and sexy. Today she’s got Santa Claus red nail polish tipping each nail. She’s never lost a fingernail so she can get them very sharp. I still have daydreams about when we were married and she would scratch my back.

“Mooner!!! Answer me!!!” With this, she touches the magic 2 on her dial.

“Fine,” I say. “I was just thinking about a hostile takeover of the ADDA.”

Now what I’ve got looking at me are twin laser beams tracking from normally beautiful hazel eyes. “Oh for crap sakes. Leave them alone, Mooner. Promise me you will leave them alone.”

“Fine,” I say again. “But I’m going to run for office of something.”

“No, you are not. In fact don’t you even join the ADDA except under my direct supervision.”

“Bitch,” I say to myself.

“I may be a bitch, but you’ll be in a bitch of a mess if you screw with the ADDA.”

“Fine,” I say one more time. “But I’m not making any more promises.”

“And that’s fine with me. Now, let’s talk about your problems,” my therapist says.

“Well, how about I start with the obnoxious bitch that I pay to assist me with my mental health issues. The over-priced, pushy bitch one.” I am a seriously funny guy.

“Oops, sorry Mooner. Your time is up.”

Actually, I’m releived because I have a busy day. I rise from my chair and she adds, “Oh, by the way. Did I tell you that I’m now charging $480 per hour for Saturday emergency sessions?”

“Bitch.” It was all I had in me.

I need a Carta Blanca beer. Manana, y’all.

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Big Girls Don’t Snore; Big Girls Don’t Snore; Big Girls Don’t Snore

Thursday, December 9th, 2010


So. The women in my life snore, as do the two barnyard animals hiding in my closet. Last night, SAC Ellen slept over to the ranch, and since the Squirt was translating a news release from English into Swahili, she stayed over as well.

I grilled some bison for dinner and we had that with new potatoes that the SACster made, cool weather lettuce from the winter garden, and a butternut squash soup that Streaker Jones brought. It was the first time I have seen Streaker Jones and my dog, Dixie, for a few days. As Dixie says, “I’m simply too old to spend all day with you, Mooner. I’m old, I’m tired and I’m sick of your shit.”

That doesn’t bother me at all. First off, I can handle rejection better than gasoline salesman in Hell. Second, Dixie doesn’t mean any of that nonsense. She has simply fallen in love with all things spore. She’s assisting Streaker Jones with his spore research.

What does kind of piss me off is that I know she has started talking to Streaker Jones directly, you know– not using me as an interpreter. They both deny it but it has to be true. I spent the last fifteen years trying to get her to speak to someone besides me and she refuses. Now that she does, I’m pissed.

Go figure. I justify my anger with the fact that they both deny it. Sounds like a psycho therapy subject to me.

Anyway, dinner was a spot-on success all the way around. Have you ever eaten bison? Try it.

We played some poker after dinner for nickel-dime-quarter and I won about thirty bucks. I bet SAC Ellen a back rub of choice on this one hand and won that too. So, when we get ready for bed, I tell the Squirt that she needs to find something to occupy herself with for an hour or so.

“Porque?, Senor Mooner. What’s up?”

“None of your beeswax, Squirt,” I told her. “I’ll call you when it’s bedtime.”

SAC Ellen says, “You stay right where you are little girl. Mooner’s getting a back rub and nothing else.”

“But I won the rub of my choice,” I started.

“You’ve lost your mind if you press me on this, buster. I’m tired and have an early day.”

Squirt always sleeps with me when she stays over. I love having her little soft and furry carcass in the bed. She burrows herself deep under the covers and goes to my feet, where she starts scratching the sheet like she’s digging to China. She’ll lie down against my feet when she first goes to sleep and then she works her way up my side throughout the night.

At precisely 4:20 am, she’s laying on my arm, or in the crux of my arm if I’m on my side, in a classic spooning pose. At precisely 5 am, she turns over and starts staring at me from maybe two inches away. You can see her thinking, “It’s time for the dog to eat. Please feed me!!!”

Sometimes I think I can hear her telepathically, and the conversation always escalates to her speaking out loud. Cutest shit you ever saw.

Anyway, I guess the entire household of tenants and guests alike have got the cedar fever. Cedar fever is like the flu except it’s a pollen-based malady. Plugs up you nose and makes breathing difficult, which encourages snoring. At 3:30 I’m still awake, tossing and turning in an effort to block out the noise. Squirt snores just like a human except quietly, and cutely. She really is adorable.

Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry are loud and obnoxious snorers, but I have gotten accustomed to the racket my pig and ostrich make as they spoon in my closet. It really is sweet how they snuggle together, and I don’t have the heart to break them up.

SAC Ellen is my real problem. She snores like a Sumo wrestler, has the reflexes of a cat, and she sleeps with a loaded Glock 9mm lightweight under her pillow. The one time I decided to awaken her so I could catch a short break from her snoring was one time too many.

My new technique is to pull the covers off her a little at a time– gentle tugs at the top of the sheet or comforter. After a while, enough of her creamy skin gets exposed that she turns over and tugs back possession of her covers. This has worked until last night.

So. I’m laying there at 3:30 am wearing the armor of frustration that can only be worn by spending five hours trying to sleep with a roomful of snores. SAC Ellen’s cacophony of racket was the straw on my camel– the extra decibels she added to Squirt and the boys in the closet was too much for me. It was like Tchaikovsky’s big, booming Overture in full stereo.

I was starting to think I was going crazy. Instead of gently tugging the down comforter a few inches my direction, to uncover another small patch of luscious breast– I yanked and rolled away from her to my side and uncovered her to the waist.

The snoring stopped. “Dear God,” my prayer of thanks started. “Thank you for…”

Have you ever heard the “snick” noise made by a well-oiled Glock handgun as its operator prepares it to fire?

“Snick,” is what I heard. Then I felt first a tickle of warm breath on my ear that make my privates tingle, followed by the shock of cold metal on my ribs that took all tingle away.

“Why do you keep stealing my covers, Mooner? I told you I’m too tired for sex tonight.”

SAC Ellen had told me she was too tired for sex, but again, I handle rejection like a pro.

“That wasn’t for sex, sweetie, you were snoring and I wanted you to roll over and stop.”

If I ever say that I’m smart or that I have something figured out ever again, would somebody please slap me. After ten failed marriages you would think I’d catch a clue about women. But I did manage to catch some sleep before the Squirt woke me up for her breakfast. I moved into the warm spot SAC Ellen left in the bed and breathed the smells she left behind. I was out in ten seconds.

I’ve already ordered flowers and made an appointment with Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson for a psycho therapy special session. I’ve been needing more special sessions than Congress.

Manana, y’all.

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Psychotherapy Lies Part 2

Monday, December 6th, 2010


So. Psycho therapists will lie to you. Go figure. The sad thing is that I think that most of them believe their bullshit. Like Dr. Sam I. Am.

When she tells me that how I react to getting raped as a child is more important than my having been raped is, I’m choosing to not think of it as a lie. I’m choosing to call it “fuzzy logic of the over educated who mean well”. Let’s call it FLZOEWMW, for short. OK, let’s call it FLMW for shorter still.

Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, MD/PHD and Board Certified head shrinker is a wonderful woman– a woman who managed to stay married to me for twenty years before giving up all hope. She’s loving and caring, and thoughtful and smart, and dedicated to helping all of her patients get better.

She scored in the top ten-percentile in all of her education, and all of her graduate degrees came with highest honors. She’s been voted Best Psychotherapist In Austin by readers of the Austin Chronicle too many times to bother counting, is well respected by her peers and all of that other blah, blah and blah.

But sometimes, she simply doesn’t get the basic structure of a problem. Sometimes she focuses on the curative aspects of a problem and misses the import of the cause and effect parts. This child rape business is a perfect case in point.

My position is simple. If my Boy Scout leader, a respected Deacon of the Baptist church that sponsored my Troop, hadn’t decided to be inappropriate and play house with me on a camping trip, then I would not have spent the rest of my life acting inappropriately in response. Again, a simple concept as I conceptualize.

By the way, I was a member of Troop 69, and that is the absolute God’s truth. I had no idea about any of the 69 sexual references at the time, but I now envision my asshole Scout Leader reveling in that special joy as he relived his escapades.

I’m digressing from my point, again. Point is, no rape– no reaction to rape.

OK, I get the response. I get that if I had found a way to accept the fact that the asshole stuck his dick in my face and then, and in an act of brave humanity forgiven him, I would not act inappropriately because of that event. My inappropriate behavior could be linked to some other causal issue. Like my ADHD. I get all that.

However, I must say, “FLMW!” It’s OK to try to help me feel better and give me a path to healing. But don’t lie to me. It’s just like that other psycho therapist lie. “Your therapy is most effective when it is somewhat painful to pay for the session.”

Who are they kidding with that one? It seems to be tied to the old adage that something is worth what you pay for it, and I know that to be true to a point. But I can tell you this with absolute certainty. The only things I get extra from my new rate of $175/hour as compared to my old $150 rate is heartburn and aggravation. And the desire to break $1,695 crockery. I just picked up the replacement I broke Friday and the price has gone up on that as well.

Potter says to me, he said, “Look Mooner. Maybe you won’t break it if I keep raising the price. These pots are my babies, for shitsakes.”

In my eyes, that’s a dealie wherein the price effects how I feel about the endeavor. This is a case of the reaction having more import than the cause.

Here’s another lie. “You will feel better as soon as you accept yourself.”

Are you fucking kidding me? I accept myself just fine. It’s all those Baptist right-wing Republican shitwads that don’t accept me that gives me the squirts. If those fuckballs would go away, or accept me for who I am, my life would be great.

Or how about this one? “Electro-shock therapy doesn’t hurt.”

Fine, OK, I’m with you. How about we do a quick demo on your shaved torso just to calibrate the equipment. Huh, whadda ya say?

Or this one. “Your lobotomy will be a temporary condition Mr. Bush. It will only last eight years.”

I’m running out of steam. Why don’t you guys tell me your psycho therapy lies and I can get pissed about them. Or maybe if I drink more cold Carta Blanca beers I’ll find a way to accept myself and forgive my transgressor. Manana, y’all.

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Psycho Therapy Sucks; I Need Carta Blanca Beer

Sunday, December 5th, 2010


So. I was required to undergo a Saturday morning psycho therapy session with Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, the punishment phase resulting from my near arrest in the Great Leaf Caper. Squirt and I were unfairly accused, and punished, for returning leaves to the neighbor’s yard after the neighbor’s landscape service crew blew them into Dr. Sam’s yard.

The landscape crew’s actions were in retaliation to a little incident that occurred last May, or June, that involved one of the crewman’s balls and the tiny, sharp teeth that reside in the small, yet amazingly strong jaws of the Squirt.

Anyway, I have felt that my ADHD has been mostly in regression, as my digressions have been fewer and farther between. In fact, the last digression I remember even having was when SAC Ellen and I were in bed one night last week starting sex. I’m unsure what the problem was, but I was deep into foreplay one minute, and sitting in my car at the stoplight there to RR2222 and Balcones the next. I was wondering why I was alone and feeling sexually frustrated.

I punched speed dial for SAC Ellen’s apartment to find out, but all I got was the recorded message. When I got home, I tried again but still no answer, which made me worry. So, I drove back over there to check on her. When I got there, I walked to her front door and there was a note pinned by the doorbell.

Since a situation just like this has happened before, I pulled the note from the door and held it up to the porch light so I could read her message. “Not tonight, you inappropriate shitball. No more sex until you apologize.”

It wasn’t addressed to anyone in particular, but I’m reasonably certain the note was addressing me. When I was back the second time in my car– stopped at the light there to RR2222 and Balcones, my cell phone rang. “Hello,” I answered.

I have always liked “Hello” as a phone greeting. All of that other bullshit is stupid when you answer a personal phone, if you ask me. Why say your name when you answer your own fucking phone?

Anyway, SAC Ellen spent the time it took for me to drive back to the ranch describing precisely what it was I would not be doing with her because I am such an inappropriate shitball.

Which brings me back to my Saturday morning therapy session.

Since I have not been ADHD brain fritzing and doing stupid shit because I digress or fail to pay attention, when Dr. Sam asked me why I fucked up with the entire leaf thingie– I had no readily available answer.

“Would you like a little nudge with this one, Mooner?” she asked me.

Now me, a psycho therapy participant in thousands of sessions held over decades, both in and out of confined mental health facilities, I am always hesitant to respond to a question such as the one now posed.

“Maybe,” I answered.

Of course, Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, my therapist and ex-wife for all of the mentioned decades, feels no need to hesitate the enforcement of a nudge without permission. “Mooner, you are spending so much time talking about the Pope and his silly positions regarding priests’ molesting children. I have been reading that blog business of yours, and I have to tell you that you are acting as if you are consumed with it.”

“Bullshit,” my typical clever retort.

“OK, mister, how many times have you blogged about child molestation?”

I had to think. “Maybe thirty since May,” my best guess.

“I see,” she says– chin in hand, leaning forward with her top crossed leg tapping its foot in the air in a little staccato.

“You don’t see shit,” I told her. “I’m over all of that. I just want to spread the word and maybe help fix the problem.”

“Mooner, how can you be so clueless after all of these years. You won’t ever get over your own molestation until you can fully forgive your molester.”

I just sat there staring into space, burning holes in her wall with what I’m told is my hot-eyed look. She gets this frustrated expression that frequents her face in my sessions, and she says to me, she says, “Look in my eyes Mooner.”

I looked into her eyes. “Like this?” I asked.

“No, silly, like you are going to pay attention and listen to what I say.”

I adjusted my ass in my seat and re-looked into her eyes. “That’s better,” she told me. “Now listen to me. It isn’t the fact that you were raped as a child that has fucked you up so badly. It is how you react to getting raped that fucks things up.”

Huh? I’m sure that I must have heard this before since having been raped as a child is a recurring theme in my therapy. I can’t trace thought to memory. “That’s a lie,” I said.

I stood up from my chair and this time I shouted. “That’s a fucking lie. No bomb, no godammed explosion. So fuck you!”

As I stormed out of her office, I grabbed a vase from its pedestal and crashed it on the floor. This action will cost me another $1,575.00 plus tax tacked on to my $175.00 session bill. I know the precise cost of the vase because I buy them often. I’m on a first-name basis with the potter.

I’ve been thinking about the lie my psycho therapist told me and I’m now thinking that she lies often. I’ll drink a few Carta Blanca beers and write down some more therapist lies.

Manana, y’all.

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Squirt Sets Mooner Straight; Train Later Derails

Saturday, November 20th, 2010


So. I had plans to take all of the women in my close circle of life to dinner. Each Friday before Thanksgiving, I try to make a display of my appreciation for a years-worth their patience and support. This Friday-before-turkey-day event has become a special occasion that I look forward to with keen anticipation.

The whole thing started as an offshoot of my psycho therapy sessions a few years ago. “Mooner, you crazy fuckball, you have got to learn how to demonstrate your appreciation to a woman in some way other than to marry her.” Then Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, my first ex-wife and psycho therapist, said to me, “And that drunken speech at the dinner table last Thanksgiving is not what I mean.”

Anyway, it seemed fitting that were I to pick the Friday before, I could sap some energy from the sentiments of Thanksgiving and shore-up any weaknesses in my program. It has turned into a huge success. I get to shake my Etch-A-Sketch to a clean slate just before the holidays, leaving lots of room for me to scratch my trail of accidental indiscretions.

I was planning where to take the girls this year when Squirt and I were hanging basil plants in the root cellar. We have a separate section for hanging herbs as opposed to the area for other things. We dry our herbs without roots to keep the dirt from contaminating the drying leaves. It’s almost impossible to wash dried herb leaves. Not that I haven’t tried.

Anyway, I asked Squirt, “Where would you like to go to dinner Miss Squirt? This will be your first Mooner Appreciates Women dinner. You want to choose?”

Just asking the question gets me all the display of appreciation I need from Squirt. She’s running in little figure eights, wagging her tail maniacally. She looks like a wind-up toy with an over-tight spring.

“Oh, Mien Gott, Bwana Mooner. Que me dijo choose le cafe?”

“Of course you can choose. That’s a way I can show you how much I appreciate you.” Might as well start early, right?

When Squirt does her serious thinking, the thinking you’d call contemplation, she sits with her head cocked sideways and closes her eyes. Her breathing slows and becomes a series of deep sighs. Like what you do when you go to sleep. Her one untethered ear flaps and flops like the damaged wing of a spastic bird. She is a seriously cute little shit.

I did finally get bored with watching all of the cute thinking and went back to work. I was checking the status of the dried, smoked jalapeño peppers when Squirt came out of her trance.

“I got it. Auf gehts zur Vivo. Everyone likes their margaritas.”

“I know,” I told her. “But still no Carta Blanca beer.”

She gives me her best stern look and tells me it’s not about me. She’s right.

“You are correcta-mundo, my little mixed-breed bundle of wonderment. Let’s drink our Carta Blanca now.”

We did, and that would be when everything started to unravel. Manana, y’all.

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