Sarah Palin Wants to Taser Mooner Johnson (Part 7)

I have just awakened from a dream or maybe it was an hallucination where I was being chased by a pack of crazed women with Taser guns. SAC Ellen was there with Chelsea Handler, Sandra Bullock, Kathy Griffin, Sarah Palin, Oprah, Sarah Silverman and some others. All of the women are women I would have sex with if I were unencumbered, and all of the women obviously wanted to have sex with me.

Otherwise they would have chosen a weapon different from a Taser. Please don’t make me tell you the whole story about the world class boners I get when a woman Tasers me. I’m too weak to tell the whole thing.

And don’t start in on me about Palin because there is no reason. I don’t like to admit it, don’t like that it is true and I plan to get some extra therapy to try and understand why I would have sex with a brain-dead, right-wing religious shitball. One who can’t string ten words together without tripping over her own feet at that.

I am embarrassed to know it about myself but this bloggie is all about truth and full disclosure so I’m truthfully disclosing that I might boink Sarah Palin. Like Gram always says, she’ll say, “Who gives a shit Mooner. Truth is as truth is.”

Besides, my hope is that this was not a dream and that I was simply hallucinating about the Palin sex part. I feel less responsible for my thoughts in hallucinations than those in dreams. Like the story I was telling yesterday when I conked out on you. You know, from when we were down to central Mexico that one time.

So, we were served this fermented liquid agave juice by the barkeep/sheriff and after a few jelly glasses of that and the cold Carta Blanca chasers required to wash away the slime coating our mouths, we were led outside to join the festivities. Our host drags us all over the little town introducing us to each group of people- mostly large family units with generations of grandparents down to grand babies. In some cases there were great-grand babies. He started with the first grouping, which was camped at the side door to the bar/cantina/jail/post office/general store and then wormed our way in a big circle through town.

As we walk from group-to-group and we have an empty glass, someone refills it with the sticky goo. And luckily, every Igloo cooler we encounter has Carta Blanca chilling on ice. Everybody is happy and festive and getting just a tad drunk. Of course we boys have been eating mushrooms for the last few days so the alcohol is providing us a layered high to add depth to our already magicalized central nervous systems.

So, we walk and walk and drink and drink and meet and meet and meet some more, when we get to the last family group, a herd of maybe twenty people set up to the front porch of the main building. Three elders, a handsome woman of maybe forty years- the sheriff’s wife, two young husbands and their wives with four kids, and eight young girls. The girls, I think they were from maybe twelve through nineteen, were all dressed in peasant blouses, rainbow colored skirts and sandals.

None wore makeup but each had a bright bow in her hair, dangling silver earring’s and a beautiful smile. They were stunners to a one, and one look left no doubt that they were their mother’s daughters.

And their proud papa left no doubt that he was just that. Papa.

We were welcomed to their camp with hugs and kisses, and then each of the three older girls took one of us boys by the hand. I think I got the second youngest of the three and she led me to the cooler where she refreshed my glass of slime and got two fresh bottles of Carta Blanca.

Her name was Blanquita, I’m reasonably certain, she was eighteen, I pray to God, and she liked me. At least she was enamored with me. She walked me back through the little town while holding my hand and pointed things out with glee. She yammered and yammered away in Spanish and I got maybe every eighth word or so, but I was becoming likewise enamored with her and didn’t care what she was saying.

I only cared that she was saying it to me.

After awhile she started sipping my drinks, slowly at first, and finishing the last of each glass and bottle as we neared the next refueling stop. I though it was cute the way that she would drink the dregs of each serving and then offer-up the fresh ones to me with a, “Salud!” and a kiss.

As the evening went along, her sips became gulps and the kisses morphed into gropes. We ate copious quantities of goat and pig and rabbit, all of which was perfectly roasted. People who grow animals to roast know best how to do the roasting. It was a dream date.

Somewhere along the line I must have passed out because the next thing I know I’m dreaming I was getting married and I’ve got Streaker Jones whispering in my ear.

“C’mon Mooner, wake it up.” This accompanied by a sharp shake of my shoulders.

“Wake it up damit!” And more shaking.

“Leave me alone Streaker Jones,” I told him. “I think I’m in love here. I do, really I do.”

“Thas tha problem Mooner, now git it up. And don’t be wakin tha girl.”

Tha girl would be the mostly naked Blanquita who lay comatose and wrapped around me like an octopus on a sea urchin. “Help me get untangled here and I’ll get up,” I told Streaker Jones.

“An be quiet Mooner. Can’t wake tha Sheriff.”

So I got untangled and stood on unsteady legs. When I started to speak, Streaker Jones shushed me, and that’s when I noticed that he was carrying the unconscious body of Woozie over his shoulder.

“Git yur keys out yur pocket and let’s hightail it to tha Paller.” Streaker Jones called my 1963 Impala Super Sport the Paller.

My God I’m getting weak and dizzy again. I better take another break and eat some garlic. You guys check with me later.

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One Response to “Sarah Palin Wants to Taser Mooner Johnson (Part 7)”

  1. Theresa D. St.Johnswort says:

    Dear Mooner, if I may,
    I notice you have been writing alot about your hallucinations, I mean experiences, in Mexico. Yes it is true that agave juice, or as we call it, el pulque, is like la una, or cats claw; one waits for the Pope and hopes he is a woman.
    It is at once poisonous and curative, depending on your state of mind, leading to all kinds of conditions such as beaners and and flatulance. What you need is a sobardora, a healer who specializes in massage therapy, especially as it applies to the digestive tract which takes a beating. Be sure to find one that specializes in muscle and bone manipulation. And speaki ng of digestive tracts, one way to get more respect from Dixie and Squirt is to feed them cat food. It seems to help them feel superior to cats and empowers them to understand cats better, for which they are very grateful and will do almost anything you ask. I learned this from my datsunds who will negotiate anything to get this edge. D.

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