So. I have now discovered that I am the Aeolus of shit storms. Sure, Zeus was the Greek’s thunderbolt God but it was Aeolus who controlled the winds—both fair and foul. I have managed to blow a wind most foul and cast a pall over the Johnson family household. And, “Yes, Mother, “ I did spell that non-Christian’s god with a capital “G”[.]
I’m sick of the Christians having the only capital G god. I’m either making everybody’s fucking god a big G God, or they’re all to be small gods. I wonder if it was Aeolus after whom one of my favorite parts of a woman’s body was named.
My hours yesterday were spent getting hammered on all sides about my temper tantrum and what is now viewed as a “threat” to kick my mother out of my house. I didn’t do any such a thing. I told her that if she was so offended by my beliefs that she could move her rosy-red ass out of my house.
It is, after all, my fucking house. I won’t tell you the entire story as to how the Johnson family homestead became mine before the deaths of Gram and Mother, because it would embarrass them both. If I was the kind of man I’m now accused to be, I’d tell you the full-disclosured details and say to them, “How’s that ass taste, ladies?”
What I will say is this. I own this entire insane asylum lock, stock and barrel, and I didn’t want to be its owner. I was forced to take sole ownership in order to keep said asylum under family controls. In the many years the title has been in my name, I think I have been a fair king—a just king. I’m an asshole and likewise crazy, but I’m not, usually, a tyrant.
The only woman in the house who was speaking to me was the Squirt, and the only conversations we had had since breakfast yesterday were on the subject line reading “Mooner’s a giant flaming asshole”[.] “You, Mooner middle name Fuckhead Johnson, are a giant flaming asshole,” have been the words out of Squirt’s mouth.
Save for Mother, who didn’t speak to me all day, I was dressed-down by each Johnson woman at dinner last night. It was pointed out to me that I’m a giant flaming asshole, I act as if my feelings are the only feelings that matter, I throw my weight around like a Sumo wrestler, I speak disrespectfully to my elders, I am inappropriate, and oh yes, that I’m a giant flaming asshole.
Do you guys think the proper grammatical methodology for that would be to add a comma before flaming? Like I’m a giant, flaming asshole?
When my dressing down was complete, I thanked the ladies for expressing themselves in a confident, active way and without passive-aggressivnesses, and I told them that I would take their critiques under advisement. I also apologized to my mother publicly, as she sat poking at the chicken salad on her plate. She hadn’t looked me in the eyes nor has she spoken a word since my temper tantrum. She made no response to my public apology same as with the private one made earlier in the day.
I’ve been in a quandary over this one, having difficulties with what to do. I felt that I should get this issue in front of my psycho therapist with great alacrity, so I made an “emergency” appointment for after dinner at 7 pm. Why I thought I’d get insight in the office of my therapist and first ex-wife is beyond me. The longer I’m in psycho therapy the more I come to understand that the goal of psycho therapy is to create the need for more psycho therapy.
When I called Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson to make the appointment, she asked me, “What is so important that I need to cancel my facial?”
When I told her about yesterday’s indecent, she said to me, she said, “Aaaah. I’ve been waiting for this one to raise its ugly head for years. See you at seven.”
She’s been waiting for this one to raise its ugly head for years? Whatthefuck?
“Look, Mooner, you crazy redneck fuckbrain, those women are all grateful to you for saving the family homestead and providing a pleasant life for them. But when you acted to keep the ranch in the family, you upset the family apple cart. You destroyed the hierarchy.”
I caught that load of shit before my ass was even settled onto her couch. “Whatthefuck, Sammie,” I started, “I don’t abuse or mistreat those women in any way. I’m respectful of their peccadilloes—and trust me here when I say that Chez Johnson has got itself some fucking peccadilloes—and I always try to be sensitive to their needs and delicate sensibilities.”
“This isn’t about you, shit brain, this is about them. How many times do I have to tell you that the yin to gratitude’s yang, is embarrassment?”
“Oh for shitsakes, Sam. I am incapable of pretending to be something I’m not, so what am I going to do about this? And what is this stain on your couch cushion?”
My ex-wife/therapist blushed, then waived-off my cushion stain question with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Mooner, what you are going to do, is nothing. You apologized, you tried to get Mother to understand your side, and we all know that your mother is controlled by her fears. If I were you, I’d pretend that nothing has happened and just go on as usual. Things will settle back to normal before you know it. You do need to control your temper though. It concerns me that you blew up so much.”
“Don’t you worry about me and my temper, I’m managing fine. Well, I was hoping for insight with a keener edge to it, Sammie, but I guess you’ve got this one pegged. Thanks.” And with that I dragged myself off her couch and headed out.
“Oh, and Mooner. Tell Gnat that your bill will show charges for a facial, a bottle of Dom and a triple-times hourly rate for tonight. Some way or another we’re going to get to to act right.”
Anyway, I took the advice to heart and at breakfast I got up early and made pecan waffles, huevos rancheros and pork meat three ways—bacon, smoked ham and savory sausage. As they came to the kitchen I addressed each lady with a, “Good morning, sunshine. Have a seat and I’ll pour you some coffee.” OK, except I popped the cap on a bottle of Carta Blanca for Gram and myself—we both like beer with the rancheros-style eggies.
The reactions from each woman was different but all had the same cool sentiments. “Everybody want runny yolks this morning?” I asked when the chilled matrons were all were seated.
“Can I have mine hard, Mr. Johnson?” Robert asked. “I’m in an agriculture class at A&M as an elective, and the professor said that you should not eat uncooked egg yolks. Not safe.”
“Robert, my boy,” I instructed. “These eggs right here were snatched from the hen’s ass before they were half-way laid and washed in that sink right over there while still warm. I have a pretty good idea where you mouth has been since the weekend, and these eggies right here might be the safest things you’ve had.”
At that, Robert—one of the pair of young Texas Aggies spending the week with us looked adoringly at Gram as if to get her affirmation on the eggs. “What you need to be wary of, Robert, is that look of love in your eyes. That old woman will rip your heart in a dozen places and leaved you wrecked and broken,” I told him.
I fixed all the eggs runny-yolked and the entire table ate greedily. Mother sat in a quiet solitude, her face in the pinched pose of martyred motherhood that has become her permanent countenance. “So,” I started, “how ’bout them Cowboys?” The Dallas Cowboys are my mother’s football team. “America’s team” and all that silly shit.
The entire went still. The half-minute of silence was broken with, “We need a cornerback,” Mother almost whispered. “And some Christian counseling for Dez Bryant.”
“Oh, fer shitsakes, Mother, fuck yer Christian canoing. All Dezzie needs is a little bit of a good woman ta fix his shit. Maybe me an’ tha P-cubed can make a swing up ta Dallas fer ya. Now quit yer bitchin’ an’ pass me tha syrup.”
I looked at Robert when Gram made her offer to head to Dallas and fix Dez Bryant’s shit and the look of shock registered a hit. The other, nameless Aggie ate without uttering a word. Aunt Hilda was telling her shrunken-head-in-a-mahogany-box that the Texas Longhorns just landed a top prospect for the 2013 recruiting class, and Mother reached for the remote and turned on Good Morning America.
She raised the TV sound with the volume button. “…and new in the Republican Presidential race, Rick Santorum said yesterday that Mitt Romney…”
Dr. Sam I. Am was right. Good as new. Manana, y’all.