Archive for March, 2010

Maybe This Will Explain Things

Wednesday, March 31st, 2010

Since this week is such an important season for people with religious convictions, I have decided it is time for me to better address my own religious convictions in order to explain why I feel as I do about religious fanatics. I’m not doing this because of any of the threats made upon my person nor am I making them under pressure to suck-up to anyone.

While I am capable of yielding to pressure and threats, threats to my life are dealt with by the capable hands of Streaker Jones, my personal protection detail, and I only suck up when I think the suck-upped-to both needs the sucking-up, and also deserves it.

I am certain I said that the way I meant but I’m feeling a major digression oncoming, so I’m moving on. My ADHD is in hyper-drive as we have already begun the preparations for our annual Easter Bash out to the ranch. This year is especially stressful because many of our usual family attendees are intending to attend other things.

Dixie has gotten her feelings hurt and her nose bent out of joint over it, but Gram manages to have the same even-tempered attitude she carries through all aspects of life. “Who gives a shit, Mooner,” her response to the news that a good half-dozen Johnsons will miss the big Bash. “More fer us!”

I’m thinking to myself, “Yep. More of Dixie’s whining and bitching, more food and more of Gram’s crap spread thicker on my toast.” But that’s really OK with me too. One of the list of things I’m working on in my therapy is learning to appreciate people for who/what they are before they die.

But then again, my grandmother will outlive the rest of us by decades. She’s made of shoe leather, has a heart so small she wouldn’t miss a beat if it conked-out on her, and her organs are so pickled by those potions of hers, how would you kill her if you tried.

I have tried killing her with kindness and even that just bounces off her like she’s got some kind of force field dealie around her.

Hell, she is a force field.

After a careful contemplation of your posts here to my blog, and your emails and snail mails and phone calls, and the personal visits out to Mooners Compost Plant to punch me in the nose, I gather that not just a few of you disagree with my religious philosophies. The tenor and tone of your expressed feelings suggest to me that you have not heard my message.

Or maybe another way to say that is like this- the the tenor and tone of your opinions suggests to me that I have done a poor job of expressing my message. More likely it is my responsibility to better communicate my thoughts to you than it is your fault for having a thick skull.

See what growth you can purchase with thirty years of psycho therapy and something north of a $million paid to a mostly ungrateful ex-wife therapist? I think everyone should get theraporized at least for a few years.

I am going to better explain myself to you because I think I owe it to you. If you are going to take the time to read my dribble and then, using a rainbow of Crayola colors, hand write a sixty-page response to condemn me to Hell, I think you need to be better informed as to exactly why you wish that, “The Devil will lash your (read Mooner’s) ass to a parking meter and let real men have a go at you.”

That particular letter writer was angry for multiple transgressions made by me against his Lord and Saviour and his Baptist Church. He wrote it “MY Lord and Saviour and MY Baptist Church.” He would change colors for all of the “MYs” and rub over the letters multiple times to insure I understood his emphasis and the personalizations as what belongs to him. Like this God of his has a single client.

The sixty pages must have weighed five pounds what with all of the crayon wax and dried tobacco juice grafted to the paper. I wonder if I can recycle Crayola wax?

And even though I harbor the opinion that I lack the capacity to say anything that would shake my crayon-writing admirer off the solid rock of his faith, I think that maybe the rest of you might harbor fewer animosities towards me if I make an attempt.

Look, it is not your religion that bothers me, regardless of what beliefs your religion encompasses. I see it clearly as your right to believe anything you chose. And I am fully nondiscriminatory in my belief that you should be allowed to worship any belief system you chose. I don’t distinguish the Catholic belief set from the Mormons or Muslims or Wickans or even those total numb-skulls, the Scientologists.

OK, maybe it is true that the basic tenants of Scientology bother me, so let’s eliminate them from this whole explanation jobbie. The Scientologists can go fuck themselves.

So, except for the Scientologists, it isn’t the religion that ruffles my feathers, it is rather some of the bird-brained followers of said religions who are the root causes of my consternations.

Said another way, it isn’t the message, it’s the messenger.

Look. Each and every one of the historical religions have their foundations in either an actual God, who made an appearance here to planet earth, or a prophet/storyteller explaining the principles of their God.

If the actual deity came here for a vacation or maybe a tent revival to conjure-up a congregation of followers, he/she/it did so with a message of peace, love and acceptance. To a one, our historical deities have preached for us to love each other and let the other Gods’ peoples live- so long as they return the favor. Those Gods practiced what they preached and in turn loved their brothers.

Maybe brethren?

Those religions that count on a story teller/prophet to tell how it is with a particular God, tells us about the wonderful, caring, considerate, and loving guy their professed God was/is. We hear how their God is self sacrificing and modest and all of those other Godlike verbs and adjectives. And adverbs even.

To the last one, the words of these Gods has been the word of peace, goodwill and kind acts. To get your key-card to the electronic locks on the heaven’s gates of every one of these Gods, you need to follow that peaceful path. And basically, each of them has the same path. They have different names simply because They visit to a different time and place each time.

Hell, if you want my opinion, they are all the same God with the same path. I think its this one God who keeps coming back to visit and keeps sending prophets because fanatics keep getting the message all screwed up and twisting God’s word to promote some idiotic personal agenda.

Kind of like we get things all discombobulated and He keeps returning to give us refresher courses. Just like out to the Junior College where auto mechanics need to go to upgrade their knowledge when the technology changes. Remember when they first computerized the ignition systems in cars and they wouldn’t start unless it was 72 degrees outside and the relative humidity was below 34%?

That’s the same way some folks manage to misinterpolate God’s words, and then convince a bunch of brain-dead morons to follow their lead. Like that Jim Jones character down to New Guinea, or wherever, a few years back.

You know, the Cool Aid guy.

What always seems to happen is this. We manage to get things all bollixed-up, again, so God makes a business trip to earth to find a new prophet to educate we humans in how to get along with each other and live a good life. Again.

I don’t know if He has taken the time to pre-pick His prophets before He leaves wherever it is He is when He’s not here, or if He just puts everyone’s name in this giant fishbowl and draws up a name or what. I don’t think it really matters because God can take any guy right off the street and persuade him to prophetize. Prophetalate, maybe.

God can be persuasive, if you know what I mean. And why do we need to capitalize every reference to Him? He knows He is omnipotent and all that, so He knows that when I say “he” that I mean “Him”. Right?

How big would that fishbowl of His be? And where do you think He hangs when he’s not hanging with us?

For all you know, maybe I’m nothing less than God’s latest chosen prophet sent out into the world via the I-net to spread His word to stop being such bigoted asswipes and get back to God’s basic messages. Did you ever think about that? How do you know that the big He didn’t visit me last time I was locked up in the lonnie bin, with a drip-line of Haldol putting my mind in a most receptive mode?

How can you be so sure that God didn’t visit me in a vision with a message to all of you fanatics and terrorists? Just imagine that. How about if I was sent here to tell the Baptists and Muslims that if they don’t stop oppressing other people in the name of their twisted interpretations of their God’s Book, that my God was planning a little visit to smite some ass.

And I get to point the finger. And then maybe I would be “Me” and “Mine” and shit like that. You know, capitalize all of My stuff.

Mooner Johnson- Prophet of God. Wouldn’t that be a kick in the ass. What would we call My religion?

But, for the sake of brevity, let me focus on the Christian religion as a species, and the Southern Baptist Convention Baptist practitioners as a sub-set. This I choose to do because I was raised Baptist of the Southern persuasion and also because the Christian religion has prophets, as evidenced by the Old Testament and Moses and King Solomon and Isiah and such, and the Christians were paid a visit by God Hisownself, embodied in the flesh and blood of Jesus Christ.

Make sense that I choose to elaborate in said fashion? Good.

I have read the King James version of the Bible several times cover-to-cover, and have read it several more times a few verses at a time. Baptists read selected verses from the Bible every time they gather. Streaker Jones has memorized every “Bible” of every religion on the planet and he can back me up on the following Biblical observations:

  1. No religion advocates violence to another sect or race or religion just because they don’t profess the same beliefs. Not a one.
  2. No religion says to hate and persecute gays or lesbians. Many a Baptist preacher has tried to say it does, but it does not. Some of the verses Pastor Browingwell quotes to support his anti-gay thinkings can also be read to endorse gay acts.
  3. Each Bible promotes acceptance and inclusion and living in peaceful harmony with folks harboring differing views. And unless those other guys try to put some smite on us- we don’t need to be smiting them.
  4. All the Bibles expect tolerance and forgiveness of any transgressors.
  5. None of these Bibles teaches its followers to write laws to govern non-believers. Nope, all of the law-writing verses are talking about laws for followers.

Nowhere does it say to force an infidel to follow your lead and nowhere does it say to kill them if they won’t. Nowhere does it say to kill a doctor because he believes in a woman’s choices, nor does it say to deny women their rights to choose.

Like these assholes who were just arrested up to Indiana and elsewhere who were planning to kill one policeman and then bomb as many more as possible at the funeral. These shitbrains read the Bible to condone or even demand their actions.

Good God-fearing Americans, right? Family men.

Nope. Brain-dead, right-wing Baptist fuckballs to the man. And woman. No different than Osama Bin Laden or any of the rest of the Taliban and such. Both groups want to kill people because their religions differ, and each don’t mind taking innocent lives in their blind pursute to promote their doctrine.

Somebody, anybody show me where I am wrong. Please.

I mean, look here. I am just as egotistical and opinionated as the rest of you. I just can’t justify killing some guy for doing something I don’t condone- like lighting a cigarette in a restaurant under the “NO SMOKING” sign. I want to, but I don’t.

And litterbugs. I want to choke the life right out of litterbugs, and Texas Governor Rick Perry. Little Ricky seems to think he has the right to govern me based upon his religious beliefs, so why don’t I have the religious right to take his right wing ass for a midnight swim out to Lake Travis when I disagree?

Or bigots. Nothing I hate more than a fucking bigot.

OK, look. Dr. Sam I. Am just read what I have already written and she says I have made my point if you are going to allow it to be made. She said it like this, she said, “Look Mooner. Most people who are fanatical about their religion are fanatically flawed. They lack the ability to care if they are right or wrong. They have flawed thinking or they are evil, so no amount of logic, truth or reason will sway their opinions.”

OK. Fine. I’m done except to say this. If you have a reasonable way to prove me wrong, please tell me. Show me the error of my ways.

If you can prove me wrong, I’ll never make another nasty comment about the fucking Baptists again.

Happy Whatever-it-is That You Celebrate!

Mooner

And PS. When you enjoy whatever bounties of food and drink you chose to share this season, please remember that when you lay your overfull belly down to go to sleep Sunday night, there are little kids and mothers and others who are going to their beds less than sated. Please donate to the Food Bank.

Chelsea Handler has a great one, George Takei said “Oh my!” on Howard Stern first

Monday, March 29th, 2010

The weekend was great weather here and we started the hot season garden out to the ranch. We garden in a fifty-acre patch that I won in a poker game back to 1983. With all of the mouths we feed from it Gram is wanting to expand its boundaries next year. So while the rest of the crew were planting, Streaker Jones and I were spreading the compost and granite sands on the adjacent land and tilling them in.

We’ll grow alfalfa this year and then plow it under. That’s the best way to prepare your soil around here. I let Gram and Gnat decide what we plant so long as I get at least ten acres of tomatoes. I love homegrown tomatoes. Especially the old fashioned ones. You know, the purple ones and the striped ones, and those that get really big and gnarly looking.

Back to 1990, or maybe it was 1991, we grew a Merced that looked like Washington crossing the Delaware. To me, it looked more like a bunch of goat pellets stuck to the bottom of a tire-tread sandal, but Gram got her picture to the Garden Page of the Austin American Statesman anyway. That’s our Austin newspaper.

Once June hits, I carry pre-mixed salt and pepper in a shaker in my hip pocket, and a hemp cloth tote bag full of ripe tomatoes. Take them everywhere I go. Lured one of my ex-wives into my sticky web with a perfectly-seasoned old timey beefsteak. Supplying her with tomatoes from the ranch garden is one of the conditions to our Alimony Agreement. Woman loves her tomatoes.

OK, enough about me, let’s talk about you. I had no idea that so many people did not know what a “camel toe” is. I need to thank Mrs. Che-Che La B, from up to North Dallas, for her thoughtful voice mail and inquiry about the subject. How did you get my phone number, and are you a stalker?

But, “Yes,” I do know that the camel is a pachyderm, and, “Yes,” I do know that the camel provides essential transportation, nutrition and night-time comfort to the nomadic peoples of the world. But “No”, I disagree with your thoughts that I am a brain dead Troglodyte.

I even understand how important the camel is from a cultural perspective. But I don’t get the part about sleeping with camels. Have you ever smelled a camel? Maybe all of that dry desert air kills a person’s sense of smell. Or your nose gets all dust encrusted from the sand storms and you can’t smell anything.

But back to topic. While I have always known that it has many names, I thought that camel toe was the universal nom de plume for when a woman has her pocket meat on display. Whether on purpose or by accident, I always thought the name was “camel toe” for when a lady places said meat into the display case. And I figured that every woman knew this.

Other names I have heard are “moose knuckles” and “my honey’s hams” and “girl package”. If I was naming it I think something along the lines of, “Oh my!” would be my choice. Like George Takei says on the Howard Stern Radio Show. George was Mr. Zulu on Star Trek too.

A nice lady with a well-tended and proudly displayed camel toe walks by me, I’m thinking to myself, I’m thinking, “Oh my!” Maybe I can start a new trend and create a new saying and get famous.

Oh my!

Maybe I’d need to credit George.

My Gram calls hers her “pocket poochies”. While I guess that “pocket poochies” is perfectly and properly descriptive of Gram’s camel toes, I can only hope that particular descriptive name would have limited applications. My Gram looks like she was constructed from dried goat bladders to start with. To imagine her camel toe would be traumatic. But again, “Oh my!”

But to be technical, Mrs. La B, I will quote to you the definition for Camel toe that I am sending to the people to Websters. You know Websters, the dictionary folks.

“Camel toe. Noun. From the early Egyptian meaning “Oh my!”. The result of a mature woman wearing outer garments which are pulled into a frontal wedgie, placing the pubic mound and crevice at maximum visual display.”

From the historical perspective, Cleopatra invented the camel toe. It seems that one of the few positive genetic flaws of all the inbreeding, which is so common among the ruling classes, was that the women offspring’s labia and surrounding mounds majoris, were truly major mounds. And these were not mounds like what glandular malfunctions cause. These mounds were meat-swollen and not swollen meat or water-retentive in nature. I wonder what Queen Elizabeth looks like down there.

Old Cleo would have her hand maidens pluck her crotchie areas clean of hairs using tweezers made from dried shark cartilage. Cleo discovered that if the hairs were plucked one at a time, she could avoid razor rash. Of course, she didn’t call it razor rash since razors were a future invention, and the plucking took hours, of course.

When I did the research on this shark cartilage dealie, I called Ingrid over to Ingrid’s Hot Wax Emporium to ask her if we could try plucking me that way for my next ass show. Ingrid told me to get some rest and make an appointment with Dr. Sam I. Am.

Actually, she said, “Have you lost your mind Mooner?”

Anyway, Cleopatra used her toe jobber to mesmerize Mark Anthony and Julius Caesar and a bunch of other Roman men back to the B.C. times. I think that’s maybe why Italian women lack the basic sense of humor to enjoy a free-thought discussion of the subject to this day.

Cleopatra would get herself all skinned-off by hand-maiden-and-shark-cartilage tweezing, and then have her hand maidens anoint her polished loins with oils. The oils would be fragrant with frankincense and myrrh. Do you think she had special oil-anointing hand maidens or were they maybe multi-tasking maidens who both tweezed and anointed?

I think I could use a hand maiden or two. And why is myrrh spelled that way?

After proper exfoliation and anointing, the royal camel toe would be bound for presentation. When I heard that she had it “bound” I was kind of admiring Cleopatra for taking one for the team. You know, it sounded like when the oriental women would bind their feet up to make them attractive. Sounded painful as all get out.

But when I read the records of this on the net the other day, I got the sense that this binding was quite different from foot binding and that old Cleo actually enjoyed it.

And then this morning, Streaker Jones came to my office with some timely news. “Mooner, ya need ta know that Chelsea Handler is kechin a buncha crap bout her camel toe. People’s callin her a man cuase shes got her a man-sized load.”

Then he added, “I don’t lik em talkin bad bout Chelsea, Mooner. Wud ya say sumthin in yur bloggie?”

Streaker Jones is a huge Oprah Winfrey fan. But with her ending her talk show soon, I think he is changing the channel of his TV attentions. Actually, what I think is that Chelsea Handler is me with a pretty face and different plumbing. I really don’t think she is a man. If she is all I can say is, “Holy shit, I have fantasized about a man.”

I got on the E Entertainment website and sure enough, there’s like 10,000 blog comments posted about Chelsea’s camel toe, and some are quite cruel. Chelsea is funny, irreverent and inappropriate- attributes which I much admire. When I got the letter telling me I’d been voted the Most Inappropriate Man In the World, I just assumed she’s garnered the woman’s trophy.

Well, actually I didn’t get a trophy, just the letter that I framed and hung next to my other awards.

Anyway, one of my objectives in starting this blog was to perform public service. Dr. Sam I. Am said that helping others would help me get a sense of satisfaction that I don’t find other ways. So, I am offering here to provide a public service to any woman with camel toe concerns. If you are worried that you have an issue with yours, just contact me. I’ll be glad to advise.

My Gram’s best buddy, P-cubed, says that maybe I could sponsor a club to support the issue. I think maybe I can. I could have a contest for the best name for the club and everything. You know, generate some buzz.

Speaking of buzz, Roshandra called me to talk about her camel toe. She wanted me to tell you guys that a woman needs to be proud of her stuff. I don’t remember if I ever saw it displayed in classic camel toe fashion, but I can say that Roshandra has world-class stuff.

Wait. P-cubed is Penelope Paxton-Parades, who is also known here to Austin as the “Guacamole mama”.

Let me know if I can help with the club.

Now, I need to go. Mooner

An Atitude Adjustment

Friday, March 26th, 2010

Whenever I start thinking to myself, “Mooner, you are a good man,” all I need to correct my thinking is to make a trip down to the Capital Area Food Bank. Anytime I think I have become one of those people other people should admire I just go down to way-South Congress Avenue and pay a visit to some actual good people.

Like yesterday, for instance. In spite of the risks of personal injury and possible arrest, I sucked it up and attempted to do a public service for that nice lady with the moosie knuckle over to the Sprouts. I was proud of myself for taking the time to think, plan and act in the best interests of another human being, and ignore the threats to my personal safety.

My Gram says it like this, “Hoomin bing,” and that cracks me up. Since I’ve spent my entire life with Gram and Streaker Jones both, I can understand most of their fractured English. But sometimes my Gram just cracks me up. What can I say.

So, I got back to the ranch, unloaded the groceries, washed the avocado off my face and changed my clothes. Gram took one look at my face and said to me, she says, “Whose pansies ya step in this time Mooner? Let me go git my “A Slug A This Will Stop That Slap From Bruisin” potion. Yur gonna git shiners from chin ta eyebrows unless ya dose-up.”

After ingesting a couple droppers of Gram’s potion, I sat out to the patio with a cold Carta Blanca to ruminate my day over. Wait- maybe I ruminated over my day.

Whichever, my day was getting ruminated about and I was feeling pretty good about myself. I did a good deed for a damsel with distressed pocket poochies and it only cost me a couple hours and two black eyes. Usually my efforts with damsels cost either trips to jail and terms to visit the loonie bin for “observation”, or six-figure annual alimony payments.

I was ruminating that this good deed of mine had gone mostly unpunished, at least from an historical perspective.

Are you guys still with me?

So. This morning I woke up feeling pretty good about myself as a “Do Gooder” and an all-around man of the people. I exercised, read the paper and got ready for the day. This day was starting with a visit to the Food Bank.

See, I’ve made arrangements for the Johnson Family Interests, LLC- that’s my holding company that controls all of my business interests, to make some direct donations to the Food Bank from my website and bloggie job. Five-percent (5%) of all gross revenues from the web and blog and my book sales will be donated to the Capital Area Food Bank.

I go with five-percent of the gross because that’s like 40% of the net after Gnat gets done doing the books. I’m always suspicious of anybody who wants to pay me off the net profits of anything. Like Streaker Jones says, “Nuttin seems ta slip thru tha net.”

How do you argue with Streaker Jones logic? Can’t.

Movie and record people are the worst of what I call “Net Profit Pirates”. I can’t tell you how many of the world’s best musicians were ripped off by Net Profit Pirates back to the Sixties. Some of those guys made tens-of-millions of dollars for music companies and died broke while they waited on a royalty check.

So, I like doing my deals based on gross, except with tax men and other government types. Them I don’t mind creative bookkeeping to end up paying pennies on the dollar. In fact, its a source of pride. Donations to the Food Bank are not net dealies.

The reason I was going down there was to do some arm-twisting to convince them to link their website with my site- do a little cross-pollinating with me. Networking is the only way to go!

OK, look, I know it was a highly unlikely possibility that they could be convinced to tie themselves closely to me, but I wanted to give it the old college try. I have a clear picture that Baptists, Republicans, church ladies of the non-Baptist persuasion, and other people offended by my thinkings comprise a large portion of the Food Bank’s donor list. I get that.

But I had to make the effort to see if there was a way.

There is not a way, and that’s OK with me. Like to have a “Yes” but understand, and appreciate, the “No”.

Other peoples’ principles are something I understand even if I don’t agree. I don’t have a problem with people having principles with which I disagree. But sometimes I disagree with the principals behind them.

I’m pretty sure that was properly said.

The Food Bank cannot afford to endorse any supporter at the risk of alienating another supporter. It doesn’t bother me to upset anyone because I’m the only one I need to serve. The Food Bank will not discriminate- they will take anyone’s help and use to offer a helping hand to anyone who needs it. The Food Bank is non-sectarian on both front and back ends of their business model.

They hold themselves to a higher moral code than me. The mirror into which I look every morning is small and fogged when compared to theirs. I freely admit that I practice personal bias as my routine. Pastor Browningwell over to my Gram’s Baptist church says of me, “Mooner Johnson has fractured moral fiber.”

If the right reverend would ever listen to me, he would understand why I feel as I do. But it just isn’t a part of his moral fiber to listen to any view that takes an opposing position to the Southern Baptist Convention.

Having concerns for what others think of me is not one of my moral fibers because I am sectarian, or whatever it is that I am for not caring what you think of me. The weave of my social fabric is based upon my experience, attempted understanding of contrary views and actual thought. I am capable of changing my mind when the evidence proves me wrong, and that, I think, moves my moral ground out of the flood plain.

But the Food Bank will feed you regardless of your thinkings. They will accept your money gratefully, even if you are a Republican, because you are a person who cares enough to help feed people.

I’ll take a Republican’s money because I think I can put it to better use than him. His money is safer in my hands than his.

So, on my way home I was thinking about how I’m not really such a wonderful guy because I’m opinionated, rude, crude and completely inappropriate. I am, after all, The Most Inappropriate Man In The World.

But that’s why I give my money to the Food Bank rather than just taking the 18-wheeler down to the Valley and loading-up with produce for the hungry. I’d be trying to use my personal bias to limit the distribution of nutrition. Hell, I’d likely make you pass a test before serving your lunch.

Then I’d feel bad about myself and need more psycho therapy.

But look here. I can’t feed everyone who needs some feeding. You guys send a check to the Capital Area Food Bank. It’s a crime to let a neighbor go hungry.

Even if he is a Republican.

A Story From When Dr. Sam I. Am and I Were Still Married (an excerpt from the book written years ago.)

Thursday, March 25th, 2010

(Reprinted with the expressed written permission of Shit Happens, Nettie House, Editor, the monthly newsletter for the Central Texas Association of Composters)

To Spell Idiot, You Start With I (or Me)

By Mooner Einstein Johnson, President, Mooner’s Compost Plant

Let me start by saying that all of you already know that I have ADHD and that you think I am an idiot, already. And you know that I attend three-times-a-week sessions with my famous psycho therapist wife, Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson. But don’t read this with any silly preconceived notions that I am digressing your asses to distraction.

Instead, feel my pain and empathize. Or, if you’re a Republican, you can maybe sympathize.

If you ask me, the true idiots of the world are people who think that they can dictate how you should live your life based upon their religious beliefs. Like the Republicans and their puppeteers, the Baptists. You can substitute the Taliban and the fundamentalist fuckball Islamics or any other political/religious pairings you choose.

But if you want my definition of idiocy, it’s, “Anytime religious shitwads determine public policy.”

Like Governor Perry telling me I can’t play poker because he thinks it’s “wrong.” Republican idiot Baptist.

Vote Kinky. He’ll save our Republic!

Sorry, I digressed.

Whenever a holiday rolls around, I’m talking any holiday, whether religious or not, I do an evaluation of my closet space allocations. I perform these periodic evaluations not because my home out to the ranch has small closets, as I have many and they are large. Nope, I’m required to reevaluate so often because my allotted space in those many closets is a paltry sum and allocated from only one of them.

In fact, the master bedroom closet my wife and I use was the original ranch house built by the first of my family to populate our ranch-land.

Since I have so little space, I periodically need to evaluate everything I have to see what might be purged to make room for new purchases. So, what I am looking for is something I haven’t worn in more than a year, like my Nero suit from 1967. It’s army green with big brass buttons and epaulets, and the pants have huge bell-bottoms. With my pink ruffled shirt with the French cuffs and my turquoise paisley cravat, I look just like the actor Peter Sellers in that movie The Party. I like Peter Sellers.

He’s a good actor, and handsome, like me.

I first wore my Nero suit in 1968 to a date with a girl who broke my heart. She said I dressed too conservative for her tastes. I last wore the suit the end of March 1986 when I evaluated it during my Easter closet perusal. See, the Nero suit is exempt from my periodic purging of cloth, leather, and plastic as I feel it has at least one more wearing in it before I die.

Or maybe at my funeral. I can change my will and be burned in a funeral pyre instead of getting cremated, and I’ll need something spiffy to wear.

I always think of Indian funerals when I think about a pyre. Like from that movie Lord Jim, except without the floating candles and added fire. And not on the Ganges River in India, and not with Sitting Bull Indians. I don’t know. I’ll worry that over later.

When I am doing this cleaning, I’m looking for stuff I don’t wear or use. I give everything I outgrow or don’t use to the Paralyzed Veterans here to Austin, and I want them to get some real wear from my offerings. That thought helps motivate me to purge better. And sooner. Or is it to better purge? Sooner, better purging, maybe. Like closet bulimia.

OK, try this: Sooner, better purging through closet bulimia.

Anyway, so, I’m going through my meager closet space because it’s a holiday, Memorial Day, and I’m bitching at my wife while I do because she is the cause of my cramped allocation. Look, we have a very large master bedroom closet. Not Liberace the Piano Player large, but my first college apartment would spin like a top in this thing.

Sam I. Am did the partitions of “His and Her” allocations. I let her do that because I thought it would make her happy to feel like she has the power role in our relationship. See, she’s a psycho therapist, and she constantly examines me about everything. But I’ve been secretly reading her brain doctor periodicals behind her back to fight back. The week before we moved into the new master suite I’m sitting in the waiting room before a therapy session, and I read an article in Sam’s O Magazine that said women needed to feel that they had some control in their lives.

Mistakenly, I thought I was giving nothing away by giving her the power of closet allocation. I now also think the article was wrong to advise giving a woman any power at all. My particular woman took that little bit of power and expanded it to the point where she gained control of my entire life. She’s like a Nazi dictator, what with all the “Mooner this and Mooner that.”

Anyway, Dr. Sam I. Am allocated me 11 inches of closet rod, 11 inches of shoe storage above, and the same amount of floor space below. When I asked her how she calculated the dimensions of my space, Sam I. Am said, “Well, Mooner, my plan was to place all of my stuff in appropriate spots and then just let you have all the rest. But all my stuff wouldn’t fit. So I decided to put more of my things into the cedar closet.

“I made room for you by removing some of my mauve-colored hand-stitched buffalo leather jackets. I wear those jackets often, so I moved only the ones with mink lining. That leaves you plenty of room.”

Then she added, “And don’t you put that moth-eaten Nero suit in my closet.”

Anyway, I decided this was a good chance to give something back to the vets and weeded out my stuff from the allotted 11 inches each of shoes (three pairs stacked left shoe upon the right), cloth clothes (three pants, three shirts, one Nero suit), and accessories. The accessories shelf feels almost extravagant, as it starts at eye level and reaches to the ceiling above.

The rest of my stuff is in the trunk of my car.

But I am digressing from the story. Every time I perform my closet evaluation, I look for ways to de-allocate some of Sam’s space and make it mine. I have tried every space-stealing tactic I can think of, but she always catches me. I swear that woman’s got extra closet sensory reception, or whatever. And I almost always think I’m catching her at taking my space but am always proven wrong.

It doesn’t matter what I do to attempt a theft of her closet space, and it doesn’t matter how small the theft might be. One time I hid five one-hundred-dollar bills in the lining of an off-season ball gown that was zipped tight in one of the 37 plastic clothes storage bag thingies that hang in the back corner of the closet. I only thought my C notes were safe. I mean, how could she notice something so compact and lightweight?

I went back for my cash a short time later, and she caught me fumbling through the garment bag, cursing and sputtering, looking for my stash.

“I was dressing the other day,” she said matter-of-factly, “and when I walked into the closet, I noticed that the gap between a black garment bag and the blue one beside it had shrunk by one 32nd of an inch, and things looked fishy. You know, it is very important to keep the plastic from touching so the bags can breathe.

“When I examined the bags, I saw your thumb print in the plastic where you pinched the top of the zipper to close it back. I used the money at Petite Professionals to buy a blouse and the rest to take my mom to lunch. Mom said to tell you ‘Thanks.’”

One of these days I’m going to build my own closet if I don’t slit my wrists first. But until then, I’ll try to make the maximum use of the 11 inches of hanger space, one shoe-box width of shelf, and a tie rack mounted from the ceiling.

It was when I was checking my shelf space for unworn shirts this holiday that I just knew I had caught her red-handed. Sam was using my pitiful space allocation! I discovered a canvas bag emblazoned with the logo from Petite Professionals, her favorite clothing store. I started screaming, storming through the house looking for her.

“Now I’ve got you!” I yelled while waving the offending bag in the air. “You’ve finally gone too far—you’re way past reason on this one. Get your ass in here right this instant and look at what I’ve caught you doing!” I had her this time, and she was going to pay.

After about an hour she came sauntering into the bedroom and woke me from my nap to take her punishment. I never take naps, but when she didn’t come right away I thought I’d act cool for when she did arrive. I’d put the bag back on the shelf where I found it and then stretched out on the bed with my hand under my chin to affect the cool part. And promptly fell sound asleep. And if I hadn’t been groggy from the stupid nap, I’d have never fallen into her trap.

She awakened me from my slumber and sweetly asked, “How may I be of service?”

I stumbled out of bed and dragged her into the closet, pointed at the bag, and said, “Aha, look at that bag, you closet allocation obfuscater!” I thought obfuscater was most appropriate.

I should have known something was wrong by the angelic smile on my wife’s face, but I barged on like a Billy goat in a pansy patch. “Just for that, I’m taking that whole wall of your closet for my stuff. I’m gonna go unload my car right now.”

“Mooner Einstein Johnson, are you talking about that bag?” she asked as she waved at the shelf. “Is that bag what this little tantrum is all about? Don’t you remember what that is?” she asked calmly. And then she said, “Are you sure you want to make an issue of this?”

“Yes, darling, this is that important, and it’s about time I hold you accountable for your indiscretions,” this said with the pious authority of a righteous man standing up for his rights.

Then, in a voice that was almost still because it was so quiet, she told me, “Look inside that bag, Mooner, and then you find me if you have anything else to say to me.”

And when she spun from the closet, leaving it ten degrees colder, she added, “Einstein, my ass!”

“You got it,” I sniped at her back. “And don’t go far.”

I climbed my ladder and grabbed the bag from the shelf and jumped down. I jammed my hand down into the bag and gripped its contents like a hammer to whack-out my point to Sam I. Am, and off I stormed. I was halfway out of the bedroom before I realized what I was holding, and it stopped me dead in my tracks.

There, in my hand, was the carefully folded American flag that had draped my father’s casket at his funeral. Sam I. Am had packed it lovingly and placed it on my shelf for safekeeping. I now remember telling her how grateful I was that she had handled that for me.

The last time I had seen the flag was when Mother had given it to me at Daddy’s graveside, her telling me he wished me to have it, me honored at his wish. In the fresh spring breeze, the draped flag had fluttered like the mainsail of a ghost ship in a desperate effort to steer my father’s casket free from the grave hole beneath. I felt my connection to Daddy fluttering as well, as if it were to be forever lost at the landing of that wooden vessel and the laying of sod.

When I was feeling a misery as deep as I can ever imagine, the pair of WWII vets who had stood at attention for the graveside service began their duty. As best as their eighty-year-old bodies could, in their fresh-pressed, faded uniforms, these brave men carried out the final goodbye to one of their own.

The preacher preached his last words on my father’s grave, and a bugler started playing Taps. When that terrible, sweet music started, the men performed the ritual and prepared the flag with a precision at which I marveled. As their gnarled and shaky arthritic hands creased each three-cornered fold, I could only know that their grief was just as strong as mine.

Two old soldiers struggling to stand straight and not cry as they buried yet another of their fallen brethren. One mostly ungrateful son missing past and future.

I have touched this flag only two times, and each time it has left me stunned. In the first instant I was stunned by the power of a symbolism so simple as a flag as it left my father’s casket. I wondered just how many sons like me were clutching flags as the end of our fathers’ generation approaches.

But at this second touching of the flag, it was my own idiocy that numbed me.

My flag faux pas occurred during the holiday honoring the men and women like my dad, people who made important sacrifices so that I can be free. And stupid. I screwed this up a week before Mother’s birthday, June 6th, the anniversary of the D-Day Invasion, the action that marked the beginning of the end of WWII. In one fitful moment of asinine dumbness, I had managed to underline and highlight my tendency to do dumb things.

Sam I. Am has yet to speak to me, but that’s OK. I’m very busy trying to shake off the effects from this latest stupid stunt of mine. To take my mind off my idiocy, I’ve been inventing stuff, like my reusable in-home sewer sludge composting kit. I got the idea when a neighbor showed me her colostomy bag.

But every time I take a break from inventing, I get blue. I need to make an appointment with my psycho therapist.

I’m such an idiot.

Forbidden Fruit and How To Be A Man: Sometimes It Hurts To Be A Man

Wednesday, March 24th, 2010

So.  Life is full of dichotomous situations. You know what I’m talking about- those times when you are damned if you are doing, and likewise damned for don’t-ing. I encountered one of those dichotomousses the afternoon when I went over to the Sprouts there to the Arboretum.

Maybe that should be “dichotomousi”.

I wanted to take advantage of their special on sweet Italian sausage so I drove over in Gram’s Ferrari. She needed my truck to deliver some mushroom juice to a new customer, the GTO is in the shop, and the weather was too nice to pass-up on the hot red sports car. Besides, Italian food- Italian car. I was making fresh tomato souga with basil and garlic and secret ingredients. Souga is Italian for sauce, kind of like salsa is Spanish for salsa. Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, a way-back Italian-heritaged hottie, taught me this souga recipe back when she was wife/psycho therapist and not just therapist to psychos.

Sammie hates it when I separate the “psycho” from their “therapist”, but that’s my lifetime-best joke.

I buy my sausage, and since I was there figured I might as well accommodate myself and get the two-bags full that fit in the tiny backseat of Gram’s car, and go to leave. Wait- two bag fulls. It has to be “fulls.” As I was lifting my two bags from the shopping cart to hustle off to my ride, my eyes were captured by a woman walking into the store.

Said woman was dressed for exercising and looked well exercised. Her cheeks were rubied and fully-blushed and she had a misting of sweat on all of the exposed skin not covered by the tight Lycra skin that was her hot pink workout uniform.

Of course, it is possible that the “just exercised” part of her look was just for looks, that the cheeks were blushed with makeup, and her sweaty mist was misted-on from an atomizer. In that part of town it’s maybe 60/40 either way.

Anyway, her hair had a sprinkling of gray, she was in great shape- not ripped and bulimic looking, just sleek and smooth. She had a pretty face and inviting eyes. And there, doing the pocket Rumba, sat the plumpest, juiciest-looking most robust camel toe I have ever seen. I mean ever! This thing looked like the woman was its caretaker, not its owner. It was incredible, and I don’t use the word “incredible” lightly.

Once it caught it, my eyes were captured. I stared like the moron I am from the first spotting from maybe fifty feet out in the lot, until it rumbled its way into the store and past me. It was a wonderful day here to Austin- sunny and mild, and the mild, bright sunlight sent cascades of sparkles off that shiny, pink fabric in hypnotic jumbles and swirls. By the time I managed to refocus my eyes I saw that the fifteen others around me were just getting their focus back as well.

“Holy shit,” the elderly woman standing beside me said. Then she grabbed my arm and urged to me, “Please Mister, would you look to see if I’ve got one of those?”

I did, she didn’t. I told her, “No Darling, but I do like your belly piercing.  Is that a shark’s tooth?”

Then all the other women were getting opinions from me. I guess I looked like an expert on the subject. So after a few minutes of playing FDA inspector and passing judgment, someone suggested to me, they said, “You outta tell that woman she’s packing. It would only be right.”

I went to the car and wedged my groceries to the back seat, got myself seated- a job into its ownself- started the car, and then started to thinking. A mind is a terrible thing to waste, but terribler in the wrong hands. Terrible-more?

My first actual thought was if steroids could possibly be the root cause behind this woman’s loaded crotch. But the other muscles didn’t match steroid rage, so I discounted that. I moved on to more profitable thinking and I wondered, “If a woman has a world class camel toe, should you say something to her about it?”

A very, very good question. Now, don’t shut down on me because you think I’m inappropriate. Go with me on this for just one more minute. Think about this with me.

OK. Supposition Number 1: the woman either knows that she’s got a double-wide flap of woman meat bulging from her crotchie, or not. Right? She either knows or doesn’t know.

Supposition Number 2: if she knows, she is proud, and: A, she wants you to look and compliment her, or: B, she’s trolling for a man that likes meaty-crotched ladies, in which case she wants you to comment.

Supposition Number 3: if she is totally unaware that she could play a stunt double for the butcher shop in the movie Rocky, then wouldn’t she want someone, like me, to let her know? Kind of like that dealie where you walk up to a stranger and say, “Look, I don’t want to pry into your personal business, but you have a booger hanging out your left nostril that looks like an African night crawler running from a fish hook.”

You know, that kind of situation.

So I’m thinking that maybe someone does need to man-up here and talk to the lady and since I never shirk responsibility, I’ve got a man’s job to do. I turned the Ferrari engine off, endured the exercise that is getting out of the little car, and proceeded back inside the store. I’m looking for the woman and realize all I need to do is follow the trail of glazed-over eyes.

I find the lady over to produce, inspecting a pair of the giant avocados that were on special at two for $1.00, a great price. Ever a man with a quick wit and light tongue I told her, “Don’t try to smuggle those out of here in your pants. That camel toe of yours will kick some avocado ass and you’ll be scooping your guacamole from a V-necked bowl.”

Now look. How much more clever and appropriate could a remark have been? I didn’t say, “Holy shit lady, how many days can your camel go between drinks,” or something rude. I didn’t ask her if she was ashamed of herself for keeping the poor camel cooped up, and I for sure didn’t say, “Hey lady, all I see are his feet. Where you hiding the rest of your camel?” Nope, I didn’t do any of that rude shit. I tastefully let her know that I knew and let the chips fall where the fell.

Anyway, this lady got a funny look to her face, smashed the avocados in my face, slapped me (hard) on each avocado-slathered cheek, and stormed-off to find the manager.

Having experience in similar situations, I stood where I was to wait for the store manager rather than run from the store. I have found store managers to be much better listeners than the police.

So I wait for like a minute, maybe less, for lady and manager to arrive. I think Sprouts has excellent customer service. That circumstance would take at least three minutes if we were to any HEB store. The lady tells the manager her side of the story, shows the camel toe to him after he asked to see the evidence, and told her, “Thank you, Miss. Give me your name and contact info and I will make a full report, and handle things from here.”

So, she thanks him, gives him her info, slaps me one more time for good luck, and storms off. “You,” he says as he points a stiffened index finger in my chest, “to my office.”

We get to his office and he closes the door, using the same stiffened finger points to a chair to the front of his desk, and says, “Sit.” Then he sits down behind the desk and opens the drawer to the desk and pulls out a pint bottle of Hornitos.

“Here, you first. Your exposure was far longer than mine.” He offered the bottle to me for a slug.

I obliged and passed it back and he guzzled a slug from the little bottle of tequila. He swallowed the booze with a grimace, looked first to the ceiling, and then he crossed himself in classic Catholic method. “Holy Mary, Mother of God,” he almost whimpered. “I wanted to touch that thing so bad I was shaking. I had the image of pulling a rabbit out of a hat.”  Then he pulled from the bottle again.

“I understand, young man, but that’s a forbidden fruit,” I counseled. “Men have got to be strong in the face of these new trends in womens sportswear.” I think I’m quite a good role model for this younger set.

“I’m not calling the police or anything, but we need to stay in here until she has left the parking lot.” Then he lifted his phone and had someone bring us some limes. “We need a drink.”

A young woman of maybe nineteen came in with the limes and said, “Better call the produce distributor, Harry. We’re almost out of avocados.”

Harry and I are now friends and he is coming over for Easter dinner out to the ranch. We’re having ham and potato salad and beans and guacamole. When I asked him who he was bringing for his date he said, “You’ll see.”

Mooner

Health Care, The War on Drugs, and the Food Bank

Tuesday, March 23rd, 2010

Sorry guys, but it is time for more politics. The Republican response to losing the Health Care Debate in Washington DC has gotten to me and I simply must air my thoughts.

Look, the Republicans enjoyed an eight-year reign as Lords of the Manor, acting and ruling as if their power came from God. I know that is what most of them think since they make decisions based upon their religious beliefs rather than the Constitution. And this time, when they gained control of both the Executive and Legislative branches with Bushie’s Presidential “landslide” victory back in two- triple-ought, they created a right-wing triumvirate supported by the already right-tilting Supreme Court.

Much to our Nation’s ill health, support of Bush’s iron-fisted, US-first Republican politics was bolstered with the 9/11 Attacks. As we Americans do when attacked, we fought back, focused and unified. We supported our President and trusted our CIA and FBI and military to take care of our interests and get that rotten bastard Bin Laden.

For awhile we even turned a blind eye to excesses and abuses in order to not derail our war on terror. We turned away from stories of torture, we shook-off incidents of civilian abuse by our soldiers as “boys-will-be-boys”, and we accepted as “necessary to the war effort” the massive contracts garnered by the political confederates of the Republican Party.

We believed George W. Bush when he sent a Dick Chaney duped Colin Powell to the UN to present the case for Weapons of Mass Destruction to the World audience. We bought it, Georgie, you duped us too. But I remember thinking as I listened to Secretary Powell as he presented America’s case, I thought, “General Powell does not sound like himself. Where is the stout heart I usually feel from him?” I figured he was just beaten down by the terrible pressures he was enduring from having accepted his political appointment, and trusted him. Them.

Now, the Republicans are in the minority of seats- Congressional bench warmers once again. Ousted because their own actions by an American public whose collective temporary memory could grasp nothing but, “It’s the economy, Stupid!” However, the Republicans act worse than a two-year old kid told to go to bed without his bottle.

But my ADHD is starting to digress me to distractions. Look, what I am pissed about here is Texas Attorney General Greg Abbott and his promise to, “Overturn this terrible health care bill.” Joining other State’s Attorney General asswipes in a Virginia Lawsuit, these bozos hope to prevent all Americans from gaining fair access to medical care. Stepping outside the boundary lines of our own State to stick his nose, the nose of Texas, into this National issue.

Why is he doing this, you ask. I know why- because little Ricky Perry wants to be President, that’s why. It certainly is not because he fears that the rights of Texans are getting stomped on.

If he cared about our rights, he would have bowed-up when Perry denied me my right to play poker. Where were you then Greggie? Where was your “independent” voice then? Why do you allow Ricky to take food from our babies’ mouths with no outrage from the Attorney General’s office?

Even though you guys have been elected to ruin our state for too many years running, you were not “anointed’. Your God did not grant you His voice to rule. Pull your Bible out of your ass to take some pressure off your brain and use it. Use your head and heart first. Republican Baptist buttwads.

My God is embarrassed by your hypocrisies.

Next, let’s talk about Mexico. Mexico has returned to the Dark Ages because they exist in a feudal state financed with drug money and greed. The greed is a universal human trait whose fire, when fueled by massive amounts of drug money, rages out of control. It burns the guilty and the innocent to the same charred remains.

This fire is consuming all the human tender within the Mexican borders and now- it has started to leap across American borders. Many Americans still see this as “their” problem, ignoring all of the evidence to the contrary. This is America’s drug war and we pushed it to south of the border with our collective stupidity.

It is America’s dumbass approach to “drugs” which has caused this mess. Our politicians, governing with their “Moral Compass” rather than the Constitution and their brains, are the reason this horrible mess exists. Just like with booze and Prohibition, pot and the War on Drugs is an unmitigated disaster.

Because the rest of Americans refuse to abide by stupid rules which defy us our right to enjoy our lives, American pot smokers have resorted to the same tactics employed by American drinkers to get a cocktail or a beer back to the Twenties. We import it, or we purchase from some brave soul willing to take the risk to produce products locally.

The net results of the War on Drugs are identical to Prohibition. Thugs and gangs brutally enforce control of their territories to illegally import pot to the US, users of the products are raided and jailed for their casual use, and innocent people suffer.

Wake up, people. These Mexican cartels cannot fight their battles without the billion dollar subsidies granted them by American laws and policies. Legalize pot with intelligent laws just like with booze. Remove that cash flow from the coffers of the cartels and put it into our economy. Grant a subsidy to the American people and remove it from the hands of gangs.

And don’t start on me with your, “American laws do not subsidize drug cartels,” bullshit. Are you stupid and blind? If you make pot growing a licensed business (just like booze and beer production), and you distribute and sell it through authorized channels, again like booze and beer, and then enforce sane laws to discourage driving while impaired (wait- we already have that), we can yank the $billions from their coffers and break the backs of the cartels.

Put all of that cash into the hands and tax offices here to home. Stop shipping it to the cartels.

I know, I get it. Now you’ll say, “Yea Mooner, but then those baddies will use coke and heroin and crank and to finance their activities.”

And I say, “Fine. Great. Hip-hooray! We just cut their budget by 75%, reduced their market population by 90% and eliminated all but the worst of the American offenders.” Now maybe we can focus and kick their butts!

Sounds like a win to me.

Besides all of that, it would help Streaker Jones to legitimize some of his commerce.

And please, everybody. Help, make a donation to the Food Bank and assist me to get more readership- pass this trash to someone else. Now goodbye. I need to go get some sausage for dinner.

Mooner

The AMA, Iraq and Afganistan War, and Sandra Bullock

Monday, March 22nd, 2010

Who was the first person to say, “No good deed goes unpunished?” I want to send them a card or nominate them for some kind of smart person award. I am now neck-deep in crap and for no reason other than I try too hard to help.

First, let’s talk about this bloggy job. It’s a blog, people. It’s not a radio show, or a phone call or an e-mail, and it’s for sure not an open invitation for you to come out to Mooners Compost Plant and try to punch me in the nose.

No, it is a BLOG! Respond to my rantings and ravings here. Nowhere else.

So. If you want to respond in any way about any thing I say here, do it here. Post your thoughts or ideas to the bottom at the “COMMENTS” dealie to the end of any posted entry. Hell, make yourself to home and write something as a comment to all of them if you feel the need.

But stop calling me to work and the ranch and my cell phone to bitch at me. Bitch at me here. Don’t e-mail me because I won’t read it or respond. And for shitsakes stop coming after me to do bodily harm. I’m tough enough to whip most of you all by my lonesome. But if you were to manage to penetrate my personal defenses, you’d be dealing with Streaker Jones.

Please don’t make me clean your body fluids and tattered parts off the floor if Streaker Jones comes to my aid.

But this one Russian psycho therapist buddy of Dr. Sam I. Am calls me, and he says, “Well, Mooner, I would like to say something both in support and in opposition to your positions. But I must maintain my anonymity. Any breach or disclosure of my personal thoughts and opinions would be detrimental to my professional rapport with my patients.”

So I told him I wish Dr. Sam I. Am would keep her personal thoughts to herself in my therapy and you know what he said? He says, “Well Mooner, Sam shares the problems confronting her in her work with you in our peer supervision sessions. You are so crazy she needs our help. We fly in from all over the world to meet and discuss your problems.”

Well of course they do.

He went on, “I simply can’t have my name or e-mail address appear on your website.”

OK, fine. It won’t. I must have missed the part where he said something supportive.

Look here- when you comment below one of my posts, you are asked to supply your email address. That is not for publication but it is rather the only method I use to censure comments. If I have your e-mail address I can be sure that you are not a “Spam-bot” or some evil hacker.

If you are not some evil doer of computer crimes, I promise I will post your comment. I will only cut anything you say that I deem to be illegal. I am inappropriate to the extreme, but at least marginally law-abiding.

So comment away. Just do it here. Thank, you.

But in the face of making myself a liar, I do want to respond to a few of those previously-mentioned inappropriate comments.

First of all, I like Dexter Pittman and I was only trying to help him. Mark my words- in the weeks before the NBA Draft, all of those talking heads over to ESPN will parrot my comments.

Second, all of you chemical companies can kiss my ruby-red, spit-shined and cut to look like the Eiffel Tower redneck butt! Weed-and-feed products are nasty poisons and pollutants and need to be removed from the market. Send that shit over to Afghanistan and Iraq and bring our boys and girls back to home.

That crap will cause more ruin in five years than than the decade of George W. Bush-directed military actions have. So go ahead and sue me you caustic chemical making Republican right-wing Baptist fuckballs. Comment below and I’ll give you my lawyer’s info to send the papers.

I don’t know if this is third or should be labeled fourth, but third, I’ll quote Gram. She said to me, she says,” Mooner, you done caused me a shitstorm over to tha church. How could you talk about that Spriggie store and not mention the HEB or the Central Market? Pastor Browningwell sent Leticia over to sit with me and your Aunt Hilda to discuss it with us. Mighty embari-assin, Mooner. Mighty.”

I’d like to bare my ass at my Gram, but she hit me with a 410-gage shotgun loaded with rock salt the last time. I am required to listen to that old gasbag’s nonsense without negative reaction. I flash her just the one time while she was on a date and she blows half the hair off my butt with a shotgun.

Pastor Browningwell is Gram’s Baptist preacher and Leticia is his wife. And “yes”, the self-same Mrs. Browningwell who was my teacher, and more. HEB and its spawn, Central Market, are owned by the HE Butt family from down to San Antonio. The Butts are huge Baptists and Baptist as it gets. I am non-discriminatory so I shop with them, but I refuse to promote them. Besides, grapefruit was only 2 for a buck at my HEB, so I went to Sprouts. Sprouts has a limited selection when compared to most places, but they have great specials and the limited selection has great variety.

My butt is shaved in a replica of the Eiffel Tower for the moon show I have planned for when I take Dixie over to Paris for her big award night. I’ve got sparklers and fireworks and some other stuff and I plan to do it up right for her. I tell you this because I just know someone will ask, “Why’s your butt look like the Eiffel Tower?”

Fifth, I will respond to the American Medical Association in like-kind to their mailed complaint:

Dear AMA:

Fuck you. Nowhere in the six pounds of wasted-paper research, enclosed with your pissy letter, do you provide any hard research that disproves my theory of the attacking heart. All you do is blame the poor person for smoking or over eating or not getting enough exercise.

I get that a person’s habits can be bad for their heart, and I will say right here that nobody should smoke cigarettes.

However, my Gram buggerates me way beyond what any man has ever done to his heart, and I have yet to squeeze the life out of her. I want to, I have dreamed of it, often, and planned it a few times, but never acted.

But these hearts don’t have a heart. They just plunder and kill and maim with abandon, and often with no warning at all. Zero, zip nor zilch. Hearts attack people and we need to start keeping a close eye on them starting like when we, and the heart, get to be about maybe forty, I’d say.

Now, leave me alone and go find a cure for the common cold.

Sincerely,

Mooner Johnson

OK. Sixth and last. Google called to tell me that their search engine is ignoring my website because I don’t have good keywords. The sweet lady went on to explain that because I talk, “Like a backwoods hick,” it is likely that the search engines will continue to ignore me. When I asked Ben, my personal computer guru, about all of that he said, “That’s OK, Mooner. Just get other sites to link with you.”

Now I just need to figure out how to link. Dixie told me I need to be careful with whom I link. She was out with the Snoop Dog the other night after his concert here to Austin and he was telling her that the X-Rated porn sites have almost ruined his bloggy job and the website too.

I’ll figure it out but will use all of the help you can give me.

Also, I want to shout out to Delores. I passed all of your thoughts on to Gram and she said to tell you, “Tell tha D-girl that the f-cacentrics of her potions will improve ifn she’ll add just a touch a the magic shroomers. She can call me an I’ll give her a professional discount on some spoors.”

I tried to explain to her that Delores is less concerned with the efficacy of her formulas than she is with the historical correctness. Gram doesn’t understand following either a recipe or instructions.

And Gram went on to say, “An Mooner. Tell her that I got a potion for potion makers called, “Potion Smart Maker”. I’ll special price that un too.”

Delores is a regular responder and commenter to these pages.

Oh yea. I just thought I’d put Sandie’s name to the top to show my support.

I’m hungry, so goodbye. Mooner

South By Southwest, Stewart Udall, Oprah Winfrey

Sunday, March 21st, 2010

Hello everyone. I bring you glad tidings from the frozen tundra that is Austin, Texas. I’m still up from the all-nighter we pulled down to the South By Southwest Music Festival. Streaker Jones, Dixie, Gram, Aunt Hilda, Sister and Anna the Amazon, P-cubed and I made the trek and, of course I was the designated driver.

I’m always the designated driver. I have the CDL Driver’s License so I drive the bus.

It was a great time this year- really good bands, really cold beer (well, duh, its twenty degrees outside) and I only got into one altercation. The bands and cold beer were welcome and the fight was not my fault.

See, there’s this man from Gram’s Baptist church who lost his job with one of the big chemical companies. I hate big chemical companies and write stuff about how you should stop using chemicals on your lawns and gardens. Therefore, ibso proto mento, I caused him to lose his job.

So, were walking around at the SXSW drinking beer and having a grand time of things and we needed to make a pee stop. Making a pee stop at a festival is always an experience in and of its ownself, so we all made our way to the closest row of porta potties. Now look, I do not approve of porta potties because of all the chemicals, but there were too many ladies in my party to just use a cup and carry it with me. Gram’s OK with it and she’s the one that taught me how, but I was talking about “ladies”.

As we get there to the temp johns and take our place to the lines, I hear this drunken voice yelling at me, “Mooner Johnson, you disruptive shit!”

I turned and it was this guy, Maynard Miller, the Baptist former chemical worker. He’d gotten a temp job manning the porta cans, his allotted row of cans next door to one of the music venues. Being as cold as it was, the proprietors of the music venue were keeping their beer kegs out back to save energy and kitchen space. Maynard was abusing their inattention to the stored beer barrels, and he was wearing a cheaply-acquired shitface.

Wasn’t much of a fight. Gram poked him in the eye and Dixie had him solidly by the crotch of his shorts before he ever got to me. He started crying about how I ruined his life.

Man had a point.

We got to talking and I told him he could have a job out to the compost plant if he would quit smoking cigarettes. I don’t allow smoking employees. He said, “OK, I’ll try.” Good enough for now.

Anyway, Stewart Udall died, and I am totally bummed. You guys remember who he is? He is the granddaddy of the entire environmental movement as a mainstream issue. He was the US Secretary of the Interior back to the sixties and he raised six kinds of Hell to save US Park lands and promoted sanity with the Environment.

Before Secretary Udall took his stands, the Environmental Movement was known by another name- “Hippies, Communists and Subversives.” This brave man was the first “corporate type” to speak up for the protection of the Planet. Of course, since he was early in the movement he was chastised and often lumped in with us Hippies and Communists and Subversives. Without him I don’t think the Environmental Movement would have made it out of the sixties yet.

Bless you Stewie.

OK, let’s do some business. I would like everybody who reads this crap of mine to post a comment. Tell me what you like, or don’t, and how you found me. Don’t be shy, tell me exactly what you think. I have thick skin plus my psycho therapist tells me I’m too stupid to catch most digs.

But here’s the business part. I’ll have Dixie judge a contest for the “most interesting comment”. The criteria will be: the keyword you used to find me; your likes/dislikes; and Dixie’s arbitrary nature. That dog can be a real bitch sometimes.

The winner will receive an autographed copy of my new book, I’m Not That Crazy, or How Oprah Winfrey Almost Ruined My Life. I reserve the right to disagree with Dixie and to end the contest at any time and also the right to award more than one winner at my whim.

I do, however, promise to be fair. Mooner

Geeks, Goats, Grapefruit and Basketball

Friday, March 19th, 2010

What did I ever do to these inter-net or ether-net or whatever-net geekoids over to all these research engines? This is getting ridiculous. Four days of being web hosted and posted and bloggerated on a daily basis, and I still get no respect. Why won’t they recognize my web stuff? You still can’t Google and get here.

Gram said its because I have bad cornerstones. “Lookit, Mooner child. You can’t build nothin right unless you got good cornerstones.”

When I told her, “Its keystones, Gram, not cornerstones,” she said to me, she says, “Who gives a shit Mooner. Keystones, cornerstones or kidney stones they’re all the same. You ain’t got yer stones right and all you git is stoned.”

Then she added, “Here, baby. Take a few droppers of this potion.”

I looked at the label- hand-written in my Gram’s chicken-scratch. “Enternet fixer-upper Potion Version 1.6 Beta,” was the potion’s name. And under symptoms and cures it read, “Calms yer nerves while you work on yer com-pooter.”

When I asked her how she had researched this “enternet” malady and why this was a “beta version”, she said, and with a chuckle, “P-cubed and me was over to tha coffee shop down to the Drag over at the UT. You know tha one with all the college boys. We parked the Fararie there to the front in the H.-iecapper spot an sat onna hood drinking a cuppa joe. Cops all know us sos we don’t tickets fer not being crippled.”

OK, look. P-cubed is Penelope Paxon-Parades, Gram’s best buddy from way back. “Fararie” is the bright red 550-horsepower Ferrari that Streaker Jones gave her for her birthday last year when neither she nor had I killed the other. If you live here to Austin and you hear the screaming wail of a massive 12-cylinder engine accompanied by the sounds of gears grinding and horns honking- duck and cover because my Gram is dangerously near.

Gram is a highly sensual and sexual woman and she craves stimulation. The reason you will find Gram and Fararie both parked to the Drag is simple. When I asked, she answered. “That’s where we find the prime tenderloins, Mooner.”

And don’t start on me with any of your, “That ain’t right,” or your, “No self-respecting college stud would bed a saggy old goat bladder like your Gram.” A $250,000.00 bright red, 550-horsepower Ferrari will blind and labotomize 99% of all heterosexual males under the age of 25. Or maybe age 55. My Gram’s sexual exploits would make Tiger Woods blush.

Anyway, turns out that the two ladies scored themselves a dorm room full of computer majors and got some “enternet” education of their own. Why isn’t it a room “fulls” of computer majors?

Gram’s new potion tastes a little like that time Streaker Jones dared me to stick my tongue to the belly of this turtle we had back to fourth grade Spanish class. Mrs. Browningwell was mightily aggravated when I puked in the turtle’s aquarium.

And now I’m pretty down about my UT Longhorn men’s basketball team. Coach Barnes needs to spend the summer building us a point guard. Or buy one for crapsakes. Hell, I’ll put up half the money. OK, while we’re on this subject, I need to vent my spleen to Dexter Pittman.

Dexter, you listen to me. I know you lost 80 pounds. I know that and applaud you for it. But pay attention to me here. You have got some mad, badass basketball skills that are going to waste. Basketball is not fun when you lose. Basketball is not fun when you let a pissy little set of Demon Deacon forwards rebound your shorts off.

Stop smiling on court and get yourself a mean man attitude. You can own the paint if you’ll just stop being so happy about getting yourself in shape. 80-pound weight loss? Old news, Dexie. Get mad at those little shits when they try to invade your space. Get your hands up and stop slapping and grabbing. Belly-bust the skinny little asswipes and make them pay a Dexter Tax. Stuff the ball through the net and down their throats! Bite somebody or something for shitsakes.

Start smiling when you string a nifty run of double-doubles together for some NBA team. Smile at the little kids that admire you because you lost 80 pounds and you then went on to be a solid pro player.

OK, a drink recipe. The Texas ruby-reds are in season and cheaper than a three-dollar lady down to Matamoros. Five for a dollar over to the Sprouts store just last week.

Slice the grapefruit in half and cut the section divider thingies as if you were planning to eat them. Scoop those out into a glass bowl, squeeze the remaining juice into the bowl and then put the bowl into the freezer with your Tito’s or Dripping Springs vodka. When the grapefruit is almost frozen, mix it-sections and all, with your vodka in the tall, thick-walled glass-glass you keep in the freezer with the vodka and grapefruit.

No ice!

Don’t get me wrong, this is not a cold Carta Blanca. But yummy good. Like Gram says. “That there tastes like another.”

And somebody please answer me this. When I was standing to the sink washing my grapefruits for the drinks I was planning to serve at the BBQ, I looked at the bottle of organic veggie scrubber and noticed that the main active ingredient was “grapefruit oil”.

So, I’m standing there to the sink with four-dozen big ruby reds, veggie wash up to my elbows and with all of those grapefruits rolling all over the place, and having trouble remembering which were washed, which not, because you can’t tell by smelling them, because they all smell like a fucking grapefruit.

Streaker Jones wanders in and asks, “Where’s tha drinks, Mooner?”

I tell him all of this and I ask him, “If we’re using the oil from a grapefruit skin to wash the grapefruit, isn’t that an oxymoron or something? Why am I wasting my breath on this dealie when I can be out there making sure that Gnat’s boyfriend is cooking my goat right?”

“Fergit tha goat, Mooner. Wash the ruby reds.”

I went with Streaker Jones on the grapefruit. But it takes a special man to cook good goat.

South by Southwest Update

Thursday, March 18th, 2010

I was just reading Henry Hammond’s book, Moonlight Massacre/Midnight Murder: The Truth About Mooner Johnson. That’s the book Henry wrote when he tried to convince the world that I was guilty of murder when I killed Walley Smalley out to the compost plant.

Look, I did kill Walley but it wasn’t murder. I swear to God. He attacked me first, a fact which was proven at my trial, and I was acquitted of all charges. Henry Hammond is a snively little Baptist butt-weasel.

But I am digressing you here. Just thinking about Henry causes my ADD to go on the fritz.

I had the NPR station tuned to the radio on low volume while I was reading and I heard this live feed from the SXSW music festival. Sorry, that’s the South By Southwest Music Festival. It’s huge right now with musicians, and celebrities and music lovers pouring in from all over the world.

The live feed was from Stubbs BBQ- you know the place that sits between the 40 Acres of the University of Texas and the Texas Capital. Great place. I was there to Stubbs this one time for a fund raiser for the group that raises money to provide for the medical needs of musicians who can’t afford medical insurance. I can’t remember the name of the organization but I’m pretty sure that the Topfer family is involved.

I did some business with the Topfer family a few years ago- erosion control and re-vegetation of a development project using compost and mulch. Very good people. That’s where I met Sally and that friendship developed.

Sally is a musician at heart, a big heart that is trying to fail her by attacking. They are called “heart attacks”, like something is attacking your heart. That’s not right in my opinion. See, I think those medical events should be called, “Attack by the Heart.”

Like when a guy dies and you read his obituary it should say, “Otis Branhiemer, age 52, died suddenly Wednesday, the victim of a murder/suicide when his ungrateful heart brutally attacked him as he watched his favorite TV show, American Idol. Family sources report that Otis’s heart had been stalking him and making what Otis thought were idle threats. Police will not file charges as the heart took its own life in the senseless attack. Officials hope the heart’s autopsy will yield some answers.”

Sally is recovering from her attack by the heart and can now count on the musician’s medical support thingie to assist her. But millions of Americans can’t get health insurance and they aren’t musicians. When their hearts attack, they are basically fucked.

And now to get to my point. The Great Health Care Debate going on in our Congress right now. You guys know the one. That’s the debate where these asswipe elected officials, who have life-long family health insurance which is paid for by other people (you and me), are arguing that the rest of us do not deserve the same benefits of American citizenship as they have.

Now I get the part about the cost and the pork barrel add-ons, the donkey vs the elephant issues and the rest of the political bullshit that accompanies any Congressional legislation. The Democrats are as guilty as the Republicans on that count.

However, as far as I am concerned, until any elected official who opposes this health care legislation votes for the full revocation of his own health benefits paid for by taxpayer money, he is a small-minded egotistical uncaring asshole. To deny the rest of us what we pay for you to enjoy is the worst of hypocrisy and narcissism.

And to say that you won’t support it because of some thoughtful coverages in certain abortion situations is the stupidest stand you can take. Stop using your religious convictions to rule my life. It’s like these Bozos have forgotten the history of why they are free to enjoy the practice of their religion. Remember the Pilgrims?

The saddest aspect of this issue to me is this. Your typical right-wing Christian religious fanatic fails to see his own fanaticism and thinks that he is fundamentally different from the Taliban.

“Have you lost your mind, Mooner?” you are asking me. Maybe, but I’ve got this one nailed with a cold read.

The Taliban wants to rule based upon the tenants of their interpretation of their bible, the Koran. They are willing to force others who are non-believers to oblige their rule. They are willing to kill to enforce their will. They think that all non-believers will rot in Hell.

Now listen here folks. I grew up in the Baptist church and I can guarantee you that interpretation of the Bible is different from the Catholics, as an example. I sat in many services wherein the Baptist preacher explained that the Catholics are Idol Worshipers and heretics and would burn in Hell for the sins of differing interpretation.

And I have heard a Catholic priest urge his followers to murder doctors who perform abortions. I have heard preachers and other religious leaders praise the murderers after their murderous acts.

Governor Rick Perry refuses to allow me to play poker openly in my own state because it’s against the religion of his right-wing Christian backers. Sure he says its because we have to save the children from the evils of gambling, but that is simply a lie. If that shitwad really cared about our children he would work to make real improvements in education and stop cutting funding for child-related services.

Holy shit is my ADHD digressing me to total distraction.

OK. I was reading Henry Hammond’s book about me and he was going into these detailed descriptions of the people in my life. Henry did this to provide the background for his imaginary facts. But it got me to thinking that if I can give you some accurate info about the people in my life, it might increase the pleasure and satisfaction of your taking the time to read my dribble.

So. I’m going to start today with a brief blurb about one of the characters in my life, Streaker Jones.

Streaker Jones is my lifelong best buddy. We grew up together, adolesced together, college matriculated together, de-virginated together (not with each other but with the same college cheerleader down to Mexico), and we are in business together. His daddy is a Peyote Indian medicine man, I can’t tell you who his mother is (I know, but can’t tell), he has a super genius IQ (when he was tested he discovered errors in their evaluation methods), he raises any plant and animal crop that produces a naturally-occurring hallucinogenic agent and markets the resulting products, and he is the finest man I know.

He’s kind of funky to look at but women flock to him because of his eyes. He is the master of dozens of black belts, or whatever highest rank, given for mastering an art of self-defense or combat. He’s the smartest and most dangerous man on the planet, and still the nicest man I know. I wouldn’t want to mess with him, or his, but he is otherwise almost saint-like.

You will never see me call him by any moniker except “Streaker Jones”. That, as my Gram sensed, is his name. No nickname or aka or use of first name only. And for God sakes not “Mr. Jones.”

Like Gram says, “Looka here. That boy is Streaker Jones. Git over it.”

So, get over it.

Also, this website and bloggy job have been up for two days now the the research engines still have registrated them. What’s up with that? Could it be my keystones?

And don’t buy Henry Hammond’s book. I’ll tell you everything you need to know right here.

Not All Green Is Good

Wednesday, March 17th, 2010

OK, it’s time to talk about the Environment. Here to Austin it’s already warm and Spring-like and folks are starting to fertilize their lawns. That would be a good thing if most people were not idiots. The average Joe the Plumber here in town will see a commercial for weed-and-feed fertilizer, sponsored by some major chemical company, while he’s watching the NCAA Tournament.

In this commercial, this once unhappy homeowner poisons his yard with some weed-and-feed product and experiences life-changing results. The miracle product turns everything it touches green and kills everything but certain grasses. The poor TV sap’s brown grass magically turns emerald green, the nasty infestations of crabgrass and dandelions disappear, all the fire ants have been turned into tiny, empty husks and his erectile dysfunction has morphed into the spawning of eight-toed offspring.

Joe the Plumber doesn’t mind the possibility of bearing prodigy with extra digits, so the concept of a single-product fix for his anemic lawn appeals to him. Off he goes to the big box store to search the garden shop for a bag of Godzilla Nukes the Prairie, Pudont Chemical Company’s hot new lawn care product.

When he arrives to the store he asks one of the helpful store employees how much he needs. Said helpful store employee replies, “I don’t know, I just started. Let me get someone who can help you.” After a half hour or so of waiting, Joe takes matters into his own hands, flips a bag of Godzilla over and starts to read the back.

He brought Joe Junior along on this manly hunt and after a minute’s worth of label scanning, Joe says, “Junior, put the chain saw down and get over here. There’s so much tiny words on this bag I can’t tell what’s what.” Then he adds, “And looka here- they put two skull-and-crossbones on this package. Its gotta be good.”

Junior, sixth grade honor student that he is, reads before acting. “Well Daddy, to boil it all down, can’t use it if you have kids, or pets, or respiratory conditions, or heart condition, or skin conditions or any other health problems. You can’t breathe it, or get it on your skin or eyes, and for God sakes don’t eat it because you’ll die where you stand. It pollutes the air and the soil. You can’t let any of it escape our yard because it will pollute the water supplies downstream from us. It is really toxic to birds and fish and amphibians- maybe that explains the headless frogs we caught.”

Junior went on, “Looks kinda unsafe to me, Daddy.”

“Heck sonnyboy, long as it won’t effect my hemorrhoids, were good as gold. And the frogs was funny bouncing around and bumping things. Now what’s the application rates?”

“One bag for each 5,000 square feet of lawn, Pops.”

“OK, let’s see. We have a quarter-acre lot and a 3,000 foot house. How many feet of grass is that

Junior?”

“Well Daddy, a quarter acre is about 11,000 feet less the house and driveway and sidewalks, let’s say we have about 5,000 square feet of lawn.”

“OK, let’s get us five bags and spread it out before the rain. I’m sick of having a brown yard.”

Now again, dear readers, I am not making this up. In fact, that scenario will be repeated thousands of times over the next month and tons of weed-and-feed will be purchased and dumped into our watersheds. People buy the wrong products, apply them at the wrong rates and at the wrong times.

But look, this weed-and-feed dealie is more than just those issues; it is the very product in itself. For starters, those are all products with formulas designed at the main offices of the big chemical companies, and the logic behind each is to reach the maximum sales possible with the smallest product line. That’s why the formula in the bag on shelves down to Atlanta, Georgia (soil pH6.1) is identical to the bags here, where Austin soils can exceed pH of 8.

I won’t bore you now with why that formula regularity gives me the squirts, but trust me here, that is one bad strategy for the Environment.

Here’s the rub. Weed-and-feed is a major oxymoronic nomenclature. Unless you have my inappropriate sense of humor in which case it is evil. I see weed-and-feed, and I think “poisoned food”. Think of it like your teenage daughter, Sissy, is a little heavy through the hips, has acne and can’t get a date to the prom. Assume also that you are a way-back-in-the-woods redneck.

So, you head over to Bubba’s house and get the kid a Hefty Bag labeled, “Bubba’s March of Ought Ten Micro-brewed crystal meth,” for Sissy’s weight problems. Then you wait till late that night and take the family over to the vet’s office and rob the Doc of a box of canine antibiotics to fix them zits. Might as well grab some of them horse tranks for you and Momma to party on while you’re there. You are after all, a multi-tasker.

Skip ahead nine months to the dentist’s chair. “What in the hell has happened to this kid’s mouth, Sonny?” This from Doctor Venables as he inspects Sissy’s ravaged mouth. “Six teeth already fell out, nine more getting pulled, her gums are black and bleeding and the poor kid’s blood pressure is sky high.”

Oblivious to ridicule, Sonny is proud of his daughter. “But don’t them shorts and halter top hang nice on her doc? And her skin’s like a baby’s butt.”

See what I mean? Lost weight, clear skin and near death. Same thing with your lawn and those products. And once more, forget that these one bag fix-alls are toxic poisons that kill every carbon-based life that they touch. Using these products are the same dynamic as Sonny’s cures for Sissy.

Oh sure, the dandelions die and sure, the Saint Augustine gets green. For now. But just like Sissy, in just a few months time, everybody is Jonesing for another fix while their roots rot out, and the earthworms sizzle in a chemical bath as their little hearts beat themselves to death.

Use organic products folks! Even the big box stores have them. Use compost, seaweed liquids and organic fertilizers. And for Pete sakes follow the label for proper usage. Even a starving man can eat himself to death.

If you will use the right products wisely, you will have a prettier lawn with fewer weeds. If you don’t know what to do, go to a local plant nursery or garden store and ask. Or listen to the radio on weekend mornings and catch John or Cheryl on their garden shows.

OK, I promised more on the “Inappropriate” business. See, I think it all started when I was at a fund raiser for the Capital Area Food Bank. I was there with Gram and Streaker Jones and we were saying, “HI,” to everyone. We walked over to where all of the press was standing and this voice says, “Well, well well. If it isn’t Mr. Mooner Johnson- the most inappropriate man in the world.”

It was my buddy Michael Barnes, the guy that does all of the society news and stuff for the local paper. And then the rest of the newsies took it from there. Next thing I know, I’m on TV and they call me “The Inappropriate Gardener” after I accidentally jammed a splinter under my fingernail during this live segment where we’re showing how to plant tomatoes using composted soil.

Why is “fuck” such a bad word anyway? I mean it’s not like I’m the only person who uses it. Anyway I issued a written apology and paid the TV station’s FCC fine, so who gives a shit.

This inappropriate man thing starts to steamroll and I get home out to the ranch one day and I have this big Certified Mail package waiting for me on my desk. Most of my Certified Mail is lawsuits and that sort of stuff so I didn’t open it right away. A month later I was to home when another Certified package arrived, mailed from the same address.

So I open this one and it’s this pretty certificate naming me the most inappropriate man in the world as determined by a poll conducted by US News and World Report. Curious, I opened the first Certified package to discover that I had been nominated for the honor by, and I’ll quote the letter here, “One-hundred-percent of the legitimate newscasters from the Austin market.”

Bunch of fuckballs. Like having a pretty smile legitimizes your inability to string two cogent sentences together. Besides, I think the only legitimate news people left are the guys in print, like Michael Barnes. But alas, they aren’t “news casters” are they?

Nope the “caster” part puts them on the radio or TV, like Rush Limbaugh-cheese-smelling Republican asswipe. Or most of those right-wing religious bozos over to Fox.

Anyway, what made me want to talk about your grass was because you want it to be green and today is Saint Patrick’s Day. Happy Saint Paddy’s Day!

My next posting will be an article I wrote for the newsletter for the compost association bunch. It is many years old- I was still married to Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson. But since today is a holiday and I’m talking about idiots, maybe you will like it. Later- Mooner

I am Sorry

Tuesday, March 16th, 2010

It only figures but I have already received my first scolding over my blog. I got a call from Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, my psycho therapist, first ex-wife and the mother to my kids. She said to me, she says, “Look Mooner, you must cut-back on your cursing if you want a broad audience.” When I told her, “I don’t care if you broads read it or not,” she was unmoved.

“Look, buster,” she chided me. “If you don’t want to increase your therapy sessions to twice daily, fix the cursing you inappropriate man.” And then she added, “Oh yes. Have Gnat proofread that nonsense before you publish it.”

“Fine,” I snapped at her. Bitch. (unspoken, but heartfelt)

Anyway, I promise to not cuss too much and I’ll have Gnat proofread stuff when I have the time. Just not this time because I don’t have the tmie rite nwo.

OK, next I need to thank LJ for informing me that it’s Sal Mineo. It would have come to me sooner, or later. That’s how the ADHD effects me sometimes. Of course sometimes it affects me and I get maudlin and start to drool.

I also know that Kinky Friedman didn’t run for Governor this time. I was talking about last time. But thanks, Texas Turd Floter, for the comment. And please do not count this as a cuss on me- that’s the boy’s true identity.

I’ll finish with an answer to one of your questions about Dixie. Yes, she’s a talking, singing dog. The record she cut was for use in rice fields to improve plant vigor and seed-head production. I’m having it translated from the Hindi language of the original cuts and will have it for sale over to the website. That’s maybe answering four questions, but who really gives a?

As soon as I get the chance to learn how to do it, I’m going to post a blogger dealie and print one of my articles I wrote for Shit Happens, the newsletter for the Central Texas Composters Association.

And let me finish by saying that I have only killed one man in my entire life and that was by accident. I swear to God.

Good night.

How Many Mooner Johnsons Does It Take To Post A Webpage?

Tuesday, March 16th, 2010

I hate computers. I just spent an hour writing the initial content for my new website’s homepage. I then spent four hours unseccussfully getting it from Microsoft Word-to save-html-to FilZilla-to whothefuck knows. My computer consultant, Ben Mineo at Balcones PC, is one of those geeky genious computer types. I watched Ben load the hompage you see now when you go there and I carefully wrote each step down as he did it. I highly recommend Ben if you need an in-home computer fix or if you need help to figure out how to do something. He works hard, fixes stuff, is reasonable and doesn’t make you feel stupid for not being a geek. I’m sure he walks out my door and starts tweeking or twirping or whatever the shit it is these kids do.

He’s likely texting, “U giz wont b-leev. Muner Johnson iz such a Bozo. Ask me how 2 create a folder. Crazy old bastard is riddled w the ADHD 2. Hilee inappropriate.”

Of course, when I wrote the new content and went to paste it or post it or whatever it is that you do when you do that to change a webpage, no dice. So I figure I’ll just post to my blog where I can just get in front of my dashboard and type.

So, I’m pissed about Rick Perry as it seems he might get elected again. I love Texas but Texans are starting to rankle my hackles. It’s bad enough that we followed Georgie Bush Junior with little Ricky poo. But holy shit kids, what are we thinking? We Texans keep electing a man to run our state who makes his decisions based upon his personal religous principles. This asswipe Republican shitbird rightwing Baptist Aggie won’t let me play poker because of his “Christian” thinkings. Ignorant shit like that.

We should have elected Kinky. He’s Jewish, but he wouldn’t be telling the rest of us we can’t eat pork and we have to wear those little hat jobbies or wear those corn-roll ear tails like an Hassidic. We need to stop electing politicians who have never had a real job. And being a lawyer or working for a politician are not real jobs. A man needs to prove he can support himself in a meaningful profession before he can run for office. The college kids that park my car at the vallet down to the Z Tejas are better prepared to make good decisions than these brain-dead shitballs we keep electing.

I need to ask Ben if he’s related to Sonny Mineo, that singer. Or is it Sam Mineo?

Anyway, I wrote a book titled “I’m Not That Crazy, or How Oprah Winfrey Almost Ruined My Life.” That’s the reason I’m even getting involved with all of this website and bloggy shit. My publisher, Pulled Pork Publishing, is refusing to print until I get 10,000 requests. Rotten shitwads. That problem started when US News and World Reports named me as, “The most inappropriate man in the world.” So, when I get the website up and running, I would like you to place an order for the book. I’ll also be selling lots of other neat stuff.

Unbelievable. They said that my moonshows, my coarse language, my ten failed marriages, and my multiple arrests for murder were my qualificationsto the world’s most inappropriate. My Gram said, “Mooner, yur a disruptive little shit an that’s why.”

I’m six-feet four and what the hell does “disruptive” really mean? Or “inappropriate” for that matter. I mean please. I do get in fights often but I never start them. Like the one last week over to the Lesbian Alliance. Sister, that’s my lesbain actual sister, and Anna the Amazon- that’s Sister’s wife and my actual third ex-wife, invited me to a meeting of the Lesbian Alliance for show-n-tell. The girls were making presentations to the group as to just why they are lesbian, and I was their “show” part.

Anyway, Dixie was there with me and I got us each a cold Carta Blanca from the bar there to Guerros Taco place. Dixie is my talking dog and she like Carta Blanca almost as much as me. So I’m patiently waiting in line for my beers and I get into this discussion with one of the ladies about something and she just sucker punches me for no reason. Swear to God!

But don’t worry. I got off the floor, it wasn’t too dirty, and poked her in the eye with a slice of lime. Bitch then grabbed my wrist and yanked me into a bear hug. I must have passed out because all I remember is waking up in my truck with Dixie bitching at me.

Oh well. I need to go make some money to pay for all of this Inet shit.

Hugs and kisses kids. I’ll be back.

Mooner

Hello World

Tuesday, March 16th, 2010

This is the first posting on my new blog and a test, at that.

If you are a mature adult with a sense of humor, keep in touch. I will be providing you with some good stuff.