So. I’ve been so full of my own shit lately, I’ve managed to get myself into another moral dilemma, and then shit all over myself. What with the solving of the Chinese productivity issue– that’s the one where I found a way to increase American productivity by mimicking Chinese behaviors, and pointing out another Republican shortcoming (by pointing to their budgetary shortfalls), well, I’ve been pretty cocksure and cock-brained. I’ve been acting as if I considered myself a sane man.

My Wonderella problem was fixed at least on a temp basis, when I got my book manuscript back from my Editorator and had it lock me out from her edits. I’ve been so focused on getting my book finished, Wonderella’s importance has slipped in my mental priorities.

To overcome the Micro Soft Vista prejudice my computer has against my manuscript, Dixie has loaned me her I-phone and I’ve been doing the corrections to the manuscript on that.

When I take breaks to let my fingers un-cramp from working the little typer screen to the cell phone, I try to take deep breaths and think about how grateful I am to have an editing option that doesn’t cost the price of a new computer. When I finally start to feel grateful, I realize that the work output from a half-days’ squinting and bitching and cramping equates to three paragraphs of change, and a twelver of icy cold Carta Blanca beers.

The only thing that keeps me from killing myself over this dealie is the knowledge that Squatlo, who possesses a far firmer brain than I, has technology problems of his own. Actually, since I can’t manage to reproduce the Squatster’s problem with my blog comments, maybe I should slit my wrists and be done with it.

Squatlo says that when he enters a comment when four entries are ahead of him, he can’t see all of the other comments. Anyone else have that problem?

Anyway, my ADHD is exacerbated by having all of these problems, each of which is a problem I have because of the ADHD. If that’s not a Catch-22 I’ll eat my shorts. Which gets me back to my most current problem.

Since I’m no longer fully-engaged with Wonderella, I’ve been allowed back into the presence of SAC Ellen. My federal agent of choice has decided to forgive me of that transgression. As long as I keep Wonderella thoughts at level five, or lower, on the elevator that carries my layered brainwaves, I’m back in.

Last night was our first time together in over a week. I went to her house late in the afternoon, picked her up, and we went food shopping for our reunion dinner. We went to Mandola’s Market and then to Whole Foods. Our dinner selections were: grilled asparagus wrapped in prosciutto and adorned with shaved Parma-Reggiano and this nifty 12-year-old balsamic I have; shepherd’s pie, full of roasted lamb leg and carrots and onions and topped with creamy mashed potatoes; and tapioca pudding.

The shepherd’s pie was in honor of SAC Ellen McClellan’s heritage, the pudding was my choice, and the asparagus with Italian ham were a joint venture. Dinner was great, we had a nice wine with, and after dinner Carta Blanca beers. She wanted to watch the movie The Social Network, and so we did.

Halfway through the movie, I had to pee, and badly. I had been holding it so as to not break my newly-regained closeness. “Don’t pause it, Sweetie,” I told the SACster, “I’ll just be a minute.”

I jumped up and raced to her bathroom, unzipped my jeans and started peeing all over her vanity. Sometimes when I hold a pee too long, I release a dual stream not unlike when you put your finger over the end of a garden hose. Since I pee in the sink to save water, I peed on her vanity rather than the walls and floor of her bathroom.

I panicked, but I cleaned everything up with water. The quantity of water required to fix my mess was still less than that of a toilet flush, so didn’t feel too bad about it. I went back to the sofa to watch little Markie what’s-his-name finish fucking everyone in sight on his way to becoming a multi-billionaire, and to snuggle under the blanket with my lover.

When the movie was over, we went to the bedroom to get ready for some sex. “I’ll get ready first, Mooner Sweetie. Then I’ll get a proper charge on my stunner.” We sometimes use her Homeland Security-issued stun gun as a sex toy.

With that she was off to the john. I heard her pee (on the toilet), wash her hands, brush her teeth, clean her face and lotion it. Then she came into the bedroom with a rather quizzical look on her face.

“That was so strange,” she said. “ When I brushed my teeth it tasted just like asparagus pee. That was some strong asparagus.”

My body instantly covered with chills. My goose bumps were goose-bumped. They looked like baby geese riding on their daddy’s backs. My mouth went dry and I could feel my ball sack shriveling into the shape of a too-dry raisin. Now what do I do?, I thought to myself.

I needed sex, but I’m an honest guy as well. After processing a hundred possibilities, I settled on saying that I wonder if it could be pee smell from when she peed. While this was an avoidance action, I can live with avoiding my small problems if it helps me cure my larger ones.

I screwed my best thinking-man look on my face and said, “Well, I Wonderella if it might be from when you peed in the sink?”

“I meant to say, ‘I wonder if you were smelling from when you peed’,” this was said to the outside of the front door as it slammed in my face.

“Fuck me running.” This was said by me, to only me.

ADHD is a miserable disease.

So. I told you about that entire Wonderella and Squatlo dealie and I think I mentioned that they are ruining my life. My inabilities to: control my urges, say “No”, or control my thoughts are cannon fodder for smart minds and keen perceptionators, like the Squatster and Wonderella.

I’m still not getting why Wonderella is even a problem, much less one of a life-ruination variety. If I was daydreaming and having sex dreams about a real woman, I could easily understand the problem. But my fascinations with an imaginary semi super-powered comic bombshell– I just don’t fucking get it.

Squatlo, however, is a horse of a different brew. His problematic influences are in-your-face thingies and visible even to me. Why he is such a terrible influence on me is a multi-layered shitcake, and filled with a rainbow of frostings and stuff.

OK. For starters, he is smarter than me; he manages a prolific output of intelligent content without either the craziness or ADHD that fuels my voluminous writings; he looks at society through eyes that effect a clarity of thought and reason that is matched with the clarity and imagery that the high quality German lenses on his professional camera bring to the stunning wildlife photography he takes and posts to his site; and, he has an encyclopedic memory bank.

Lucky fucker.

Then, there is the simple fact that I like him. Lately, we have conversed some about stuff, and I like him. I often have issues with people who I deem smarter than me because they seem to affect a snot-nosed attitude that makes me want to thump them on their nose. Hard. Hard enough to bring tears to their eyes.

I do try to not thump them hard enough to draw blood, as that leads to that whole taser-handcuffs-backseat-ride-to-jail-to-be-booked dealie. Not something I can’t handle, as I’m experienced. I’m just too fucking busy writing here to my bloggie and answering 3,500-word emails from the Squatster.

However. As I mentioned upstairs, this is a deeper relationship than all of that before-mentioned stuff. The deep well of history that underscores our relationship is dug far into the very fabric from which America was cut. His and my relationship has its origins in our country’s founding parents. Actually, it goes farther back than that to our forefather’s old countries. But I don’t have the time to spend trimming the family trees that deep into the woods.

Here’s the deal. When I combine the knowledge my educations in Texas public schools– where truth was meted-out using Texas public school textbooks, combined with my degree-related core education courses from the only UT that matters, and then filter that through my personal experiences and readings– my mind conjures the following:

We all know that when our America, USA, was originally founded, the Brits sagely decided to populate the great state of Georgia with all the criminals, prostitutes and mentally ill Limeys they could round up. The logic was simple. “We’ll clean the streets of London by exporting the problem a few thousand miles across an ocean,” were Queen Elizabeth, Part One’s words. She’s thinking that if you put a few shark-infested miles of ocean between you and them, and drop them off on a strange island with hostile native peoples– problem solved.

Same sort of logic we stole and re-deployed down to Gitmo.

This original Georgian population quickly inbred and morphed into the first Southern redneck cracker fuckballs. The inbreeding beget inbreeding of the already inbred, loin fruit that was unceremoniously shipped westward to settle Alabama, each on the tenth anniversary of their birth and their wedding day.

Roll Tide!

When Georgia’s first shipments of settlers were unshackled and dumped to their asses on hard-packed red clay, there were among their numbers seven stowaways. A baker’s half-dozen honorable men, each of whom took a terrible risk by committing a minor crime to earn passage to the New World.

This magnificent seven became the first white men to settle what we now call Tennessee.

Things were hard for the six plus one, but these were hard men. So what if they married local girls and sired half-breed children; so what if they sexed with animals in the lean years. So what if they ate wild hickory nuts and bat dung to keep from starving. Bat dung tastes like chicken if you boil it long enough.

And don’t go all fucking word police and call me a racist. I’m a half-breed my-ownself and I can’t find a more comfortable word combination to categorize that particular aspect of my DNA.

If it makes you feel any better, call them and me, “Of mixed racial DNA,” you fucking imbecile. Why don’t you worry about something important? Like how we have a man running the US House of Misrepresentation whose ever-present tears streak pathways through his bottle tanned face like the contrails from a squadron of B52s.

I might be digressing. In an effort to self-edit, I’ve read this thing fourteen times. I can follow my logic stream but something feels off.

Anyway, Squatlo hails from the Volunteer State and likely is a direct descendant of one, or more, of the original Mag-7. We don’t agree on everything and sometimes he lacks vision. Like when we were discussing a joint venture to market this product I invented. I can’t tell you everything here, but I will tell you this. Me, I see no real problem cleaning the trap on a sink if thoughtful men have pissed in it, rinsing after each use.

If you go to his site at http://www.squatlo-rant.blogspot.com you get a chance to read about what I have been saying. Also, that’s where you can catch a peek at some of his nature photos. Click on the upper right corner where the photos rotate. Number 40 brought tears to my eyes.

I have managed to fuck back a little. I tricked him into sticking a hypodermic needle loaded with icy cold Carta Blanca beer into his system. Killian’s my rosy red butt.

Then, my UT football team stole the most valuable adult asset from his UT football team when we hired Bennie Wylie to be our new strength and conditioning coach. Hoo-yah!

I hope this made sense. If not– like my Gram always says, she’ll say, “Oh who gives a shit, Mooner. Yer so fuckin’ crazy I’d a shot ya afore yer first birthday iffn ya wasn’t kin. Might do it anyways.”

Manana, y’all.