Oprah Winfrey and Shooting the Moon; World Ass Tug Federation

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 www.3m.com/Post-itNotes)

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.

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12 Responses to “Oprah Winfrey and Shooting the Moon; World Ass Tug Federation”

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  2. admin says:

    Thanks for the comment Arminda.

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  4. admin says:

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  6. admin says:

    Thank you USA.

    Fun is second only to spleen venting in my world. Except for sex, which is a wild card. Food can be a wild card and also cold Carta Blanca beer. Please pass my trash to others and come again.

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