[Author's Note: Have I told you how much I hate MS Vista? I have spent the last 2 hours attempting to get the formatting fixed for this post. I'm sorry for the mess, but it's Squatlo and Reckmonster's fault. I am but the messenger.]
So. Psycho therapy sucks. After thirty years of near spotless attendance, numerous extended visits to the Shoal Creek Mental Hospital, and the payment of hourly fees that total in excess of $2 million, I’m still all fucked up.
Lately, I’ve been working on finding commonality of interest with people in order to learn to interact in ways that don’t lead to slaps and arrests. The theory behind this particular therapy lesson is this. If you have areas of mutual interest with a person, then it should be unlikely that the other person will slap you, or seek your arrest.
I haven’t been able to stay out of trouble long enough to know if it will ever work. What I can tell you is that all of my efforts to instigate relationships based on commonality of interest have bitten me in the ass.
Take my efforts to develop kinships with other bloggers here to the webber. I develop a closeness to Wonderella– I support her great comic strip and promote her name around the I-net. What do I get in return? A sex-free life.
Then there’s Squatlo, evil genius blogger from the state that catches all of Kentucky’s shit as it rolls downhill. I have become his fast friend here to webland and I must say that he has been a lot of work.
Then there’s the whole God-pays-me-a-visit dealie. He didn’t stay long but I think we really bonded while he was with me. But all I’ve gotten from his visit is an aftermath of grief.
But that fucker Squatlo takes the cake. There’s this 19-question tag thingie getting passed around blog sites like a hot potato. Reckmonster tossed it to Squatlo who has tossed it to me. Now I want to toss my cookies. If I don’t answer all nineteen questions and then pass it along to four more bloggers, my pecker will double in size and then fall off.
What could be worse than learning that you have a giant pecker only to discover you have to carry it in a box?
Look, I’m just going to get this over with. I want to bitch and complain but I like my pecker attached.
- If you have a pet, do you see it merely as an animal or are the members of your family.
Well for starters, why didn’t you proofread this damn test? For seconds of shit pie, what do you mean when you say “pet/s”? I have a collection of peeves that somehow manage to pet themselves in the face of my efforts to rid them from my life. So, to answer part two of question number one, as it relates to my pet peeves, I treat them like I do my Gram. Love/hate, hate/love, you can’t kill family.
I still have my pet rocks, Rocky and Granita and their little twins, Stoney and Marge. Them I don’t consider family.
With ten ex-wives, I have many pet names. My ass has so many pet names I won’t even start; my cooking prowess has garnered me the monikers “Grill King” and “Boss Tomato”. Roshandra called me her “Buzzy Boy” in honor of this little thingie she liked me to do to her crotchie; my therapist and first ex-wife, Dr. Sam-I Am-Johnson calls me a “crazy and inappropriate redneck fuckball”; the Squirt calls me a pet name in Swahili– “Bwana Mooner.”
My pecker has had many nicknames: my personal favorite, “King Cobra”; funniest, “that’s not a pickle”; least favorite, “you’re 6’4” for shit sakes, is that all you’ve got?”; then there’s SAC Ellen’s affectionate “Stun Gun Willy”; and the always popular “The little man on Mooner”. I treat my pecker exactly like family– love/hate, hate/love, won’t cut it off.
Then you would have your classical lines of pets, living, breathing varmints. I have my own dog, Dixie, a matriarch of the dog world and international music maven. She’s third generation Golden Retriever with the Johnson family and will be the last of her line. I love her.
I might as well have a second dog and that would be the Squirt, and each dog thinks they are my boss. They push and bully me. Squirt has been getting me into a world of trouble.
Then there’s Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry, the gay pig and ostrich who live in my closet. Why isn’t it “whoms live in my closet”?
Now, therefore and here-to-whence, in answer to the question, since I would risk my life to protect the animals, I guess family.
Except that brings the entire question into question because I would debate long and hard about risking my life to save my Gram.
2. If you can have a dream come true, what would it be?
I would like to have a chance to see if the grass is greener for sane people. I would like to live a month without the ADHD, with the option to extend the sanity, if desired.
- What is the one thing most hated by you?
This one’s easy. Any person who carries the prejudice of religious superiority. If you think that you should control my life or make decisions for me based upon your religious beliefs– fuck you. Especially the right-wing Christian Republican Baptists and their cronies.
- What would you do with a billion dollars?
First, I’d hire a computer expert and a Photo Shop geek, and I’d pay them to frame Squatlo. I’d have them fix it to where I had iron-clad evidence that shows the Squatster in a torrid affair with Reckmonster.
Then I’d give the evidence to Squat’s wife and film his ass-kicking. The boy’s wife is a serious ass-kicker. Then I’d send a copy of the film to the Reckster to make her cry.
Next, I’d take $100 million and set it aside for later contemplations.
The rest, I’d distribute among groups that fight prejudice against gays, groups that seek-out and punish child rapists, and I’d start a TV cable channel and only show shit I like. Intelligent commentary, comedy, music and great movies. Like Slaughterhouse Five, Catch-22, Where’s Poppa, A Clockwork Orange, etc.
- What helps pull you out of a bad mood?
Another easy one. OK, easy depending upon what made me in a bad mood. Like right now I’m in a bad mood because I’m not getting any sex. This is Wonderella’s fault, with an assist from Squatlo. What would end that emotional slump is a blow job. Or some sweaty taser sex.
But if I was in a bad mood because Rick Perry is the governor of my state, I’d say, “Fuck Rick Perry.” That always makes me feel better. Fuck Rick Perry, fuck Rick Perry, etc., ad nauseum and ad infinito.
Then, if I was upset because the auto-format dealie to my ignorant Micro Soft Vista computer couldn’t be fixed, like up above, then I’d feel better if I set my hair on fire. I rather smell burned hair and charred flesh than deal with my worthless fucking Vista system.
Hearing Squirt translate a six-word sentence in five languages always make me feel better. Carta Blanca beer too. Squirt and Carta Blanca beer are keeping me sane during this current tenure of forced celibacy.
We were down to the lake this morning, freezing our asses off trying to fish in the cold rain. Squirt loves to fish. She’s my bobber watcher. She sits and stares at my red-and-white bobbers like a bird dog on the point. She doesn’t move a muscle or blink until the bobber starts showing some action.
This morning it was so cold that after a while, she was like one of those wind-up toys that vibrate and skittle about when you put them down. She was shivering and vibrating like one of Gram’s rabbit dealies. I had to keep moving her away from the edge of the dock to keep her from going over the edge. But she never once broke point.
Which reminds me. The steady readers among yo know that I went through a hell of a 2010 with an ass-area infection. Terrible swelling and pain, and operations and nasty oozing and shit.
Well, you’ll all be glad to hear that when I checked my ass this morning in the shower– all of the swelling has subsided, and the only remnants of the problem are the still puffy and pink surgical scars. And my scarred psyche.
OK, the scars are still a touch tender, and Holy shit is my ADHD on the fritz. I’m digressing the bejesus out of all of us.
What I’m trying to say is that this commonality of interest deal might be a crock.
- Which is more blessed. Loving someone or being loved by someone.
- What is your bedtime routine?
Which one? Whose bed? Is one or more of the dogs with me? Are Rick Perry and Rush Limbaugh having a lover’s spat?
Have you ever been around a gay pig and ostrich when they have a disagreement? It’s enough to make you think about sharpening a gutting knife and sparking up the smoker.
My pair’s fights somehow manage to heat to boiling in the middle of the night. Rick Perry will hog the covers or Rush Limbaugh will fart under them. Ever smelled a hog fart?
I tried to teach the boys how to light Rushies farts and almost burned my closet down. I ended up putting one of those push button spray fragrance dispensers on the closet wall. Rick Perry pushes it like it was a pain medication clicker on his IV over to the hospital. I wanted one of those dealies when I was having all of my ass trouble.
I had to put a felt cover over the the dispenser button. Ricky’s beak is blunt but it’s hard as a rock. The “clack-clack-clack” of him punching the button was keeping me awake.
But I always brush my teeth, whiz in the sink one last time for good luck, think about what a lucky guy I am and then get in bed. Then, I either think about how wonderful clean sheets feel on my naked skin or wish I had clean sheets. Then the ADHD takes over and I wake up after some amount of time.
- If you are currently in a relationship, how did you meet.
Oh for shit sakes, how do I even start with this fucking question? Relationships with what, like with people, or animals, inanimate objects, governmental institutions that go by acronyms, my pecker, my ADHD, relatives, ex-wives? What, what what? I’m at 2,000+ words already and my fingers hurt.
Let’s assume, in the interest of brevity, that you mean romantic relationship. Well, I can’t tell you about how I met SAC Ellen because that story is central to the plot of my soon-to-be-published new book. That’s the same book that might never get finished because this fucking test will consume me and I’ll die while answering number 17.
So how about I tell you how I met some of my ex-wives. I’m too tired of answering these questions to do all of them, but here’s a few.
Wife numero uno, the now Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, was met at school at the University of Texas where we both attended. Streaker Jones and I were doing our naked men act and drew a crowd that included the mad Sicilian bombshell. Love at first sight.
I met Roshandra Washington-Johnson at an Austin City Council meeting and I also met Evelyn La Rousche-Johnson in Council chambers. Roshandra is a policewoman and Evelyn is an opera singer.
I met a wife in a yoga class at the YWCA.
I met a wife in jail. And on a train and in a house and with a mouse.
And I met one very special lady on a blind date.
- If you could watch a creative person I the act of creating, who would it be?
I’d like to watch Squatlo when his wife catches him after she watches the film framing him.
Or Ludwig Van Beethoven, or Bach, maybe. I think those two were crazies like me. Bach managed to conjure incredible music from pure mathematics. The intricacies of his composition stagger me. I envision that he had my variety of ADHD. But instead of having a myriad of conflicting simultaneous thoughts, Johann Sebastian had those terrific lyrical lines of music filling his skull.
Ludwig overpowers me with sheer beauty of dense textures and rich instrument mixes. I think the deaf Master was a brooder and bi-polar. Brutally angry one moment and deliriously happy the next.
I enjoy watching my Gram as she toils in her little basement workshop, boiling fresh magic mushrooms to make the juice that is the foundation of her potions.
- What kind of books do you read?
All kinds. I love detective and spy mysteries, anything funny, history. As an author myself, I”ll refrain from naming names. At least until I can persuade one to endorse me.
- How would you see yourself in ten years?
Hopefully in some way other than in my reflection in the eyes of caregivers. Or through the dirt. My hopes would be to see the same guy, just older and smiling a giant smile because sanity had been restored in the world and right-wing religious fuckballs had lost all influence on the planet.
- What’s your fear?
I fear digressing and taking too long to finish this test. Was there a time limit?
I fear additional losses of Constitutional rights at the hands of the right. I fear more silly wars. Like Billy Maher said, “If we’re going to start a war over oil, bring home some fucking oil!”
I fear that I’ll catch Alzheimer’s to go with the ADHD. Imagine having twenty thoughts at the the same time and you don’t recognize a thing about any of them.
I fear retribution from the chain-letter-bloggie-tag gods. That’s why I’m doing this silly test.
I fear isolation.
I fear nothing, because God paid me a visit and said, “You’re an good guy, Mooner.” OK, I paraphrased His actual words, but I know what He meant.
Which brings up another point. Since I have been visited by the Big Him, should all references to me be capitalized? Like Me, My, Mine, Ours, you know all of My stuff. Would need to capitalize Stuff? My Stuff, maybe.
13. Would you give up all junk food for the rest of your life in trade for a trip to outer space?
Are you kidding me? My intellect lives in outer space, and it’s not that great a place to be.
Besides, I don’t eat that much junk food anyway. Except for Cheetos.
Are French fries junk food? What about pudding?
- Would you rather be single and rich or married but poor?
- What’s the first thing you do when you wake up?
I pinch myself to see if I’m awake. As a sufferer of the dreaded ADHD, when you’ve ingested as much Carta Blanca beer and psilocybin mushroom extract as have I, it’s always important to start your day awake.
Many of my fuckups occur when I’m not sure what I’m doing.
Contrary to popular thought, walking through life in a dream and living in a dream are two distinctly different thingies.
- If you could change one thing about your spouse or partner, what would it be?
Are you fucking kidding me? I’m attached to a fucking federal agent for shitsakes. One with a gun and a license to kill. No way I’m wading into this one.
Except to say that I would like to change the infrequency of the sex.
- If you could pick a new name for yourself, what would it be?
OK, I don’t think it best to name ourselves, I think we’re best-named by others. Having said that, how about “Your Royal Highness, The Most Adored King Mooner”.
- Would you forgive and forget that special someone no matter how horrible a thing they have done?
Nope, since “no matter how horrible” covers some pretty horrible shit. But, I am a forgiver and a second-try kind of guy. When you fuck up as much as I do, that whole goose/gander dealie takes on new meaning.
Like the entire Wonderella debacle. I fear I might have ruined my love life over a little passing fancy between me and a semi-super powered cartoon person. I never thought my unusual fascination with a cartoon could have such a profound effect on my real woman. Who’d a thunk it?
Maybe I should say that I’m an “another-chance kind of guy”. Second chances don’t begin to cover my transgressions. Maybe I should start a new political party called the Transgressionist Party. Our party line would be, “Please forgive us because we are The Trangressionists.”
I’d let Squatlo be the chairman because he’s smart. Reckmonster could be the treasurer. She’s half semi Asian and can pinch a penny until it drips copper wire. I’ll be the pretty face.
Did I ever tell you about the time Streaker Jones and I got all messed up and decided to run Dixie for Austin City Council? Funny story.
- If you could eat only one thing for the next six months, what would it be.
Another easy one. The 24-hour buffet at Caesar’s Palace in Las Vegas. Or maybe the one at Bellagio.
I spent a couple weeks last summer on an onion and garlic diet and almost melted central Texas. It’s just not natural to eat any kind of limited diet.
Am I done, Teacher? I think I feel better, maybe. Maybe this is how Grandpa felt that one time after he passed a kidney stone. So far I’ve only got two of my choices ready for passing this silly test along to. The first is Whitney at http://www.chunkyknubbynavel.blogspot.com and next is
Now go away. I’ve got a book to finish.