Archive for the ‘Walmart’ Category

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

Monday, January 15th, 2018

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

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

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

For those not already in the know:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Print Friendly

A Bikini And Six Tiny Reindeer; Xmas Cheers Too All

Friday, December 23rd, 2016

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

Print Friendly