Archive for April, 2010

Sandra Bullock, Chelsea Handler, Kathy Griffin and Oprah Fight Over Mooner Johnson (Part 2)

Thursday, April 29th, 2010

So. I’m asleep in my bed last night and I’m dreaming about Sandra Bullock, Kathy Griffin, Oprah Winfrey and Chelsea Handler. I am the judge of the Miss Celebrity Camel Toe contest between these four of my favorite women, and the contest is heated. Likewise, my dreams are heated due to my garlic and onions diet.

If you don’t keep up with things here to the bloggie, I am on this diet to get some respect and appreciation. I will not take a bath or brush my teeth while on this diet until I get me some. Respect, that is. SAC Ellen impressed upon me that I won’t be getting any loving until I end this personal habits routine. Actually, what she said was, “Mooner, you smell like the dumpster at Quality Seafood on a hot August day. Call me when you eat some meat and take a bath.”

I think that means I won’t earn her respects until I get my respect.

There’s five categories of competition in the big dream contest: an evening gown, khaki pants, swimsuit, and exercise gear competitions as preliminaries, and a final “open” category. The ladies are each in their finest fettle, and each has won one event. Oprah Winfrey stunned the crowd, and the judge, in her sequined Valentino number. Cascades of shimmering light escaped Oprah’s well-defined toe. The light was like the beacon atop a lighthouse- both as a warning and a summons as to what might lie beneath the sea of organza fabric of the fancy gown.

In a surprise win, Kathy Griffin won the exercise portion of the show, looking absolutely ravishing in skintight gear from Doe Skins. I knew she had been working out recently, but I hadn’t seen her since her last Austin Tour stop. Her well muscled look was as captivating as was her pouty pose.

No surprise to anyone, Chelsea Handler won the swimsuit competition by a mile. Since I’ve seen her naked, I knew Chelsea has magnificent womanly charms to display. In this dream competition, she showed both her hidden charms and her sense of humor as she flashed me a luscious moon on her pass down the runway.

Sandra Bullock won the khaki pants event by a camel’s nose. I really wanted her to win the whole thing, but her heart just wasn’t in it. She withdrew after her first place finish in very fashionable slacks. Men can be such shits. This I know with the absolute certainty that comes from my being a shitty man.

So. With the score tied at one win each, the final Open event was going to determine the winner. Each of the three remaining contestants had chosen to pose in Lycra tights covered with flowing robes. The final pose-down was done like one of those body builder dealies with the contestants jostling for position to get the Judges’ attention. Soon a cat-fight developed and I stepped on stage to break it up.

Next thing I know I’m all tangled up in in the womens’ robes and I fart. This giant, raucous and ugly garlic and onion fart. The ladies stop fighting because they are gagging and I fart again- this one worse than the first. Chelsea says to me, she says, “Mooner Johnson you inappropriate shit, I’m gonna torch you off if you fart again.”

Of course I fart again and wake up screaming. I’m all tangled in my bedsheets and Dixie is lying on my face. Through sweat-filled and matted dog hair that fills my mouth I say, “Wuth thah fuhh, Dithee?”

Dixie says to me, she says, “I can’t decide which end of you smells worse, Mooner, your ass or your breath. I just decided to try and smother you to end my misery.”

“Well you just ruined the best dream I’ve had in weeks,” I told her. “Now get out of my face so I can dress for our trip to Sprouts.”

My dog aggravates the shit right out of me but she is right. I’ve got a touch of the BO from not bathing for three days now, but you can’t even smell my pits from my other ripenesses. Maybe that would be “ripenings”.

I’m dying to brush my teeth and I’m so sick of this garlic and onion diet I could slit my own throat. I’m sitting there to dinner with the family last night and my Gram is tormenting me. She’s waving every forkful of her sweet bean tamales in my face.

“Mmmmmmmm,” she says. “Wouldn’t little Mooner love a bite a my tee-mallies?”

She’s administering this torment like I’m a baby who won’t eat without a little food tease.

This morning my mouth feels like the French Army bivouacked in it. I love that word, bivouacked, but the feeling is just awful. And my breath would melt a block of ice sitting in the next room.

But it is the farts that are the killers. Dixie and I needed to go to Sprouts and then to the body shop, both over to US 183 near the Great Hills/Arboretum area. The trip to the grocery is to get some more grapefruit, and the need to go to the body shop is a recurring need.

See, my Gram learned how to drive in a 1903 John Deere tractor while plowing a four section sized farm up to the Panhandle. To you non-farm informed, that means she was driving a big, open farm tractor with a top speed of maybe six miles-per-hour. And all of this driving was done on perfectly flat land that was a big rectangle that was one mile wide and four miles long. I don’t know where you live, but here to Texas a section is a one-square-mile chunk of property.

And since my Gram never really learned how to drive a tractor at six miles per hour on flat land, she’s hell on wheels driving a 550-horse power Ferrari at a hundred in the Hill Country. She did learn how to plow though. Dixie and I took her little Italian hot rod on our errands this morning because she plowed it into a bunch of those orange plastic barrels over to FM 2222.

Since Gram routinely plows into stuff, I have a standing appointment each month with the body shop I keep on retainer.

It’s a wonderful day here so Dixie and I were driving with the top down, which provided benefit other than driving topless. I was farting so much and they stunk so bad, that I might have asphyxiated us with the top up.

When we got to Sprouts, Dixie waited outside and sniffed around. She’s such a dog. When I got inside the store was pretty crowded and I had to pick my way around people. I guess something besides grapefruit was on special because there were people everywhere.

You know how when you are in a big crowd and you need to fart and you kind of hunch into yourself so you look smaller. And then you release the gas in little fits-and-starts as you walk. You guys know exactly what I’m talking about.

So, I’m taking advantage of the crowd and venting my blue vapors as I serpentine through the crowd. I hear gasps and, “What the fuck is that smell?”, and other comments. But I’m always a few yards away by the time my stinky gas slithers through peoples’ nostrils and attacks their brains like a computer virus.

I walk all the way to the back of the store to release my pressure so I can take my time standing still to the grapefruit display. It takes me some time to select produce because I take my time picking and I didn’t want my gas to get me into a predicament. I choose 40 perfectly chosen grapefruit, placing each selected orb carefully in my hemp cloth tote bag that sits in my little baby grocery basket.

Sprouts has these little baby carts that I like for short-list visits. I’m finally satisfied that I have both the correct number and quality of fruit so I start for the checkout line.

The store, like I already said was packed, and I was having trouble maneuvering the cart. So, I decided to ditch the cart and just carry the tote bag. I reached into the cart and with both hands, grabbed the straps of the tote, lifted the heavy bag and, “Phggrrraaaaappp.”

I ripped one of those farts that would win a contest on the Howard Stern Radio Show over to Sirius Satellite Radio. It was noisy and long and had multiple layers of volume and sounds. And brother was it stinky.

Eye-watering, lose your lunch, extinguish all smoking materials stinky. Standing trapped in a crowd of already teary-eyed shoppers who were nauseous from my earlier eruptions, the looks in the eyes around me said it all.

It really was one of those, “If looks could kill moments.” This one crazy old bat slugged me with her purse and then tried to choke me. Next thing I know I’m in the Manager, Harry’s, office, sitting in his side chair with my clothes ripped and torn.

“Sweet Mother of Jesus, Mooner. I had to give everybody their groceries for free and shut the store down,” my friend Harry informed me. “They will do tests to be sure, but the Haz-Mat Team says I’ll need to disinfect the walls and repaint.”

Harry is a good Catholic boy and honest and open minded. Until I met Harry I thought any two of those traits were mutually exclusive.

“Here,” he says as he sips the bottle of Hornitos tequila and then passes it to me. “Take a big slug of this and don’t fart in my office.”

“Hells-Bells, Harry. I didn’t do it on purpose, it just slipped out,” I told him in my manly-most voice.

“Don’t crybaby Mooner. You’ve got plenty of money to pay for the damages. Your real problem is that my boss, Regional Director McCoy, told me I would have to ban you from the store if you cause another incident. And I’m in love with Patty, so I can’t date everyone you pissed off this time.

Harry is dating Patty Pritchett, the woman whom’s camel toe created the incident here awhile back. Maybe that might be who’s camel toe. No wait, I know who’s it was, so let’s go with whom’s camel toe.

I had the happy pair out for Easter dinner to the ranch. They are a cute couple but I see trouble brewing in the east. See Patty’s a Wiccan and Harry’s momma is an old-school, Latin-is-the-only-language-for-mass kind of Catholic girl.

Gram says we need to call Patty “The Wicc’ster”. Says she “sensed” it.

I say Patty cast a spell on Harry’s heart because he’s taking Patty home to meet Momma.

“What do you think I should fix for the big dinner Mooner?”

“I’d say sacrifice a lamb for your mother and a rooster for Patty. That way you can be sympathetic to both tribes.” I offered him the animals but he passed.

Holy shit but I am digressing all over the place. My point is that I don’t know how much longer I can wait to be respected. I’m going down to the Long Center to the Chelsea Handler stand-up show tonight, and if I have another farting incident in a packed theater- I could cause a stampede and get arrested. Again.

A Fossil Fuel Alternitive; Psycho Therapy Sucks (Part 1)

Tuesday, April 27th, 2010

What does a man have to do to be appreciated? Sometimes I feel like all I do is give, give and give some more and all I get in return is a load of crap. I give up my valuable time to walk Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson’s little shitbird dog, Squirt, every day rain-or-shine, busy or not and what do I get in return? Arrested.

Arrested and scolded by the fine doctor.

I follow my therapy homework assignment to a “T”, with one little exception, and agree to donate profits from my sales here to the bloggie to Health Alliance for Austin Musicians. And because I only scored a 90 on that homework (I see my attempt to get HAAM to market my products as a mere ten-point deduction from a perfect score), I get scolded again by Sammie like I’m a ten-year-old school boy who just mooned his appreciation for America’s Veterans at the big parade down to Congress Avenue.

Born on the Fourth of July is one of my best ass shows and likely the most performed of them all. The Veterans’ Day Parade was a big deal when I was growing up and I wanted to show my elders that I could be grateful. We’d been studying about the Vets to school in fifth grade Social Studies Class, plus Grampa was yakking about “the Big War” so much, until I wanted to do my part.

I had planned the first of my July 4th celebration moon shows for the big parade. Red, white and blue-painted butt cheeks were adorned with the American flag and banners from all of the Armed Services. I even included the Coast Guard banner because Pastor Browningwell had been in the Coast Guard and his wife, Leticia, was a teacher to my school and she made sure we got that, “The Coast Guard is a Veterans group, children.”

The moon show went great until I set a lit punk to the 1,000-pack string of Black Cat Firecrackers serving as the finale to my show. The firecrackers set my underwear ablaze at my ankles and started quite a stir. I don’t make that mistake anymore as all of my pyrotechnics occur off-site from the main attraction.

Since I’m visiting Dr. Pain-in-the-Ass ten times a week these days, I told her at this morning’s session that I am not taking this lack of appreciation any more. She’s scolding me to beat the band and Squirt, that little shitball, is sitting there grinning and dissing me under her breath. Which brings to the surface another entire situation to which I am not appreciated.

In all of the years since I first realized that Dixie could talk, she has only spoken human-speak to me. When she was a puppy I couldn’t distinguish her mewling from the battalion of other noises that rattle inside my skull. Once I understood that this one childish voice I was hearing was my sweet puppy talking to me, and not my own early childhood memories come back to taunt, I was elated. I felt special.

I felt special for having a doggie who could talk and we could share our problems and solve life’s mysteries together. That specialness lasted like maybe a month before I realized that Dixie would only speak to me and that Dixie is female. For whatever reason, I stupidly assumed that my dog would be grateful to me and that somehow she would express her gratitude in un-womanlike ways. Maybe that should be not womanlike ways.

Nope. Dixie is no different from all the other women in my life- she takes advantage of my kind heart, spends my money like it is her own, and she talks back. Now, she is teaching Squirt to talk to and back at me, and only me, and Squirt is abusing me like I’m her owner. I can’t even get respect from man’s best friends.

After like something close to the full fifty minutes alloted to this morning’s therapy session spent with Sammie six feet up my ass and her goofy dog smirking at my discomfort, I said, “I got it. I’m not gonna take a bath until I get a little respect.”

“No problem, Mooner,” responded the psycho therapy queen bitchball. “You don’t smell so great to start with.”

You don’t smell so great to start with.

Then Squirt added, under her breath of course, “Mooner got in trouble, Mooner got in trouble!”

“Nanny-nanny-boo-boo to you too you little shitball.” A clever retort from a clever man.

“We’ll see who’s zooming who in a couple of days,” I told the two of them. “I’m going on an onion and garlic diet. And I’m not gonna take a bath or brush my teeth.”

I’m now discovering that an all onion and garlic diet is something akin to an all ice cream diet except without the ice cream. I once made it four days eating nothing but ice cream before I caved in and ate an entire roasted goat. But I’m having difficulty making it through my second pungent meal without something not colored white to eat as a filler.

My hope is that cold Carta Blanca beer will help me keep the wheels on the bus during this road trip to appreciation. Actually, this might be one of those rare instances wherein my ADHD/ADD might be an attraction rather than a distraction. Maybe I’ll get all brain fritzed and forget how miserable I am on this limited diet.

Did you ever light farts as a kid? We all did and it was great fun. The first scientific research project Streaker Jones and I ever did was this one where we determined which foods produced the best gas. It was a simple testing model with simple criteria since it was our first attempt. We were looking for the largest fireball.

Basically, each of us kids- Streaker Jones, Sister, Woozie, Walley, Tony and the rest of the gang, each of us would eat only one food for an entire day. Then that evening we’d all meet up to the Baptist Church and gather in the Sunday School Classroom that brought me so much mental anguish growing up.

It was summer so we could all stay out late, and our parents were all so very proud of us for spending so much time in church.

Being boys, and Sister a lesbian in-training, we were only interested to discover which foods sparked the biggest flames when lit. Since Sister was naturally the most gassy of us all, we used her as the baseline tester. Whenever one of us boys hit on a good food, we’d have Sister eat it the next day for Beta testing. We didn’t call it Beta testing and I’m not disparaging my sister.

When I say Sister is naturally the gassy-est, I only mean that she farts when she drinks water. I was not knocking lesbians.

The church classroom was this long, skinny rectangular thing with three small windows on one wall and two parallel rows of light fixtures with exposed incandescent bulbs running end-to-end. I got my first hand job in this same room a couple years after our ass-gas experiments were interrupted. Wait, my first hand job that wasn’t administered by a Baptist Boy Scout Adult Leader as I lay petrified in my sleeping bag to Aquatics Summer Camp.

Fucking asswipe Baptist shitwad.

So, we would pull the drapes tight to the windows and turn off the lights. Part of the fun was the metal chairs with molded seats. The molded shape was like two big hands cupped and held close together, like if some giant was using his cupped hands to get water from a bucket. You guys know those chairs. They added an extra dimension of sounds as we farted and fidgeted our butts around to release and ignite our gases.

In the darkened room, I was the starter because I had a Zippo lighter, and Streaker Jones was the scientific observer because he was the smartest. Streaker Jones is still the smartest and I carry that Zippo to this day. We set the drapes on fire when we decided to see if the seven of us could produce one big fireball.

We could.

Anyway, my point to all of this is that onions and garlic were top five on the Streaker Jones Fart-Flash-O-Meter rating system. I remember that broccoli was number one, a fact I still don’t understand, and of course pinto beans was two. I forget what came after garlic and onions but who gives a shit.

Maybe for nostalgia’s sake I’ll torch a few when I get home tonight.

Health Alliance for Austin Musicians Needs Our Help

Friday, April 23rd, 2010

Sometimes psycho therapy is just too much for me. The last thirty years of my therapy have been one of those, “Take one step forward, get back on the horse and tell me how you feel,” kinds of dealies. I know I’m getting better I just hope I don’t die before I feel better.

Actually, I sometimes want to kill myself because of the therapy.

So. I’m in session this morning and Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson- that’s my psycho therapist, first ex-wife and third biggest pain in my ass. Of course Gram is first-in-line on the ass-pain list followed closely by Dixie, and then Sammie. I’m doing twice-daily sessions five days weekly right now because I keep getting arrested so often.

Usually my arrests are not my fault but sometimes they are, and this I know with absolute certainty. OK, this I certainly know until I’m in the first therapy session after an arrest. Usually these sessions occur to the jail or the Loonie Bin where I typically spend my arrested times. I’m certain that not all of my arrests are my fault until my therapist convinces me otherwise.

Like this morning.

Today’s therapy business was after Pat the plumber from Pat’s Plumbing Company came over to change the leaky kitchen faucet out to the ranch. Pat had told me I shouldn’t have gotten the Moen fixture when he installed it just a few month’s ago. Something about a vacuum valve that leaks after a short time. What Pat actually said was, “Thanks for the work Mooner. I’ll be seeing you again soon when the vacuum valve goes out on this thing and it floods your kitchen.”

I like Pat because he does good work, has fair pricing and he doesn’t say, “I told you so.” I hate when somebody does that nanny-nanny-boo-boo crap. You can get Pat at www.pattheplumber.netfor just about any plumbing need. Tell him Mooner said to call. He won’t give either of us anything if you mention me, but at least he’ll know I appreciate him.

“Mooner, would you look at me when I’m speaking to you?” starts ex-wife-therapist-ass pain Dr. Sam I. Am. ”What part of, ‘I had to race home from my European vacation early because you were arrested for sexually abusing my dog,’ sounds like this is somebody else’s fault to you?”

If you are a regular reader, you know that I was accidentally arrested the other day but is was not my fault. Check out Wednesday’s bloggie post and you can read all about my innocence.

“Oh shitcicles, Sammy. I never touched the Squirt’s goodies. I was just doing a scientific observation. It was the ‘close-in first-person observational technique’ I was using, so my guess is that old lady just has bad eyesight.”

“That ‘old lady’ you are talking about is one of my patients, Mooner, you nut-case. She and Squirt are good friends. You scared her to death.”

Dr. Sam I. Am sometimes uses Squirt like a sort of prop when she has especially frail-brained patients. For some reason having that little shitbird in the room for psycho therapy helps some people relax. As far as I’m concerned, if you need a trouble-making mutt in your therapy sessions to make improvement- you should can the psycho therapy and get drunk instead. You’d get better bang for your buck.

It doesn’t really work for me to get drunk instead of therapy because I am not frail-brained. Nope, in fact my diagnosis reads, “Subject Mooner Einstein Johnson is….. fat brained, thick skulled, inappropriate and blah, blah, blah.” However, a dozen cold Carta Blanca beers do help me to assimilate what information the brain doctoring provides.

“But I still don’t get why this is all my fault,” I whined. “Why is everything always my fault?”

I feared I said that like a petulant child.

“Oh stop acting like a 4-year old you crazy old fart. Act your age and take responsibility for your actions. I have a homework assignment for you and if you screw it up- I’m locking you up at Shoal Creek.”

Then Sammy added, “Mooner, are you paying attention to me?”

“Who me?” I asked. “I was just wondering if Dixie taught Squirt how to dribble one little pee drop like she does. That would be just like Dixie.”

My damned talking dog is a pain in the ass.

“Look, here’s what you are going to do. I want you to choose another charity to sponsor on your website and blog. Just decide which one it will be and do it. Do something for someone else and you will feel better about yourself, which might help you stay out of trouble.”

And then she added, “And don’t you dare call the charity to see if they will help you do any marketing of your silly books and products. You need to make a true and charitable deed for others if you want this to work. Don’t try to link with their website or ask them to have a book signing for you.”

Why do women always have to “add something” when they lecture?

“Bite me and bill me. I’m tired of you and I am outta here.” Sometimes I am truly clever.

“And keep your nose out of my dog’s ass, Mooner. I mean it.”

So when I got out to the compost plant I got to thinking about what charity I like enough to put on an even keel with the Food Bank. I was cogitating around and remembered telling you guys about my friend Sally. You know Sally, right? I think I told you about her back on like March 16th, or so.

Sally is the musician who was attacked by her ungrateful heart and almost put down for the count. Sally has a big heart and it nearly got the best of her. And I think I was talking about Sally because I was talking about the health care debate and how lucky Sally is to be covered by the Health Alliance for Austin Musicians, or HAAM.

These are really great people doing good things to help support our city’s artists in a very meaningful way.

So, I called over to HAAM and spoke with Carolyn- she’s the main poobah over to the Alliance, to see what kind of arrangements we might make for some joint marketing. You know, the cross-pollinating that occurs when two groups promote each other. I already knew that HAAM would be more than reluctant to do this but I had to ask.

Of course Carolyn explained that HAAM protects its “Brand” like a mother lion protects her cubs, and that linking to my webbie or to hold a book signing for me would be problematic, of course. But I had to ask. I’m a businessman for shitsakes, so I had to ask.

So I tell Carolyn- just as I told the nice folks over to the Capital Area Food Bank, that I’m going to contribute 5% of the gross sales from anything sold here to my webber and bloggie to HAAM even if they won’t tie themselves to my stuff. That’s just the kind of guy I am.

I understand why people don’t want to be too closely tied to me. This one time, when she and I were still married, Ingrid and I were role playing in the conjugal bed. Actually we were role playing in the conjugal kitchen, where I was doing an ass show I titled, “Julia Childs cooked my Christmas goose.” Ingrid had dyed and shaved my butt hairs to look like a Christmas goose’s cooked carcass, and we had adorned my pecker to be its neck, and head. Had a pretty bow draped around the goose’s neck, and the eyes and beak were made from plastic containers we melted down and molded to fit.

I made a handsome Christmas goose, all plucked and browned and dressed, and Ingrid looked mighty fine in her apron.

Part of the scenario was to have Ingrid, in the role of Julia Childs, truss my goose for the cooking. Ingrid was trussing herself to me with handcuffs and those plastic retainer jobbies the police use instead of handcuffs. We were trying the plastic restraints for the first time because we kept misplacing the keys to the cuffs and getting into embarrassing situations.

Anyway, just about the time we’re fully invested into our role-playing scenario- you know, the spot where Ingrid says, “Bon Apatit,” Sheriff Wozniac breaks down the door and barges in to arrest me, again. Seems it was reported that a man matching my description had mooned the Governor’s motorcade down to Congress Avenue earlier that day and the little shitbrain politico had sworn out a warrant.

Fucking Republicans do not have any sense as to what humor truly is.

Wait. Ingrid is another of my ex-wives and owner of Ingrid’s Hot Wax Emporium. She plucks, and waxes, polishes and dyes my butt and pubic hair for my moon shows.

But look here because my ADD is digressing me to distractions. Click here to and give Carolyn or Jennifer a shout.

And a check.

Maybe if you guys donate enough money I can get a mention over to HAAM.

City of Austin Employee Does Kind Act

Wednesday, April 21st, 2010

I saw something this morning that gave me a renewed appreciation for people. I want to give a special “Thank You” acknowledgment to the man driving City of Austin solid waste truck number 10G758. This was at about 8:45 am this morning and it was in the area in the Northwest off Anderson Mill near to US 183.

Now I know you are dying to know what I was doing over to Anderson Mill at that time of day so I’ll tell you. Dr. Sam I. Am is on vacation and I drew the short straw to walk her little rat dog every day. So Dixie and Streaker Jones and I are doing the almost hour-long up-and-down-the-fucking hills walk with this little shitbird.

Sam doesn’t allow me to use the actual names of her “children” in any of my writings, so let’s just call the little runt “Squirt”. Squirt is this half wiener dog and half Mexican Chihuahua ball of smarts and energy. A long and muscled body with short legs support a head that is more Latin than Teutonic. She’s way smarter than Dixie, has more spunk than a nine-year-old gymnast and has somehow learned to pee one drop at a time.

Squirt and Sammie live in this nifty neighborhood that’s all hills, so this morning’s walk is real exercise. I’m in pretty good shape for an old fart, but this little shitbird drags me breathless the entire route. She wants to run the whole way at full clip, all the time making these immediate, jolting stops to drip one drop of puppy pee in spots which seem to be predetermined by Squirt.

We make maybe 137 of these stops on each walk. OK, we make exactly 137 of these stops on each walk. I have counted them. I’ve counted them each of the six days I have been walked.

Yesterday I got pissed at getting jerked around by the ten pound brute, and at stop number 126, I lost my temper and yelled at her.

“Nobody needs to pee this much you little shitbird. Your dry-peeing is worse than your dry-humping.”

Squirt loves to dry hump folks.

Anyway, Dixie is teaching Squirt how to talk, so Squirt says back to me, she says, “Flockinsieg your glickenstiner und tu cerveza Carta Blanca.”

Dixie is using an ultra-intensive language teaching method where you teach multiple languages at the same time, so I usually need a translator at this early stage of Squirt’s lessons. I say, “Dixie, what the hell did she just try to say?”

“Well, asshole,” my loving dog started, “Squirt just told you she wants to piss in your beer.”

“Crapsicles Dixie. Could you at least get her to where I can understand her insults before you teach her how to talk back.”

Why does every woman in my life talk back at me?

So today, at pee stop 88, when Squirt pulled us over to the curb to pee, I squatted quickly to the ground with my face to Squirt’s butt so I could see if she was actually doing anything. She squats her little tushie to the grass and looks over her shoulder at me with a grin on her face. We stare for maybe three minutes. Squirt stares at me with that grin, and I’m glaring at her little wedge of girl dog plumbing.

Then Squirt says to me, she says, “Waaaaait…. waaait… wait… Now!”

And on “Now!” the muscles around her rear-end do a little dance and this one, pathetic drop drips out.

Holy shit guys, I am ADD digressing this compliment of a City worker to death.

The point to all of this is that as I was squatted down at pee stop number 88 watching Sam’s ungrateful poochie drip a drop, the driver of truck number 10G758 was performing a remarkable act of kindness.

The driver was emptying trash containers on his route, which I assume is his job. Should be a safe assumption since Wednesday is Sammie’s trash day and this is a City truck picking up the trash. According to the brochure Sam left for me to read so I would be certain to get her trash properly picked up- the driver’s job is to: …”drive, stop at the can, and push the button that starts the mechanical process of container dumping, finish said process and drive away.”

The driver does nothing else. Cans must be placed, just so, at the curb in just the right spot and by the right time. I believe all of that because I have seen homeowners in other parts of town racing down the street behind sanitation trucks, pulling their big containers.

But the driver of number 10G758 must dance to a different drummer. He was at this one house with a very steep drive where an older lady lives. Maybe she has a man living with her, but I have only seen the lady. The big truck stopped, the driver got out, and he walked maybe thirty paces up the steep drive and brought the lady’s container to the curb. I notice that he did properly place the container at the curb so I know he read that part of the memo.

He dumped and drove to the next house. And as he passed our group, me on hands-and-knees with my nose stuck up a dog’s ass, he gave us a huge toothy smile and a wave.

Of course, after we left Squirt with her “sitter” I got pulled over by a Sheriff Deputy. To quote the officer, “Step out of the car, sir- hands where I can see them.”

“What now?” my stock and standard reply to these situations.

“I said show me your hands sir. You don’t want me to Taser you, do you sir?”

I replied, again my stock and standard, “Not today, officer. My girlfriend works the late shift on Wednesdays so I don’t need the Taser jolt or the resulting stiffy. But please, pray tell, what did I do now?”

“Sir, a nice lady over on the next street was dumping her trash and saw a man molesting a little dog. You fit the description of the man. Now tell me what you did with the dog.”

Anyway, I’ve got a court appearance next week to clear all of this up. But I need a favor from you guys.


Please tell the City what a good guy drives truck number 10G758- click on You have to click to get to the City site and then click “Contact Us” to wiggle through their web trickery.

Happy B-day George Takei- I Admire You

Tuesday, April 20th, 2010

Oh my!

Today is George Takei’s birthday. Happy birthday George from one of your most… from your best…. from the world’s number one…

From me. Happy birthday from Mooner Einstein Johnson, George. Happy Birthday from a man who just became unsure of what it is he wants to say to you because he wants to say so much.

I started to say your “most appreciative fan” and then I wanted to say your “best fan” and then my ADHD-addled brain started swirling and I had to put down my Postie Notes and re-cap my Sharpie, and stop writing. I have enough trouble reading my handwriting when I translate my notes on Posties here to the bloggie, but when the ADHD/ADD gets itself all wound-up and my brain is fritzed- the term “Lost in Translation” refers to the translator rather than that which gets translated.

I just know that will all make perfect sense after you think on it a bit.

Look. Here is precisely what I want to say:

George Takei, I admire you.

I admire you in many ways. I admire your honesty. I admire your huge heart. I admire your sense of fairness. I admire your ability to forgive. I admire your sense of humor, your ability to laugh at yourself and your laugh. I admire that you have the balls to say what you think and to stand up for what you believe. I admire your standing up for what others believe even if you disagree.

George, if I was a gay man your husband, Brad, would need to staple those “Stalker” poster dealies around your neighborhood and carry my photograph with him because I’d be gunning for you. If I was gay you would be everything I would be looking for in my man.

Until I met you to the Howard Stern Satellite Radio Show, the man I would want to chase was my college buddy Lloyd. I think that you and Lloyd would be great buddies if you met. Lloyd loves musicals and he’s got all of your same human attributes.

Plus, he looks like Johnny Mathis. If Johnny Mathis had German ancestors. And he can sing like Johnny too.

Wait, George and Lloyd, I don’t mean you’d make good boyfriends buddies, I mean good guy friends buddies. I’ve broken-up way too many marriages already to be messing with other men’s wedded blisses. Wedded blissi, maybe.

Lloyd and his partner adopted children in need of adoption years ago- way before it was a popular thing to do. I haven’t met his kids but I know with a dead certainty that they had the finest parenting kids could have. I don’t know his children, but I know Lloyd.

Lloyd and our other buddy Pat are the two of my old college buddies I most admire. As a single father, Pat raised his kids himself and has gone on to be one of the few lawyers in the world that I would shelter from a shitstorm.

Pat has distinguished himself with his work providing criminal defense for the defenseless- standing up for the rights of people whose rights get trampled. He’s kind of semi-retired now and spends time teaching at the Texas Tech Law School up to Lubbock.

Maybe semi-retired are the wrong words. My guess is that Pat is more like spreading himself thinner than before. You know, he’s still got just the one spoonful of peanut butter but now he’s got two slices of toast.

Lloyd lives out to California near Los Angeles and he’s working for a medical appliance manufacturer and of course, he is in Customer Service.

You can tell for sure that my brain is fritzed because I haven’t seen either of these two guys for years, and thinking about George Takei has made me think of them. Hell, Pat and Lloyd likely don’t remember anything about me except that everyone thought that I was nuts.

I’m still nuts but I think this last thirty years of psycho therapy has finally found a little purchase on the slippery slopes of my brain. Maybe realizing that George Takei, a gay man, is more manly than I- a fully heterosexual man with ten ex-wives, is a sign of growth.

Now that I’ve been cogitating this over, I think that what this might be is a part of my attempts to miss people before they have left my life. Like my so-far feeble attempts to appreciate my Gram before she passes. Maybe if I tell George and Lloyd and Pat how much I admire them now, my acknowledgment might have some actual meaning to them, and not just me.

Telling people you admire how they have lived their lives has little meaning to anyone but yourself when the first telling takes the form of a eulogy. You know, like the difference between when your mother makes you apologize to your sister for setting her hair on fire and if you had been smart enough to apologize before Mother even finds out about how you needed a punk for lighting your Cherry Bombs and struck a Match to Sister’s pigtail.

The first “I’m Sorry” is a sorry excuse for an apology while the other has true meaning.

What if I could find an actual way to introduce George, and Brad, to Lloyd? That might buy me a little credit in my Paid-forward Account of Life. Maybe I can Google George to find out where he lives. I could buy flowers and write a poem to George and surprise him there to his house. I know what George would say when he opened his door to me. He’d say:

“Oh my!”

Psycho therapy is seriously screwed up; Religional too

Monday, April 19th, 2010

First let me say I am starting to worry about Delores. You guys know who I’m talking about right? Dr. Saint Johnswort, the psycho therapist with all the early comments here to my blog. She wrote these very interesting comments in story form and each was filled with interesting stuff. I’m getting concerned that maybe I hurt her feelings or pissed her off.

That’s what I typically do. Since she seems to agree with my political positions, I likely hurt her feelings.

It might be all of the talk about Chelsea Handler’s camel toe. The entire camel toe dealie has gotten out of hand. Now these other sites are calling me to be a celebrity judge and asking me to “grade” the pocket poochies in photographs they send me. Go to and you can see what I mean.

I have agreed to do the grading but not judging. I think I have the skill set to grade but lack good judgment. When I was discussing this issue with Dr. Sam I. Am in my therapy session this morning and I told her about my thoughts as to the grading/judging stuff, she says to me, she said, “Well Mooner, looks like maybe therapy is doing you some good after all.”

“Whatthefuck does that mean?” I questioned.

Her only reply, with that shit-eating psycho therapist grin on her face was, “Think about it Mooner. You will figure it out.”

As much money as I pay for therapy, why do I have to figure everything out for myself? Seriously, what is up with that?

We don’t put up with that shit from anyone else. When I go to the auto mechanic because I can’t figure out what is wrong with my engine, and after an hour he says, “Well Mr. Johnson, I got this figured out and that will be $175.00.”

And then you say, “Well, Otis, what’s wrong with my car?”

And Otis replies, “Well, Mr. Johnson, what do you think is wrong?”

Then you say, “Are you fucking kidding me Otis?”

And then Otis says back to you, he says, “No, I am not kidding Mr. Johnson, the only way your car will ever get fixed is if you figure out what’s broken and how to fix it.”

After I finished bashing Otis in the head with his own 9/16ths open-end wrench- this one a Craftsman from Sears, I tell him, “After you figure out why I smashed your nose you can decide where to get it fixed.”

I don’t go to Otis’s shop anymore.

Anyway, maybe it is my ADHD/ADD or maybe I’ve sucked down too many Carta Blanca beers, but Sammy’s logic escapes me.

And look, I know it is “Dos Equis” beer and not “Dos XX”. But really, who gives a shit?

And did you guys know that Buddha is having his birthday? Like maybe he would be 9,485 years old today if he was still alive. And I have been spending quite a lot of time thinking about religion lately. Have you noticed that all religions are regional? What I mean to say is that all of these different Gods visit only small geographic areas when they visit.

Lends serious credit to my “One God” theory.


And since the two words, religion and regional, have just the one letter’s difference, do you think that just maybe this entire religion thing is just a typographical error?

I mean think about it. Back to when the only writing paper man had was a rock and his pencil was a chunk of sharp iron ore, we didn’t have any erasers. A scribe had to be mighty careful what he wrote down.

So maybe all of the ancient talk about “religion” was all started by some lazy scribe who misspelled “regional”.

Is that too deep for a bloggie post?

Now Hiring; Cleaning House

Friday, April 16th, 2010

All righty now, let’s do a little housekeeping. It is Friday and half way through the month so I want to clear-up a few things with corrections and additional information to insure your reading pleasure.

First off, I am not a writer for the Chelsea Handler E! Entertainment conglomerate, nor do I write anything for anybody else. As my Gram likes to tell me, she says, “Mooner, if I’d a wanted ya ta put words in my mouth I’d a gargled with pig shit.”

Then she’ll add, “That wud leave a better taste in my mouth.”

Knowing where my Gram’s mouth has been- I think mayhap she doth protest way too fucking much. Like I would want to pen dialog for my grandmother. Imagine what words would have escaped old Billy Shakespeare’s plume had he encountered my Gram. He’d title it, “Lady Mac Goat Bladder.”

Gram and the P-cubed spent another weekend locked up to a dormitory over to UT. That’s the University of Texas at Austin for my out of town guests. Last Friday we were cutting some of the spring calves away from their mothers out to the ranch- Gram, Streaker Jones, SAC Ellen and I. The SACster had never been around cattle before and thought it might be fun.

Is fun for like maybe a half-minute until you see the look in those little calves eyes as you rip them from their Mommy’s breast. I mean literally from their breast. Gram kept telling me to, “Hurry yur shit up, Mooner. Stop yer grabby assin with Miss Ellen an grab them calves fer me.”

Then she added, “P-cubed and I got us dates over to the UT.”

When I asked her if the computer majors had called for an encore she told me, she says, “Nah, we’re takin tha car and lookin ta find somethin sportier.”

Sounded to me like she was taking her Ferrari to look at trading it for something faster. I told her, “Look, Gram, you don’t need anything sportier. What you’ve got is already more than you can handle.”

“Mind yer own beeswax, Mooner.”

Anyway, this last weekend Gram and P-cubed took the Ferrari down to the Drag to troll for some college men and ended their journey in one of the athletic dorms. Little did I know that she was looking for something sportier than computer guys. That saddens me deeply.

I love UT athletics and to think that she might have scarred the psyches of my football team, well that is just too much for me to handle. I did call Deloss Dodds, he’s the big-time boss man for men’s athletics over to UT, and I offered to pay for Dr. Sam I. Am to come over and help straighten things out. He said he’d think about my gracious offer.

As for my Gram, she’s had a smile plastered on her face that looks like it was branded on. And she keeps doing this cheer, she goes, “Hit um agin, hit um agin- harder boys, harder boys!”

Gives me the chills to think it over. And the drizzle squirts as well.

Anyway, next I need to talk about the lack of development here to the bloggie and attached webber site. Or is the attachment a reverse-ways dealie? Whatever, there has been no development other than my stumbling over the map locater that shows you where visitors come from when they click onto the map.

I was looking for a bed and breakfast place in Alpine, Texas for the SACster and me to stay when we drive out there in a few weeks. I’m clicking around with my mouse thinking I’m making reservations for the two of us for three nights- with the full breakfast option, and the next thing I know I’ve got the map locater and a visitor from Kathmandu.

So. I have spent weeks looking for one, or more, persons to help me with this stuff. You know, design a logo, finish construction of the website, and make the bloggie spiffy. I have interviewed numerous designers and graphic artsy-fartsies, but none have suited me because none has found me to be suitable.

I was bitching about it over dinner last night. We were having cabrito- that’s roasted goat, sweet bean tamales and Mother’s pan fried potatoes. That’s Mother’s one dish best done, regrettably, and we have it often. I bought her a semester to one of the big cooking schools but she has yet to enroll.

Why are women so hardheaded? I mean really, what is up with that? If the dish I cooked best hit the serving plate looking like dried pinto beans and chewed like granite gravel, I’d take myself some lessons.

No amount of salt or pepper or ketchup helps smooth the path for that grit.

But Mother did have a pretty good idea about my need for some help. “Mooner, why don’t you see if you can put your blog to some useful purpose and use it to find some nice young people to help you?” Then she added, “Use young people, Mooner. Students would be best. That will be a mutually beneficial relationship.”

See, a good idea, right. Students will have fresh ideas, they were all weaned to the computer and Internet, and they know what’s hip in today’s culture. And I can get students to work for less! I’ll let them use their efforts for class credit and I’ll give them credit here in ether space. I can help to promote their careers.

So consider this an invitation to apply for work. Tell your friends that I have some work and stuff. Maybe I can even use students for some product development.

Apply by posting a comment.

SAC Ellen asked me why I don’t just go to UT or Austin Community College directly to find student persons. When I tried to explain to her that I have been barred from those avenues of pursuit, she just held up her hand to my face, like a policeman does when he signals you to “Stop”, and said, “No need to go on, Mooner. I get it.”

I guess we two have been dating long enough for us to have that ESP thingie that couples sometimes get.

The camel toe posts have turned-out to be the most popular things to attract visitors here. That surprises me. I thought it would be my erudite dissertations on politics and religion.

Actually, anymore- politics is religion. Wait, maybe that should be politics are religions.

Since I wrote about camel toes, I’m getting approached constantly by women asking me to evaluate their pocket meat. I am A-OK with that so long as I can perform the evaluation you desire without the need for any actual touching of the evaluated camel toe. SAC Ellen approves of my evaluating with eyes only. No touching. Woman carries a gun girls, so don’t push the issue.

And this word to my gay friend Lloyd. You packing your Size 40 ass into a 32-inch Speedo does not produce a camel toe. So don’t be asking me for an evaluation. Even I think that’s a tad inappropriate.

Oh, and I almost forgot. The woman who was part of the great teaching team for bloggers is Nettie Hartsock- and not the other Nettie. That one is Nettie House, Editor of Shit Happens, the newsletter for my compost trade organization.

Poker Players Alliance; Republicans Stomp On Individual Rights

Thursday, April 15th, 2010

I was going to wait on this one, but Poker Bonus posted a comment and spurred me to do it now. As I hope I have made clear to everyone, I do not like my government officials ruling my life while they are under the influence of their personal religious convictions. This nonsense seems like the norm here to Texas and maybe worse that most of elsewhere.

I am a member of the Poker Players Alliance, which is the amazingly professional trade organization for supporting the right all American People have to play poker. The PPA is working to fight much of the silliness and misinformation and politics that inhibit/prevent adults from enjoying poker. Poker as either a recreation or as a career.

You will notice that I use “American People” often in this post and you will see why later.

The rights of adult American People to play poker is under attack by right-wing Christian-backed, mostly Republican, legislators at the National and State levels. Based upon their personal religious thinkings, these lawmakers are trying to force the American People to live by the supposedly-Christian standards as preached by said lawmakers.

I say “supposedly-Christian” because in a search of the Bible, you will find not a single mention of poker. I happen to think that Jesus and the band of twelve played some ancient form of poker on those lonely nights they spent on the road.

But, of course, you might say, “Wake up, Mooner, poker is gambling and the Bible prohibits gambling.”

OK. First, the Bible does not prohibit gambling- maybe it says gambling is foolish, but prohibit it absolutely not. And second- if you think poker is gambling and has its results based strictly on “Lady Luck”, let me gather a few of my professional poker player buddies out to the card room to the ranch. Bring your paycheck and let’s just see what luck has to do with it.

Last fall the PPA sponsored a letter-writing effort to demonstrate poker players support for favorable poker legislation in the US Congress. I always participate, so I sent letters to my Representative, Lamar Smith, and my two Senators, Hutchinson and Cornyn, each of whom is a Republican. My letter explained to them the good sense it makes to support the legislative actions I recommended, and likewise the silliness in not supporting a particular law Bushie Boy pushed through.

To a one, I received the same basic response containing the same infected strain of infectious, diseased logic. I will discuss said responses in context of the letter, dated September 2009, that I received from Congressman Smith. In this letter, he tells me why he supports existing legislation that was designed to prohibit Internet poker playing. And remember that this is some kind of party line concocted by the Republicans to respond to the hundreds of thousands of PPA letters.

He says that the Internet has illegal gambling operations, which I am sure is true. As a matter of fact, that is precisely why the PPA is working to get smart laws enacted to provide known, legal poker sites where the American People can play responsibly. Safe, legal sites and with taxable sales and reporting.

If you are worried that adult American People are in some kind of danger playing at unregulated poker sites, providing regulated sites only makes sense. Right?

I guess not, at least according to my federal elected officials.

Let me quote the most telling of his remarks. You know we poker players love our “tells”. When he justifies his position to attempt to prohibit poker playing, Representative Smith says:

“I supported the enactment of H.R. 4411, the Internet Gambling Prohibition and Enforcement Act, in 2006. It has been estimated that this law reduced the weekly use of the the Internet for gambling from 5.8 percent of college-aged youth in 2006 to 1.5 percent in 2007.”

Huh? Are you fucking kidding me?

If I understand you correctly, Sir, all the justification you need to deny adult American People their rights is to have a perceived reduction in the “youth” population? Really, are you fucking kidding me?

OK, look. Let’s forget about the fact that he doesn’t provide the source for the statistics that his silly law produced a 75% reduction. And forget about the fact that he had to find that specific narrowly-focused statistic to drive his point. Notice he didn’t quote anything about under-18 youth, or mentally-challenged adults, that kind of almost-meaningful statistic.

Let’s also forget that he is talking of a reduction in college-aged youth. Let me think that one out- college-aged is what 18-22 years of age. Or 32-years old in the case of this one nephew of P-cubed who attends Texas State down to San Marcos.

Rep Smith classifies American People who can vote, drive and serve in the military as youths, but not as young adults.

Republican asswipe.

But in the interest of fairness, let us assume that this man got it right. That when the Legislature denies adult American People the right to do something, it will cause significant (75%) drops in under-age use/consumption of same. Where I come from, 75% is significant. And let’s assume that this reduction in itself is all of the justification we need to enact stupid, rights-restricting laws.

If I follow this line of Republican thinking, we need to enact any law to prevent adults from doing things if it significantly reduces abuse by our youth.

So, since 70% of all nineteen-year-olds have reported that they have been heavy drinkers, if we prohibit and enforce adult consumption of booze, we can reduce the percentage of heavy drinking youth by 75%, or down to 17%.

Holy shit folks, let’s have us a Prohibition. What a great idea!

And let’s move on to teenage driving. Teenage drivers aged 16-19 get 52.7% of all speeding tickets and have 61 accidents per 1,000 drivers annually. So, therefore, let us ban adults from driving and and then teens will only have 13% of the speeding tickets and 15 accidents per 1,000 drivers.

Hoo-yaa! Side benefit- fewer policemen on public payrolls. Hippity-hoo-yaa!

Wait, what about smoking? An incredible 34% of all high school students (actual youth) admit that they smoked last month. Outlaw adult smoking and what do we get- an amazing reduction down to only 5.7%.

Sign me up because I already think smoking should be outlawed. Why doesn’t the Bible prohibit smoking? If God really wanted to have these boys legislate for the betterment of the American People, he’d of said, “Commandment Number 11- Thou shalt not smoke tobacco.”

OK, childhood obesity. The US CDC says that 60% of American People who are children are obese. The main reason- improper diets. I say let us outlaw adults eating fast food, pre-packaged meals, soft drinks, candy, Twinkies, and any of that stuff. That will automatically reduce the obesity rate our American People who are children down to an even, very cool 15%.

Easy prohibition to enact, easy law to enforce.

Wait. Let’s not ban Twinkies, OK?

But here is the scariest. If we follow the Republican logic to the most important Christian issue, we get ourselves quite a conundrum. Of all American People under the age of 18 years, 74% of the females and 82% of the males admit to having been had in a sexual encounter. And an amazing 33% of the females had at least one pregnancy.

Soooooooooooooooooo. If Representative Lamar Smith will please sponsor a bill to prohibit and enforce adult abstinence from sexual activities, our teenage sex participants will average not 78% but rather a paltry 18.7%. And most important- under 18 pregnancies will plunge to but 8%!

Just think guys. All we have to do is give up our right to have sex and our kids will gain huge benefits.

Oh wait- what fucking kids? I can hear Governor Rick Perry’s public interest ad now, “Save a child’s life- don’t have children.”

I just love logical thinking.

But actually I can see one real benefit from banning sex. That means we would have a 75% reduction in shithead radical Christian terrorists killing and intimidating medical professionals and others who support a woman’s right to choose.

In his October 3, 2009 News Release, quoted here as posted to the website of the Right Reverend Representative Smith of the Texas 21st District, this fine American Person says,

“The role of government should be to loosen the bonds of restrictive regulations and punishing taxes, which lead to decreased economic growth, which leads to fewer jobs, lower wages and higher consumer prices. Policies should encourage job creation in our communities, not in Washington D.C. Decisions about our own lives should be left to the American People.”

Rep. Smith goes on to say that, “The Democratic Party is built on the sand of envy and jealousy and lack of trust in the American People. Republican principles stand on the rock of freedom and opportunity with faith in the American People.”

Really? If you stand so rock solid on my rights, then show a little faith in me and stop stomping on my freedoms.

My Jesus thinks this particular Republican is an hypocritical shitball. My Jesus thinks the American People should be free from the actual perspective rather than this crazy Republican’s imaginary “rock of freedom” bullshit.

Rocks in his head are the only thing Smitty is rockin’.

I hate government intervention in any area of my life. But I know that in order to have a “civilized” society, we need laws and regulations. But our government needs to stop burying us ever deeper into religious-defined moralities.

Leave poker alone! And join the Poker Players Alliance at as soon as you can.

And by the way. If you can find a faulty thread in my logic I would like to hear from you.

A Last Warning; Right-Wing Militia Shitballs and Jesus

Wednesday, April 14th, 2010

Why is it that people are so polarized these days? When I started this bloggie my intentions were to talk about what things are buggerating me to distractions, tell you to make donations to the Capital Area Food Bank, and then to sell some stuff to make a little cash.

I did not start blogging to attract any unwanted attention to myself, and for sure for any attentions I do attract, I intended to have those attractions be attended to here to the bloggie.

Wait, even I don’t understand what I just said. Let me try that again.

Please respond to me by making your sentiments known to me by posting a comment here to the blog. No phone calls, no letters and for sure no personal visits. This is my last warning that Streaker Jones handles my personal protection.

Look, I am sorry if you think that erudite discussions about camel toes are inappropriate. I am sorry if you think my left-leaning bias is offensive and I am sorry if you don’t like divorced men. I am sorry that you consider me to be, and here I will quote the Right Reverend Browningwell from over to Gram’s Baptist Church, “… that Godless heathen fornicator, Mooner Einstein Johnson.”

I am sorry for anything and everything it is about me that you don’t like that seems to anger you so very much. I am sorry.

However, I am not sorry to you, but rather my sorrow is for you.

It is one thing for us to harbor differing ideas on sex, war, drugs, marriage, sexuality and sexual orientation, Chelsea Handler’s camel toe, charities, or anyfuckingthingelse. I mean really, even the Apostles had differing religious beliefs and they were all taking the same walks with Jesus and heard the actual words coming from the actual mouth of the Son of God. Right? Yet even with all of that first-hand exposure, those guys managed to get things screwed-up.

Why can’t we just agree to disagree?

And, “Mooner,” you might say. “What the hell happened to get you off on this rant?”

A good question.

Streaker Jones was out to Mooners Compost Plant and we were inspecting the newest batch of compost we made for his mushroom farms. We decided to tweak the recipe just a touch by adding some expired-date Carta Blanca beer to the mix. The beer was from this warehouse the two of us bought recently. It was stacked floor-to-ceiling in old-fashioned wooden cases. Only reason the beer was there was the owner died without any heirs. Carta Blanca doesn’t expire under normal circumstances. But this was a terrible waste unless we can use it for special compost successfully.

Since beer is full of microbes and yeasties and a full matrix of spoor-supporting nutrition, we decided to use it for Streaker Jones special mix.

We’re out to the compost pad checking temperatures and checking quality and smell and such when a pick-up full of armed men came racing through the plant, dusting-up the air, and came to a screeching halt where we stood.

Streaker Jones spotted them first, and after just a quick assessment of the situation he said to me, he says, “Mooner, u git b-hind me an zip yur lip.”

So, I zipped it and stood in his shadow as the men arrived and the six of them scrambled out of the cab. The truck was one of the big Ford Extended Cab F350 “King Ranch Edition”- a monster. It was black and had all the rims and flags and bumper stickers a person would expect from the crew the truck shit-out its doors. It even had the snarling, slobbering pit bull in the back.

“We’re lookin for Mooner Fuckface Godless Johnson, mutherfucker. Whur is e?” This from the leader, a man of maybe fifty years- pot bellied, chaw-juice stained lips and teeth (maybe nine teeth), and holding some variety of assault rifle. These first words spoken as the six men fanned-out in a semi circle facing the sun. Each man carried a nasty looking gun.

Streaker Jones replied, “Mooners not taking company boys. Pack up and head out before you get hurt.” I noticed that the pit bull silenced and started shaking like a chihuahua as soon as Streaker Jones started talking.

Of course these dumb right-wing religious fuckballs aren’t as smart as their dog and don’t think clearly enough to think at all. So the speaker says, “OK boys. Rough em up fer me.”

I didn’t see everything that happened in the next three seconds because I had my eyes closed. I sometimes lack enough stomach to watch the killing machine that is my best friend.

When Streaker Jones says to me, “OK Mooner, you kin open yur eyes,” I did.

“Did you kill them all?” I whimpered. All six were in one big body pile. I saw no blood but no movement either.

“Nope. They’s jus gonna be wishin theys dead’s all.” Then he added, “You know who these shitballs are, right Mooner?”

I told him, “Well Streaker Jones, they look just like I imagined they would when their leader called me with the threats after he logged-on to my bloggie yesterday. I recolated his voice.”

“Tell Javier to bring tha loader over. We’ll put em in the bucket and dump em in tha pond. That’ll wake em up.” Sometimes my best friend has a mean streak. That pond holds the runoff water from our operations. It is nasty water.

“You’re right about that Streaker Jones. Wake them up and inoculate them with a few million possibly undesirable strains of bacteria. Sounds like a plan.”

Now I know you thought I was digressing on you with my ADHD or the ADD that infects my soul, but I am not. See, these assholes were from one of those new religious militias that want to eliminate Jews because the Jews crucified Christ.

I did this presentation to one of Sister and Anna the Amazon’s lesbian groups meeting where I discussed prejudices. I happen to have some very strong ideas about prejudice and I am told that my perspectives are interesting and somehow, this bunch of militia asswipes heard about my views.

Anyway, I was invited to speak about prejudice, and specifically the prejudice Christians seem to have against homosexuals. After a few minutes of discussion on that specific subject, my mind wandered to the militia groups that hate Jews for, “Killing our Lord and Saviour.”

In a nutshell, in my opinion, the Christians should be grateful to the Jews for killing Christ, if that was even the way things went down. Personally, I think you could blame the Romans if you wanted, but in reality the killers were greedy, fearful individuals. You know, men who were afraid that Jesus was going to take something from them.

But look here. The prophets said that Jesus was going to be put here to full-fill a prophecy, that He would be killed for being different, and that He would rise from the dead to clear the path for the rest of us to have Salvation. My Baptist church preaches to me that this sequence of events was God’s plan. God’s Master Plan in fact. Fail to perform any of the key parts and the entire plan fails. Right?

Then why are these brain-dead Bozos mad at the Jews for doing what it was that God programmed them to do? If God wanted the Jews to kill Jesus shouldn’t we Christians be grateful? Are we not asked to be grateful for the blessings bestowed upon us by others?

Hell, if I was in charge of holidays I’d have a holiday called, “Thank God for the Jews Otherwise I’d Have a Bitch of a Time Getting to Heaven Day.” Maybe I’d need to shorten it to “TGJOHBTGH-Day.”

That’s still not catchy enough but you get my point.

These militia types are angry because they are not Jews. That’s all. Their minds lack enough functionality to understand that no two people are really alike in any way. But because they don’t think well, or thoughtfully, they are afraid of anything some shitwad preacher or talk radio host or celebrity tells them to be frightened of. Or about.

When I asked Streaker Jones how he managed to incapacitate the six armed men without spilling any blood, he said to me, “Careful plannin, Mooner.”

Now that is a man who knows how to think.

OK, two items to clear up. First, I am not paid by Carta Blanca. I would love for them to sponsor me, but no, at this time they do not. They know how to reach me if they do. I love Carta Blanca beer- plain and simply.

Second. Well, second I have forgotten what else it was that was second. Maybe I’ll remember later. Isn’t ADHD/ADD fun?

Adult Diagnosed ADHD/ADD

Monday, April 12th, 2010

I am very sorry my bloggie has been so hard to load all weekend. It’s been taking minutes to screen-up and that is problematic. I mean really, who’s got the time for that? But I think it is better today, at least it was at 4:30 am when I finally got out of bed to check it.

After attending the School for Blog Dummies at the Writer’s League on Saturday, I raced back to the ranch to put all of what I learned to use before I forgot it. With my form of ADHD/ADD, remembering things is an art form practiced by the artless.

And don’t start in on me with your, “Take this or that memory class, Mooner, or read this or that book, or stop drinking so many Carta Blanca beers.” None of that stuff works.

Fact is, the less I study and the more beers I drink, the better my memory gets.

I know you don’t believe me but think about it from my frame of reference, OK? First, imagine you are at a family birthday party at the Z Tejas over to the Arboretum. You know, the one with an Eddie V’s right next door and with the great views out the back. You are sitting in the big booth on the wall- the one that is situated at the end of the big bar and the entrance to the kitchen. It sort of sits all by itsownself.

Now look, this particular Z Tejas is very noisy for starters, but this one booth is Noise Central. Have you ever used one of those high tech parabolic listener earphone jobbies? You know, with the directional microphone pointer. Sitting at this table is for me like it would be to have earphones and parabolic listener jobbies pointed at every person in the place.

Streaker Jones has one of those decimators, you know the gage dealie that measures how many decibels of sound you have, and we took a reading from that booth on a Friday night.

“Well Mooner,” Streaker Jones told me, “We got us sumthin a tween a jet takin off anna ZZ Top show.” Then he added, “Purt loud.”

But for me it isn’t the volume of sound, it is the character of the sounds. In a busy restaurant, it isn’t that everybody is screaming at each other that bothers me. Nor is it the sheer number of screamers. Nope, for me, it is the number of individual conversations my ears and mind can individuate from the cacophony of sounds while I am attempting to participate in my own table’s conversations.

If you have my form of Deficit Distractedness Disease, then you know precisely and specifically of which I speak. Would that be of “what” I speak?

On this night at Z Tejas that I am using to help you understand what I am talking about, there’s Gram, Sister and Anna the Amazon, Streaker Jones and his unnamed date (unnamed because the story is in the book), Mother, Aunt Hilda and Dubbie J, Gnat, Dr. Sam I. Am, the SAC Ellen and me, all sitting at that booth. That means that our table alone has at least four conversations going on at once.

Since that Z Tejas has a capacity of 350 persons, and yes I looked at their Permit, that means that on this crowded Friday night, there were something like another 100 conversations in addition to the four in our booth. Now don’t try to tell me that my ADD is digressing you because I am right on my point.

Look. When I’m in a noisy environment like Z Tejas on this specific Friday night, my form of ADHD/ADD allows me to listen to each of those 104 separate conversations, separately and distinctly. Hell, for that matter my form of ADHD/ADD requires me to listen. Like when you pass a terrible car accident and you don’t want to look but are devoid of skill or ability to not look.

I am compelled to listen to every conversation at my table plus the lovers’ spat over to the bar, and the waiter repeating the orders of a six-top twelve times because the lady in the red dress keeps changing her mind about does she want a salad or soup, and the business guy’s feeble attempts to hit on the attractive woman thirty years his junior, and even the conversation between two French guys that sounds like a pair of snotty-nosed adenoid sufferers trying to talk while clearing their throats. Etcetera, etcetera and so forth.

Next time you see me ask me to do my interpolation of a person speaking French. It’ll crack you up.

If you ask me at any time during our meal what anybody is talking about, anybody in the entire place, I can tell you. This I can do with absolute clarity. But if you ask me what I had for my appetizer after we finish dinner and are walking to the car- no dice. Can’t remember shit.

Wait. That’s a bad example because I always get the Ancho Chile Fudge Pie. Hoo-ya it is mighty fine pie. You can get the recipe at and when you do, tell them that Mooner Johnson said to call them. Or ping them or whatever it is that you do when you do that.

But, if I knock back a dozen or so cold Carta Blanca beers with dinner, I can remember everything that happened at our table and not much else. That’s assuming I’m not driving, but since I’m always the designated driver, beer-induced memory recall is infrequent.

Of course, my active memory has the half-life of an already-lit Molotov cocktail. Every thirty seconds I forget half of whatever it was I remembered.

Which brings us back to Saturday’s wonderful class on bloggie stuff. I raced home to put my lessons to practice but the I-net was all screwed up and not loading-up my blog. I took copious notes, none of which I now understand, but I had the most important stuff memorized. But after maybe sixty-three attempts to load my blog I got frustrated.

And now, three days later when my bloggie is back to normal speed, I can’t remember shit. My notes on widgets and rollers and RSSV’s and links and twits and mosquitoes- none of that makes the first sense to me. I’m just lost.

I tried to bring some memory back and started on the Carta Blanca sometime in the early afternoon Sunday. It was maybe 3:30 or 4:00, or maybe it was 1:15. Whatever time it was, Tiger Woods was making his first bogey of the day at the Masters.

Which brings up another subject. See, except for the working girls down to Mexico with whom I obtained my sex education, and Sunny- the TV reporter I dated for awhile, I have married every woman I ever had sex with.

That means ten ex-wives and maybe $1.15 million a year in alimony, but nobody is really all that hurt or angry with me.

So. What I was thinking as I was dosing myself with the medicine that is cold Carta Blanca beer, is that maybe I need to work with Tiger Woods on some life lessons. You know, offer to be his Life Coach. If Tiger would have only followed my example he could have saved himself a world of shit.

Every woman is something special- even at first blush, when you are making no commitment besides having a few chuckles and giggles.

Few are special enough to marry when all you have is a first blush.

I know that was pretty deep thinking, but that’s how I blog roll!

Maybe I can hire out to be your Life Coach. Holler if you need me.

Carta Blanca Beer; Psychotherapists; and Blog Class

Sunday, April 11th, 2010

Stand back everyone, I’m a dangerous man. Well, even more dangerous than before. After three hours with Nettie Hartsock and Jenifer Hill Robenalt down to the Writers’ League offices this morning, you’re looking at a certified bloggie expert.

Mooner Einstein Johnson, “Social Media Giant.”

Next business cards I’m printing, that will be one of my titles. Nettie and Jenifer are wizards with all of this I-net stuff and they have a laid-back easiness in their presentation that helps even a non-believer like me see some light at the end of my tunnel vision.

However, they could program more bathroom breaks.

I was the only man there to South Congress with this room full of authorettes and authorettes-to-be, most of whom seemed to be psycho therapists. In some ways it was like going to a professional meeting with Dr. Sam I. Am back to when we were married. Then there were some YA authorettes, which I was told are writing for the “young adult” audience. “Whom” I was told maybe?

OK, now I’ll bite. What in the hell is a “young adult”? Is that a 15-year old girl with a little extra maturity to her memory bank, or is that a typical 45-year old male person?

And have you ever noticed how serious psycho therapists are when they talk about their work in public? Like it’s a life, or death, dealie. They get all serious and put on their “I’m a serious thinker and thoughtful listener and I feel your pain (how does that make you feel)” face. You know, their professional face.

But let me fill you in on something. This public/professional persona is just for public, or professional, consumption. Get them away from their couch, or get a couple of shots of tequila and a few cold Carta Blancas in these ladies, and they are just like the rest of us.

I know I’m generalizing because I have met a few psycho therapists who are just as serious as all that in person. I once dropped my pants and flashed my ass at this open house that some therapists held to their new office space. We’d been there a couple of hours and they were serving wine and beer.

But they were serving Dos XX beer and not Carta Blanca. I asked this one serious therapist hostess, very politely, why they chose to serve Dos XX rather than Carta Blanca. The psycho therapist says to me, she says, “Well, Mooner, why do you ask?” She said it all serious and shit.

So I say, in my best serious, I said, “Because I want to know.”

And now even more seriously, she says, “Is it important for you to know?”

When I just blank-stared at her for about fifteen minutes she says, “Do you have beer issues, Mr. Johnson?” This in what I hope was her most seriousness. Seriousnicity?

And of course she couldn’t stand the next fifteen minutes of my blank staring, so she says, “I hope you don’t think it inappropriate of me, but why is your name Mooner?”

“Inappropriate is my middle name,” I said, and so, seriously, I showed her.

My ass hair was plucked and dyed to resemble Santa Claus on one cheek and a Jewish candelabra on the other. I had just been down to the Austin City Council to show my support for “Multi-Cultural Day”.

Her husband punched me in the nose but he was of slight build and it didn’t hurt much. I told him he needed to go down to and get a lesson on putting some weight behind his punches.

A small man like that can get into serious difficulties hitting most men my size. He’s lucky I have experience in these situations and don’t take it personal.

But I am ADD-igressing the total bejesus out of all of us.

See, Nettie and Jenifer taught the crowd how to improve our blogs by doing certain things, like embedding links to the blogs of the persons about whom you are writing, like this: that’s Jenifer.

Then, you can enter the website of another of the persons: and that, of course, is the Netster.

Isn’t that clever?

They taught us a bunch of other things as well, but I’m not telling what they are. I paid $49.95 to attend this class and I’m only giving you like what, $0.36-worth of it for free.

Anyway, when I got home to put all of their good ideas to use, my bloggie was down. Deader than a door nail! But Go Daddy got me back up in no time. You can always count on for their support. They are the only I-net guys I have found that have the same kind of customer support that I like to give my customers.

I dare you to find better customer service than Go Daddy. Can anybody tell me who is better?

Adult ADD and ADHD; Using Tasers and Stun Guns as Foreplay

Friday, April 9th, 2010

Enough already with the Oprah Winfrey feedback. I mean give me a break already. What part of “I, Butcher Einstein Mooner Johnson, like Oprah Winfrey” is so difficult for you to understand. The fact is that I like Oprah, admire Oprah and even envy Oprah. Maybe it should be the “facts are” that I like, admire and envy.

Hell, I have this recurring dream about Oprah. See, Oprah is over to the ranch watching TV and we’re sitting on the couch right up close to each other, holding hands and smoocherating a little. We’ve made all of these proposition bets on the Super Bowl game, which is what we’re watching on TV. You know, prop bets- like who wins the coin toss, which player scores first, first penalty or first broken bone. Those kinds of bets.

For payment, if I win, Oprah owes me sexual favors. If she wins, I owe her sexual favors. All of the favors include sex paired with either wine, tequila or food and sometimes all three. Its a high-scoring game, so by halftime, the couch is littered with food scraps, empty booze bottles, leather straps and used condoms. But this is a major ADHD digression.

So look. Oprah is a person that I like, more than just somewhat, or a little. I like Oprah a lot.

But that has nothing to do with the very simple fact that Oprah Winfrey almost ruined my life! She did it, it is on record- video-taped as a matter of fact, it is verified and bona-fucking-fied. It is true that she almost ruined my life.

I didn’t blame her. I didn’t get mad at her or sue her for the near destruction of my total wellbeing she precipitated. I have never said a harsh word about Oprah and, in fact, have only promoted her.

So pull your collective heads out of your asses and your feet from my ass and listen here. While I cannot tell you the story, because little missy-pissy Editorator lady will get me re-institutionalized to the Bin if I confide here to the blog what’s in the book, just trust me when I say that Oprah had this week-long series of interconnected shows that set up a series of events that almost ruined my fucking life.

OK? I have proof. And I’m getting riled-up and punching at this shitty little keyboard to my new laptop like I’m playing Whack-A-Mole down to the Chuckie Cheezers joint. My fingertips are bleeding from hitting all these O’s.

Ever play Whack-A-Mole with a snoot-full of mushroom juice and about a dozen Carta Blanca beers under your belt?

Wait. The “Bin” is short for “loonie bin”. Which is short for the Shoal Creek Mental Hospital, Austin, Texas.

There was this one time when Streaker Jones and I took my kids to the original Chuckie Cheezers they had out to US 183. It was big time hoo-ha shit for Austin when it opened. He and I had just closed a big business deal and the kids were clamoring to go to the new place in town, so we loaded the crew into the recreational vehicle and headed out.

Why, you might ask, did we take the reckie for a quick stop to dinner to a place that was fifteen minutes drive from the ranch. Inquiring minds, right?

Ever try to drive with a snoot-full of mushroom juice and a twelve pack of icy cold Carta Blanca beer smoothing their way through your system?

I’m not driving. Fact is, none of us do any driving whilst intoxerated. Don’t mind writing stuff to post on my bloggie with a little influence, but drive- never. So, we took the reckie, this big Greyhound bus we converted into a road wagon. It had all the amenities of home with most of the amity.

After the kids wore themselves to total exhaustion whacking moles and rolling those little balls up a ramp and all that fun stuff, and Streaker Jones and myself had downed a case of beer, we all settled in for the night in the bus, which I had parked at the bank next door. The lot was full to Chuckie’s place and since the bank was closed, I figured, “Who gives a shit,” and parked at the bank.

However, as I discovered early the next morning, bankers lack both a forgiveness in their hearts as well as humor in their souls. Woke up at like 7:30 am when the bus jolted and rocked as this giant tow truck was lifting it by the ass-end for hauling it away. We’re all waving out the window to stop the presses and the tow driver sees us and stopped. I gave him a couple hundred and he unhooked us and drove away. I was warming-up the engine to take us home when the bank manager, followed by his “security” guard, came out yelling at me. We had a discussion, at first friendly, that somehow managed to escalate into something less friendly.

When the security guard reached to pull his weapon, Streaker Jones came from out of nowhere and in like half-a-second, the guard was unconscious, mostly undressed and hogtied with his own clothes, and the bank manager had the guard’s pistol stuck in his ear- hammer cocked.

Streaker Jones says to the banker, he said, “Go ahead, make my day,” so that tells you this was likely mid 1970’s or so. The tightly-bound security guard looked more like a badly-trussed poorly-plucked Christmas goose than he did a manly enforcer of security.

Can you “enforce” security or would you “secure” it? Need to ask the Department of Redundancy Department. Any of you guys know Fire Sign Theater or am I wasting good literary references here?

Anyway, that was the second time I got arrested in front of the kids and the first time I experienced the effects on the central nervous system of a new law enforcement technology called the “Taser”. Nowadays, I look forward to a little dose of the taser from SAC Ellen. It’s part of our pre-sex foreplay.

In fact, the last time I had the Oprah dream, she got to taser me if she won. Then, after she witnessed the effects a good jolt of Direct Current had on my pecker, she wanted me to take a dose even if I won.

I think that would make a good theme for one of Oprah’s TV shows. If you think so go to and tell them.

Oprah Winfrey and Shooting the Moon; World Ass Tug Federation

Tuesday, April 6th, 2010

Sorry I had to leave so abruptly yesterday, but when they called my name and case number, Jeff slammed my notebook computer lid and shut it on my fingers. I’m just now getting the feeling back enough to type from my Post It Notes for today’s bloggie dealie. You guys know about me and Post It Notes, right?

OK, maybe all of you don’t know that I use Post It Notes for all of my writing, thought organizing, reminder notes and letters and everything. I have developed quite a sophisticated system- using the various sizes and rainbow of Post It colors to create an intricate way to organize myself. I just write everything down on Posties and then enter it on the computer or type it into my Smith Corona.

Plus, when you place the sticky edge of your Posties to the sides or bottom, rather than always at the tops, you open new horizons in professional organizing. My computer guru told me my Postie Note system was baffling to him. Gram says I need to write a guide for my system and sell it. (Postie Note to self- write a guide and sell it here to the webber and bloggie)(find out more about Post It Notes at

I really do need to get some stuff ready for sale. Most of my products are sold in bulk, like the compost and mulch we sell out to Mooners Compost Plant. Not good products for webber sales I shouldn’t think, unless you need a truckload. Everything else, all of our other already developed products, have been committed to some other enterprise of Johnson Family Interests, L.L.C.

Like all the products from our hemp clothing factories. They get marketed by If You Can’t Smoke It- Wear It!, our clothing distribution company. That one’s a joint venture dealie I have with Streaker Jones and Dixie. Streaker Jones grows quite a bit of pot, and since I insist that everybody recycles/reuses everything, we decided to manufacture cloth from the pot stems and trunks.

That’s what hemp is, kiddies, the woody fibers of the pot plant.

And don’t be telling me that pot plants don’t have trunks, either. Until you have seen Streaker Jones’s growing operations, just take my work on the trunks statement. Between his horticultural techniques and the special compost I make for him, his pot grows trunks.

Gram thinks I’m funny when I say that this particular collaboration of ours is a “Joint Venture”. Me too, otherwise it would be an L.L.C. Like everything else.

Our product design team is working on some new products for the World Ass Tug Federation, a Johnson Family Interests L.L.C. enterprise. See, when I spent all of those months incarcerated over to the loonie bin, otherwise known as The Shoal Creek Mental Hospital, I had this brain storm and created a new team sport. Ass Tug is what it’s called. We’re looking at new ropes, uniforms and other “Official” gear we can license and sell.

That’s that time I was arrested and charged with four murders.

Wait, I am most definitely digressing the ever-loving shit out of us all. My ADD is fritzing like crazy. All of what I’m attempting to tell you here is part of what my first book is all about. That would be the same book that is the root cause for me to start all of this webber and bloggie crap for starters.

The name of my book is I’m Not All That Crazy, or How Oprah Winfrey Almost Ruined My Life. Jeff, attorney Jeff, cleared me on my inclusions of Miss Winfrey in my writings, so you guys calm down. I love Oprah and Streaker Jones is in love with Oprah.

“You know how I feel bout Opree Mooner.”

Yes, Streaker Jones, I do.

Look, here’s how much Streaker Jones loves Oprah Winfrey. Streaker Jones lives to streak- run around naked except for fashionable sneakers and maybe a few adornments, and me, I’m most happy when I’m showing somebody my gorgeous butt. Between the two of us, I estimate that we have flashed at least a million people live. That’s right, I mean live people looking at us as we do it, where we do it. No telling how many millions more have viewed our manly forms on TV, film and now the I-networks.

We have flashed football stadiums, indoor sporting events, the Texas Rangers and Houston Astros baseball stadiums, live concerts, and even several swearing-in ceremonies for Texas elected officials.

Well, and of course, Austin City Council meetings.

As far as ass-flashing and naked streaking around, Streaker Jones does not have any rules- except for where it pertains to “Opree”. Nope, Streaker Jones has been to the live audience to Oprah’s TV show sixteen times and never once jumped up to the stage for a dangle-wangle.

As for my antics, I’m banned from getting near Miss Winfrey because as Streaker Jones says, “I woont wanna put no hurt on ya Mooner.”

Being a person who has seen Streaker Jones put a hurt on somebody before, I just watch the TV show and admire from afar.

But again, all of this stuff is in the book and I need to shut up about it here. I got another call from my Editorator for the book telling me to stop disclosing so much about the book here to the blog.

“I’m only going to tell you one more time Mooner.” Then she gets this really pissy school marm voice on her and says, “If you can’t stop telling stories from the book I’ll have you committed again.”

Then, when I laughed at her and said, “Nanny-nanny-boo-boo,” she said, “I already cleared it with Dr, Sam I. Am-Johnson, Mooner. Zip it Bozo-breath, or I’ll get you zipped into a straight jacket.”

I hate straight jackets, don’t you? Most of the jerks that strap a person into one haven’t got the clue-one on how a straight jacket works. I’m always getting my shoulder pulled out the joint or having my pecker and balls go to sleep from when they cinch the over-and-under chinchie straps too tight.

No, I’m not talking about “erectile dysfunction” here for all you Republican limp dicks who I haven’t managed to chase away yet. I’m talking about asleep- like when you lay on your hand and it goes to sleep and then for a short time you can’t feel it and then it feels kind of numb and then- well, and then you get that sensation to where it feels like your hand is the pin cushion at a Voodoo convention down to Haiti or somefuckingwhere.

Except for it all happens in your pecker and your balls and maybe you already got that first dose of the Haldol the brain doctors give you to settle you down before they unstrap the straight jacket. So you feel all of those same sensations, except that there’s this little disconnection between your brain and your pecker and instead of the pain shooting from pecker to brain instantaneously on a light beam- the pain trickles in from pecker to brain and you process the sensations v e r y s l owle y.

It’s like what I imagine a porn video download would be like if your net server was using the Morse Code telegraph high wires from back to cowboys and Indians times, and each bit of data was inputted by this dude tapping shit out on one of those Morse Code tapper dealies.

You know- dot dot dot, dash dash dash, and wake me up when my down-load’s finished.

You’re sitting there waiting for your new porno movie to download and it takes forever and then when it does bother and starts to screen-up, you can’t tell if you ordered a porno movie or a black-and-white photo of the Crab Nebula.

Anyway, the Judge dismissed all the charges against me stemming from my arrest the other night. Of course, he fined me $500.00 for me mooning him with my butt show titled, “Here Come Da Judge.

That one’s a classic but I seem to find a use for it routinely.

American Justice

Monday, April 5th, 2010

I’m writing this on my new laptop computer while I wait for my name, and case number, to be called. The benches here to the courthouse are not very comfy, but that isn’t a bad thing if you care for my opinion.

I got arrested for “Assault and Battery” last night over to the Z-Tejas and spent the night in jail. I needed the sleep so the jail time was OK. The Sheriff, that’s my longtime buddy Woozie Wozniac, let me out this morning so I’d have the time to go change clothes for my arraignment. Sometimes it pays to pay elected officials. I don’t mean direct bribes but rather I’m speaking of “political contributions”.

Who do I think I’m fooling? My Gram got this one right when she said, “Who gives a shit, Mooner. A bribe’s a bribe!”

But Woozie truly is a better choice than the silly fuckballs who have run against him. His last major opponent ran on the slogan, “Jesus is my Deputy, riding shotgun and takin names.”

Now personally, I think that if that silly toe jam was a true Christian- he might have made a fine sheriff. Think about it. Every time the new Sheriff attempts to step over the line and pull the tazer trigger on some innocent guy for expressing his freedom of speech with a polished-ass butt show- Jesus would whisper in the peace officer’s ear, “Turn the other cheek, Rosco. It’s the Christian thing to do.”

And then Rosco would say to the offending party, he’d say, “That’s enough now, Mr. Johnson. Put your ass away so this crowd of nice people will go home.”

Instead, I guess Rosco’s Jesus must have whispered, “Hit him a good jolt and kick him in the ass to boot, Rosco,” because old Rosco, he’d be giving the newly-tazed ass performer a not so gentle shove into the back seat of his police cruiser for a ride to County Lockup. “Godless shithead,” would be Sheriff Rosco Baird’s words as he smashed the poor guy’s shoulder into the back of the front seat.

At least that’s how I think it would go. That’s how it went last night with Deputy Sheriff Rosco Baird.

I think Rosco worships the “Smiting” Jesus rather than His more understanding alter ego, “Gentle” Jesus.

When I asked Roscoe if Jesus approved of him roughing me up, he said, “Fuck you, Mooner. If I was listening to Jesus right now I’d of busted a couple a caps in your ass.”

“Would it make any difference if I donate to your campaign for when you run for dog catcher next time?” I asked him.

I really am funny.

After I awoke from the second tazer jolt from Deputy Rosco’s stun gun, Sheriff Wozniac arrived to my cell to let me out. “Get out of here Mooner, and take your Gram with you. How many times have I told you to keep her out of my jail?”

Woozie is a giant pain, but a decent friend. I get this nasty body odor a few hours after I get tazed and my clothes were a touch rank when he let me out. I always like to look bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at my arraignments. So I appreciate him letting me out to go home to change before my court time.

Gram has always liked jails for their wide selection of needy men. She used to spend a lot more time cruising the cell blocks than she does now. Since she got the new Ferrari, she spends her cruising time hot-rodding down to the Drag at the University of Texas.

Mother asked Gram why she was spending so much time to the Drag and so little in jail, Gram told her, “I like lamb better un mutton.”

“Oh, dear,” sighed Mother.

Mother heads the “Inmate Outreach” program for her and Gram’s Baptist Church. I have always thought that letting Gram loose around incarcerated men was risky business. And I’ve always thought that my grandmother has a way with words.

Mother says of her work with the inmates, “I love doing good for these men who have been locked up.”

Gram’s take is, of course, “A man thats been lockered-up fur a month er so- he’ll do ya good, an I love that.” Then she adds, “I try not ta miss a man what’s been missin it.”

Jeff, he’s my attorney for everything that doesn’t relate to hallucinogenic chemical compounds, is sitting with me. “OK, tell me what you did, Mooner.”

“Why is it always tell you what I did? Why can’t you ever ask me what the other guy did?”

“Because I’m busy and need to cut to the chase. Now. Tell me or I’ll leave you to the Judge and Deputy Baird.”

Then Jeff added, “And what did you ever do to that Deputy to piss him off so much?”

“It’s a long story, so I’ll just cut to the chase, since that’s all you care about. He was in love with Anna the Amazon and they were on a date that time when I met her over to the Broken Spoke and she…”

That was as far as I got when Jeff interrupted. “OK, I got it.”

Look, I’ve got to go. I’m up.