Archive for the ‘Psychotherapy’ Category

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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.”

Bitch.

“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.

Hoo-yaa.

“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.”

Bitch.

“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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Posted in A Life Lesson, ADHD, Carta Blanca Beer, FullRisingMooner, Psychotherapy | 5 Comments »

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:

http://www.downwardspiralintothevortex.blogspot.com/ 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.”

Bitch.

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.

“Bitch.”

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.

Bitch.

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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Unintended Serialization; Dilemma’s Double Indemnity- Part Two

Wednesday, November 17th, 2010

 

So. Don’t you hate when someone tells you all of the joke except for the punchline? I know it pisses me off to the max. Same thing when someone serializes a simple story, dragging-out the payoff by separating it into several unsatisfying chunks.

Like what I did to you yesterday.

I didn’t fuck with you on purpose. I swear to god it was an accident, and caused by my ever vigilant ADHD. If I could focus with the same intensity as my ADHD, I’d be king.

I had every intention to provide closure to my dichotomous dilemma story, but I let my randy grandmother’s sex needs get in the way. Hell, if I could focus with the same intensity as Gram gives sex, I’d at least be the Prince. Or Baron or maybe Viceroy.

Speaking of the Prince, can you believe that Princess Diana’s little boy is getting married? When I look at his father, I am truly surprised that either of those boys could learn to tie their own shoes. Must be they got their mother’s brains and her good looks too. Imagine if they had both looks and the brain of their dad. Oooo-gaa!

Anyway, my point yesterday about the postings here to the bloggie having multiple typographical mistakes and just plain sloppy prose was to be this– I am incapable of posting my best work topically and voluminously, simultaneously.

Add to that my need to write down as many thoughts as I can, and you can see the compounding effects I suffer. I receive benefit from spilling my thoughts from my brain into the computer. Ridding my mind of this trash takes the pressure off my frontal lobe, allowing me better reasoned thoughts and decisions. But I simply can’t sacrifice quality for quantity and get rid of enough from my scrambled brain.

I’m not that good. I admit it. I am not a highly-skilled, trained writer. What I am is a crazy, opinionated, left-leaning sufferer of the ADHD, who has enough thoughts in his head at any given time to plot a dozen novels.

That said, I understand that some are turned off by my errors and won’t follow me. If I could fix it, I would. But, to perspecterate this dealie and give you a differing view to study, think about this. On the tenth rewrite of my book, I found a mistake on the first line of the first page of text. The error was that the word “I” should have been “I’m”.

And understand that I proofread each sitting’s writings maybe a dozen times before hitting the “SAVE” button. That means that I missed that mistake at least twenty-five times.

That’s how bad I am at details and focusing. In order to shear most of the mistakes from my postings, I’d be printing today’s written words in maybe July 2012. When it would finally be best-done, or wellest done, it would still likely have a boo-boo, or two. Maybe that should be most weller-done.

But, before I brain fritz and forget the punchline again, here’s the deal. I will reward your grammar-fication of my postings by giving a free book to the person who first calls attention to my mistakes. I’m not talking about any words that you might think I made up, I mean grammatical errors, bad punctuating or sentences not making sense because I left a word out. Silly shit like that.

When you catch me, be the first to post a comment to the bloggie, and email me so I’ll have your contact info. Soon as the book is out, I’ll get one to you.

I told Dr. Sam I. Am about my plan in this morning’s psycho therapy session. She said to me, she says, “Mooner, you dumbass. You’ll spend all of your book’s profits on free books and shipping charges.”

She thought that would discourage me, but that was the first time she had admitted that I might make any profits from my book, so I see that as progress. “Fuck you, Sammie,”I told her. “You’re just jealous that my book will be in print before yours.”

“Did I tell you that I’m raising your session rates to $200.00 per hour?” she asked with a little heat and ire-rosed cheeks.

“Oh, who gives a shit, Sammy?” I responded. “My book’s gonna make me rich.”

Squirt was waiting for me in the reception room, and we’re going out to El Azeteca, there to East 7th Street. We’re meeting Streaker Jones and Dixie are meeting us for some cabrito, menudo and cold Carta Blanca beers.

Manana, y’all. 

So. Don’t you hate when someone tells you all of the joke except for the punchline? I know it pisses me off to the max. Same thing when someone serializes a simple story, dragging-out the payoff by separating it into several unsatisfying chunks.

Like what I did to you yesterday.

I didn’t fuck with you on purpose. I swear to god it was an accident, and caused by my ever vigilant ADHD. If I could focus with the same intensity as my ADHD, I’d be king.

I had every intention to provide closure to my dichotomous dilemma story, but I let my randy grandmother’s sex needs get in the way. Hell, if I could focus with the same intensity as Gram gives sex, I’d at least be the Prince. Or Baron or maybe Viceroy.

Speaking of the Prince, can you believe that Princess Diana’s little boy is getting married? When I look at his father, I am truly surprised that either of those boys could learn to tie their own shoes. Must be they got their mother’s brains and her good looks too. Imagine if they had both looks and the brain of their dad. Oooo-gaa!

Anyway, my point yesterday about the postings here to the bloggie having multiple typographical mistakes and just plain sloppy prose was to be this– I am incapable of posting my best work topically and voluminously, simultaneously.

Add to that my need to write down as many thoughts as I can, and you can see the compounding effects I suffer. I receive benefit from spilling my thoughts from my brain into the computer. Ridding my mind of this trash takes the pressure off my frontal lobe, allowing me better reasoned thoughts and decisions. But I simply can’t sacrifice quality for quantity and get rid of enough from my scrambled brain.

I’m not that good. I admit it. I am not a highly-skilled, trained writer. What I am is a crazy, opinionated, left-leaning sufferer of the ADHD, who has enough thoughts in his head at any given time to plot a dozen novels.

That said, I understand that some are turned off by my errors and won’t follow me. If I could fix it, I would. But, to perspecterate this dealie and give you a differing view to study, think about this. On the tenth rewrite of my book, I found a mistake on the first line of the first page of text. The error was that the word “I” should have been “I’m”.

And understand that I proofread each sitting’s writings maybe a dozen times before hitting the “SAVE” button. That means that I missed that mistake at least twenty-five times.

That’s how bad I am at details and focusing. In order to shear most of the mistakes from my postings, I’d be printing today’s written words in maybe July 2012. When it would finally be best-done, or wellest done, it would still likely have a boo-boo, or two. Maybe that should be most weller-done.

But, before I brain fritz and forget the punchline again, here’s the deal. I will reward your grammar-fication of my postings by giving a free book to the person who first calls attention to my mistakes. I’m not talking about any words that you might think I made up, I mean grammatical errors, bad punctuating or sentences not making sense because I left a word out. Silly shit like that.

When you catch me, be the first to post a comment to the bloggie, and email me so I’ll have your contact info. Soon as the book is out, I’ll get one to you.

I told Dr. Sam I. Am about my plan in this morning’s psycho therapy session. She said to me, she says, “Mooner, you dumbass. You’ll spend all of your book’s profits on free books and shipping charges.”

She thought that would discourage me, but that was the first time she had admitted that I might make any profits from my book, so I see that as progress. “Fuck you, Sammie,”I told her. “You’re just jealous that my book will be in print before yours.”

“Did I tell you that I’m raising your session rates to $200.00 per hour?” she asked with a little heat and ire-rosed cheeks.

“Oh, who gives a shit, Sammy?” I responded. “My book’s gonna make me rich.”

Squirt was waiting for me in the reception room, and we’re going out to El Azeteca, there to East 7th Street. We’re meeting Streaker Jones and Dixie are meeting us for some cabrito, menudo and cold Carta Blanca beers.

Manana, y’all.

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Rick Perry and Sarah Palin Combine Intellect; Failed Effort To Make Half A Brain.

Thursday, November 11th, 2010

 

So. I thought I was done with abortion-influenced bloggie postings for awhile, but once again my thoughts aren’t worth a shit. Actually, had I known that Heroic Media was having another confab, this one up to Dallas, I might have avoided my latest ant-anti-abortion arrest here in town.

The asshole known as Texas Governor Rick Perry and his main string puller, Sarah “Just Call Me Lobotomized” Palin, were again speakers at a Heroic Media rally. Before I go any further, or farther either one, let me say this”

“Fuck Rick Perry and Sarah Palin too!”

Heroic Media are the fine Christian right-wing religious Republican fuckballs who bring us those sweet commercials about how all pregnant girls/women are better off with adoption than abortion. Sweet sentiments and OK with me if they would simply stop when they plaster their message in the media.

However, since they are fuckballs, they have determined that womens’ abortion rights are Heroic Media’s to take away. These gatherings are one of their methods to contribute to the politicians evil enough to support them. Like little Ricky and Sarah Poo. Pay big speaker fees and avoid all of that Tom Delay aggravation.

I’m warning you guys again. Rick and Sarah are running for the oval office and I’m sick about it. Together, these two have a combined IQ of maybe fifty, so together they are almost as smart as GW Bush.

Which reminds me. Colleen Lindsey Tweeted that Bushie needs to do something for our returning Vets. My suggestion, OK my latest suggestion, is for GW to donate all of the proceeds from his book sales to our proud Veterans.

Anyway, my ADHD is on the fritz and I can’t stay focused on anything. I forgot that Squirt was grounded until Friday at midnight, so I stopped by and picked her up for lunch. We were sitting outside Guerros Taco Bar down on South Congress having some queso and chips and salsa, and secretly sharing a Carta Blanca beer.

And don’t go getting pissy on me about feeding beer to the ten-pound language trainee. She gets maybe a half-thimble full from each bottle and I swill the rest. She simply refuses to eat Mexican food without Carta Blanca, and I’m with her on that. “Me gusta cerveza Carta Blanca con mi comida especiale de Mexicana, Senor Mooner.”

I was wondering why she didn’t tell me that in half a dozen languages, when these two nice ladies approached our outside table and remarked about my cute little poochie, and asked to take a picture of us together. In spite of the fact that I hate the word “poochie”, Squirt and I struck a pose with our fresh beer.

The ladies took a couple cell phone photos, and started laughing as they walked away. Five minutes later I’m still wondering what was so funny when my cell starts ringing. “Hello.” I answered.

“You sonofabitch. Do you even know what day it is?”

“Oh, Hi Sammie,” I answered. “It’s a beautiful Thursday afternoon, and the Squirt and I are having a blast.”

“Jesus, Mooner, but you are hopeless. Did you forget that she’s grounded?”

Oopsie.

“One of my patients sent me a photo of the two of you drinking beer together in the middle of the day. For shit sakes, Mooner, do you ever think before you fuck up?”

I could tell my ex-wife and psycho therapist was pretty pissed that I took her dog on this outing, so I was careful with my answer. “I think I do.”

This gets me the sound of deep breathing and deeper sighs. “Oh fuck it. Have her home before ten tonight,” and she slammed the phone in my ear.

“Good news, Squirt, we’re free for the day. How about we go by and try to apologize to the Catholic Abortion Protest Lady. I’ve got my bull horn in the car, so we can talk to her from down the block.”

Restraining Order says we have to keep 250 feet away from her person, but we can make this work. Manana, y’all.

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Anti-Anti-Abortion Dibacle; Punishment Fits Crime?

Monday, November 8th, 2010

 

So. I just finished my first psycho therapy session of the week and I’m feeling pretty good about myself. I convinced Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson to let me attend therapy sessions twice daily rather than have her commit me to the Shoal Creek Loonie Bin for a month’s stay.

Why I feel good about myself I don’t know. I just do. I want to say my good feelings stem from my psycho therapist’s understanding of my recent actions, but that’s not it. Sam said the only reason I escaped commitment and confinement was because she feels that Squirt is just as guilty as me, and they didn’t have room for both me and the dog at the mental hospital.

Maybe I’m just feeling good about being free.

I’m required to do some homework for therapy that includes restarting a journal. This I am unhappy about. A journal is like a diary except more manly. I’m required to write down each time I sense that I’m getting ready to do something stupid.

“Define ‘stupid’ if you can,” I asked my ex-wife and therapist.

After giving me another strong exposure to the angry psycho therapist glare, she says to me, she said, “Stupid, Mooner Johnson, is what you are when you think you’re being smart.”

“Oh for shit sakes, Sammy. I always try to think smart.”

“Sounds like you’ll be making a lot of journal entries.”

It took me a moment to grasp her meaning. “Bitch.” I really need to come up with a better response for moments like this.

“Ooooo, listen to Mooner’s intelligent repartee.” Then she added, “Suck it up big boy. I’m keeping a room reserved over at Shoal Creek Mental. You screw up one more time before Squirt is off her grounding….”

“Why’d you have to punish the Squirt, Sammy? She was just doing what she misunderstood me to tell her.”

“Don’t you question my parenting skills, Mooner. And don’t you dare go near her for the rest of the week.” Then she added, “That nice Catholic woman let you guys off the hook pretty easily. You’re lucky her church needs a new roof.”

“I think she’s planning to use the hundred grand to buy bingo cards. She plays with Gram and Mother at that bingo place down on Research near North Lamar.”

“Don’t you worry about any of that, buster. You just keep your distance from my dog.”

I got to thinking that maybe my ADHD was interfering with my life and decided that the actual blame for the abortion debacle was an ADHD dealie. I know Squirt takes things in their most literal sense, so I bet my ADHD distracted me and interrupted clear thoughts.

“Mooner, dammit!” Sam yelled at me. “You pay attention to me! I said to stay away from Squirt until Saturday.”

“Fine. But she’s doing some interpolating for me that needs to be done this week.”

Sam gives me the evil eye. “Alright, Mooner, but you do it on Skype. Do not go to my house.”

“I said fine.” Bitch, I thought to myself.

“And you have got to learn to do better than ‘Bitch’.”

Maybe I’m saying things out loud when I think I’m saying the to myself. [Journal entry: Am I saying things to myself out loud? Is that why I keep getting into trouble? Is it the ADHD?]

But I’m in too good a mood to be bothered. I’m ready for a Carta Blanca beer and some Skype time with the Squirt.

Manana, y’all.

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Great Halloween Party; Vote! Vote! Vote!

Monday, November 1st, 2010

 

So. Just an update on our rename Sandra the OR Nurse contest. Thirty-one distinctly different submissions, and Sandra is so far stuck on Ninja Butt Operation Girl. I’ll keep the contest open until November 15th.

SAC Ellen and I went to a Halloween party last night, and I must say that I dreaded it days in advance. Friends of the SACster have this party every year, woo-hoo, and I committed to go with her during one of my several recent stints in the dog house.

When dressing, I whined, “I don’t have a costume to wear,” me thinking this might get me a pass from the party.

“No problem, Mooner. I’ve laid your costume on the bed.” When I opened my mouth to whine again, she said, “Go get dressed. I want to be there when the kids begin to arrive.”

I dressed in the gray jeans, white dress shirt with the Mooners Compost Plant logo stitched on the pocket, undies, socks and the shoes- the regular outfit I wear to work. When I finished dressing, we walked to the car and drove to the party. I kept wanting to ask her what I was dressed as, but got distracted by thinking of excuses to leave the party early.

When we arrived to our destination at 6 pm, the street was already crammed with families dressed for the festivities. “What the hell is going on?”

I mean really, it’s not even dark yet. What the hell is all of this?

“Happens every year, dumbass. People in this neighborhood all decorate and dress for Halloween, and people from all over town bring their kiddies to Trick-or-Treat.”

Me, I’m thinking traffic congestion, noise and parking problems. “What a fucking mess.”

I get this paint-melting stare. “Mooner Einstein Johnson, you disruptive sonofabitch, if you make a scene tonight…” Then she started sputtering, searching for an appropriate punishment.

“Fine,” I told her. “Best behavior, I promise.”

Then, “Here,” and she clipped a name badge on my pocket. All it said was, “GFA,” in fire engine red with fire images drawn around the border.

What’s this, I’m thinking.

“What’s this?”

“Don’t worry about that. You just behave your inappropriate self.” Then she added, “Or else!”

Our hosts greeted us on their front porch dressed as Cleopatra and Marc Anthony, and realistically as well. We were first to arrive and toured their newly remodeled home, lovely, and I spent time playing with their little wiener doggy. I’m a sucker for dogs. “We should have brought the Squirt.”

This comment got me the paint melting stare again.

“Fine,” my new mantra. “Fine, I’ll just sit on the porch and observe.”

I get another dose of the stare to which I add, “Fine, I’ll sit quietly on the porch and observe without inappropriate comment.”

So, I did and maybe an hour-and-a half later I realize how much fun I’m having watching all of the kids. I’d met each person as they arrived at the party, but I hadn’t given any a second thought because I was entranced in the parade of costumed kids.

Then I had the thought that me sitting in a porch swing for hours on end watching little kids and offering them candy might be inappropriate, so I went inside with the adults. They were all gathered around a big pot of tortilla soup, so I filled a cup and enjoyed it.

Everyone was talking about their costumes and when they got to me, and I was asked, I said, “I don’t know, the SACster dressed me this year.”

One lady lifted my name badge and said, “GFA, huh.” Then she looked inquisitively at SAC Ellen and asked, “Mean what I think it means?”

“Yep,” SAC Ellen’s only reply, and all of the women burst out laughing.

We men are all looking for the one of us on the inside of the joke, but none was found.

This one lesbian lady, a nice woman I have previously met at one of Sister and Anna the Amazon’s lesbian soirées, provides the answer. “Giant flaming asshole,” she says. “My wife’s pet name for me.”

Well of course.

Anyway, I had a great time with wonderful people, even though many were psycho therapists. And the parade of kids was incredible.

Manana, y’all.

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Rename Sandra Contest Day 2; I Think I’m Better

Friday, October 29th, 2010

 

So. We’re but a few hours into the first day of our contest to re-name Sandra, and you guys are amazing. I remain unsure, at this point, why you are amazing, but you are amazing none the less.

Entries to date include: Samantha, Bruce (3 entries), Sandie, Grace, Hortensia (even after I told you it was rejected), Ninja Butt Operation Girl, and my personal favorite- Gladys.

Now that this thing has gotten some legs on it, I guess I’d better work out some arrangements with Sandra to see how to pick a winner. Does she get to choose her new name, will we have another contest and let readers vote the best selection, or do I simplify things and use my autocratic tendencies and just make my choice?

Details.

The dealing of with, which are not my best attribute.

Holy shit was that an awkward sentence structure.

Allow me to try again. I have ADHD, and one of the many symptomatic tendencies of its sufferers is the inability to pay attention to details. Fact is, the paying of any kind of attention is the major symptomatic tendency.

Like the instructions that come packaged with a replacement fluorescent light fixture to go in the master vanity area over to Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson’s house. A made in Indonesia replacement fixture.

Here’s the back story. For you non-authors, a back story is history on a person or event that provide a foundation for understanding a character’s actions, or the importance of an event.

So. I was in therapy last month, and I was bragging about how much better I have been feeling, even though I haven’t been feeling so hot.

Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson says to me, she said, “Oh for shit sake, Mooner. Are you telling me that you feel better because you’re crazier, or are you saying you’re crazier because you feel better?”

I hate when she gives me complex questions and any of my answers is going to end badly for me.

“Neither,” my smart reply. “All I’m saying is that even though I can’t concentrate on anything, I feel like I’m concentrating better.”

She seemed ready to laugh- her face got all screwed up like when your child says something they think highly serious and profound, and you’re ready to bust a gut laughing. Sam gives me this look often in therapy.

Once she composed her features, Sammy said to me, she says, “OK, Mooner. Let’s put that insight of yours to a test.”

Then she tells me she needs a new light fixture in her vanity area, and gave me the make and model number. “They carry it in stock at Lowes. If you can get it installed anytime before Thanksgiving, without an electrician, I’ll give you a free session.”

“Deal!”

I’ll do most anything to save $150.00, so I go to Lowes but forgot the paper with the model number, so I bought the fixture I thought best. That didn’t work out so well so I went back with the paper.

“How does this dealie work?” I asked the helpful Lowes electrical partner.

“Simple, Sir. You just snap a few parts in place and install it.”

Now if I truly was better, I’d have known to unpack that fucking light fixture right there in the store, and make the little snivel shit assemble it for me. Being delusional, I thanked him for his help, paid for my purchase and headed to Dr. Sam’s place.

Squirt greeted me as I unlocked the garage door and punched in the alarm code. “Salamu, willcommen and bienvienda Senor Mooner.”

“And a big hello to you my mixed breed cupcake.”

Squirt asked me what was on our agenda for the day and I said, “This light fixture, kid. You wanna help?”

Of course she did, but we decided to have lunch first. We relocked and alarmed the house, and I put the light fixture away and out of Sam’s sight. I was determined to surprise her with my accomplishment.

Anyway, we went to What-A-Burger where I had a Number One Combo, with a Coke. Squirt had a breakfast taco, a bacon cheese burger combo, and a fish sandwich. I had to refill her Dr. Pepper three times before she finished.

Since I was feeling so well, and good too, we decided to go fishing. I carry everything required for a fishing trip in each of my vehicles, so we headed straight to the lake. Our only stop was to fill the cooler with ice and Carta Blanca beer.

Look, I’ve got to make some phone calls. Manana, y’all.

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Commonality of Interests- Uncommon Ground

Friday, October 22nd, 2010

 

So. I stopped by Shoal Creek Loonie Bin this morning to visit sweet Mrs. Plunkett and Marvin Travis-Kensington. They are the two lunatics that got wacky in Dr. Sam I. Am’s office yesterday. Actually, I think Marvin is a raving right-wing religious lunatic and Mrs Plunkett is more misguided than anything else.

Turns out she was married to Professor Plunkett from down to Texas State University in San Marcos. He taught in their paranormal sciences department, and she tells me that he used her as a guinea pig for many of his experiments.

“Well, Mr. Johnson,” she sweetly told me in answer to my question. “If you must know, I’ve had sex with alien creatures from across the universe.”

Now, don’t be pissed at me because I didn’t ask her if she’d had sex with aliens, I simply asked in what kinds of experiments did she guinea pig participate.

When I then asked her to elaborate, she said, “Professor Plunkett,” and she always calls him Professor Plunkett, “dear man, would medicate me with special potions he obtained from from a medicine woman, and then tie me naked to trees, or rocks, during each Fall’s harvest moon.”

She got this dreamy look on her face and continued. “The medicine made me so happy and relaxed. And lustful,” she whispered. “Oh my heavens, I couldn’t wait for those savage aliens to come and take me.”

Me, I’m now starting to wonder just how small the world truly is. “When the good professor gave you these medications, what were they like?”

“Well, each one came in a small tincture bottle made of brown glass. The brown cap held the clear glass dropper, which was topped with a black rubber bulb.”

She scrunched her face up in thought, the went on, “I remember that each little bottle had a paper label with an illiterate handwritten name.”

Now the dreamy look again, and, “Names like This ain’t yer momma’s elixir, and Party potion number nine, and my favorite, Who gives a shit when ya got this potion?”

Like I said, small world.

I wanted to ask more about the alien sex because I think it’s happened to me, but it was time for her electro shock therapy.

I did tell her that a dose of direct current was all the elixir I need to promote healthy sex. She asked me if I wanted to go with her, but I passed.

Anyway, when I stopped by to see Marvin, he tried to arrack and head butt me. That’s difficult when you’re tightly bound in a straight jacket and pumped full of psychotropic drugs. The times I’ve tried it, I ended with nothing but frustration for my efforts.

I tried to sit with him and tried to find some common ground, but it was fruitless conversation. In my endeavors to find commonality of interest with everyone I have conflict with, and thorough that congeniality reach some common ground, I have discovered that some people are just too fucking crazy to have commonality of interest.

Except with other really crazy fuckers. And that’s another way I can justify my claim that I’m not really all that crazy.

Which is a good reason to celebrate, so I’m gonna crack a cold Carta Blanca beer.

Salud! Manana, y’all.

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My Name is Mooner and I Pee In Sinks!

Monday, October 11th, 2010

 

So. Now that cat’s out of the bag, maybe I need to explain myself.

It’s true, I pee in sinks. I pee in the sinks out to the ranch; I pee in the sink at my office over to Mooners Compost Plant; I pee in the sinks at restaurants; I pee in the sinks at Public buildings; I likely have peed in your sink if I peed at your house or place of business. I peed in the sink at the Louvre Museum in Paris, I peed in the sink at at the Texas State Capitol, and I peed in the sink at Vivo.

That’s right, my name is Mooner and I pee in sinks.

So what?

And don’t start with the, “But that’s illegal, immoral and just plain stupid bullshit.” I’ve done the research and it is not. Jeff gave me a legal opinion, and save the routine caveats, I’m approved to pee in sinks ad nauseum. That’s tight, as long as it’s appropriately done, sink peeing is legal.

As for immoral, a man’s got to pee somewhere, and the water that drains from a sink ends up in the same pipe that carries the water flushed from commodes. So like Gram says, “Who gives a shit as long as ya clean after yerself?”

And you can just forget the stupid part. If I can flush a pee with less than one cup of water, and it takes the average American 2.2 gallons- who would be the stupid one? Even if you have one of those great Toto one-gallon flushers like I have, the math is fairly simple: one gallon per flush or less than one cup. And think about this- if you wash your hands after peeing in the commode, my way is a Zero water cost method.

Like I say, simple math.

“But Mooner,” Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson scolded me. “Don’t people notice the smell when they use their sinks after you?”

“I don’t know, Sammy,” I started with a grin, “have you?”

I’ve been peeing in Sammy’s sinks for over a year and she never caught on. Now, of course, she’s trying to catch me and say she can tell. But she can’t. Nobody can because it’s a sanitary method I use.

Nope. If I pee in your sink you’ll never know unless I tell you. OK, maybe CSI Miami could dead reckon me to a guilty verdict, but you know what I mean. The act of washing my hands rinses and sanitizes my ritual, and I wash-up with one cup of water.

My name is Mooner and I am one WaterWise, water saving sonofabitch!

Makes me wants to drink Carta Blanca beer so I can pee some more.

Manana, y’all.

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Posted in A Life Lesson, Carta Blanca Beer, Environmental Issues, Psychotherapy | No Comments »

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