Archive for June, 2010

Freedom Means Never Having To Say You’re Sorry

Wednesday, June 30th, 2010

“Oh wow, oh wow, oh wow, oh wow.”

Since that is my standard mantra after getting zapped by a stunner gun, I know that voice must be mine. I’ve got my eyes pinched tightly shut, by choice, and my arms and legs are chaffing at the ankles and wrists from the all too familiar restraints. The restraints are absolutely not of my choosing and feel like the overly-thick bands with lambswool lining that are favored by the Shoal Creek Mental Hospital, aka the Loonie Bin.

That would be the self-same Loonie Bin I write so much about. Maybe I write so much about it because I’m crazy and spend so much time there. Another choice- I’m keeping my eyes pinched tight because I fear I might have done something terrible enough to be locked up to the Bin.

Again.

The reason I’m wondering about the terrible possibilities is because I always lose my short term memory with a good jolt of Direct Current. The memory loss and diamond cutter erections are the mainstays of my DC experiences.

“I think he’s coming around.” A woman’s voice that I think I recognize.

Then an unfamiliar female voice, “His erection looks painful, Special Agent.” Then an audible sigh followed by, “Should I do something for it?”

“No problem, nurse. I’ll fix that when I can get him home.”

That’s SAC Ellen’s voice- thank you God. I’m thinking now might be a good time to open my eyes and assess my damages.

“Evening ladies. What’s shaking besides the arrow in my quiver?” Am I clever with the ladies or what? Then I thought to add, “Looks like Cupid left a little sumpin-sumpin for somebody.”

“That arrow has escaped its quiver, Mooner, and it’s scaring the natives. Let’s get you dressed and to my apartment before someone gets hurt. I’ve got some Carta Blanca on ice and I changed the sheets before coming down.”

“Oh boy, tazer sex! Let me call Gnat and cancel my schedule for tomorrow.” Gnat is my very trusty and trusted assistant, a former Russian mail order bride with keen organizational skills.

“Already done, Mooner, but I told her only that you might be a little late. I’ve got to fly to Washington DC for another silly meeting.” SAC Ellen hates meetings.

You know folks, I was hoping that when we elected Obama to be our president that some of the wasted meetings would be shed from national politics. Senseless meetings are like old dog hairs- if you don’t shed them they end up in somebody’s soup. I haven’t seen any less wasted time in the federal government since the elections, but I must say that we seem to be spending less time with our feet in our mouth and our head up our ass as a result of having met.

I saw a headline in the paper the other day that said, “Dick Cheney Hospitalized For Distress.”

“Whose distress?” was my first question, and second was, “As much as that bastard distressed me why wouldn’t my health insurance cover a stay for me to get over that malady?”

I’d call it, “Right-Wing Republican Religious-Right Baptist Shitball-Controlled Distressed Syndrome, or RWRRRBCDS for short.”

We could get Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson to do a big clinical study and I would be in the control group. I like being in control. Which reminds me about my psycho therapy session this morning and I now realize that my ADHD has digressed the ever-loving shit out of all of us because today is Tuesday June 29th, and I was starting this blogger posting with the finishing touches to a story that happened late last Monday night, and early Tuesday morning, the 21st and 22nd.

And now I realize that was terrible run-on sentence but I can’t figure how to break it up and still convey the specific meaning I intended for you to grasp from the carefully crafted original prose. I asked Gram to read it and help me with a restructuring but she said to me, she says, “Who gives a shit Mooner. Run-ons an run-downs are all tha same. But me, I fall straight ta sleep with sum a yur sin taxes.”

Back to last week before I forget. I was strapped to a bed to the emergency room at Shoal Creek Mental Hospital- that’s where the Deputy Sheriffs took me once they phoned the incident in to their superior. Sheriff Woozie Wozniak is a lifelong buddy of mine and a giant pain in the ass. Once he heard what happened and who it was, he had them drop me off the the Loonie Bin while he called my main squeeze, SAC Ellen.

The nice nurse lady was new and had little knowledge of me and my ass show shenanigans. “Can I ask a question, sir?”

“Only if you call me Mooner,” I told her.

“OK, Mooner. Why is the hair on your handsome bottom plucked and dyed red, white and blue?”

I had a ready answer for that one. “Well, this pretty Special Agent for the United States Department of Homeland Security and I are headed to west Texas on Friday so I can march in the big July 4th Parade.” Then I thought to add, “When I get my pants to my ankles and the SAC-ster torches off my sparklers and Roman candles- why I’m a one-man America’s birthday extravaganza.”

“Ooo, how exciting,” she almost squealed with glee. “You’ve got a little 5 O’Clock shadow popped up back there. How about I lather you up and put a sharp edge to things.”

“And how about I arrest you for eyeballing my prisoner after you’ve already had three warnings?” This from the semi-hostile guardian of America’s borders that I call, “Sweetie.”

Now me, I have heard but one previous warning so I don’t fully understand the territorial threat in SAC Ellen’s voice. But I do know that she is a level-headed, just and fair person even though she was promoted to her lofty position by the previous, Republican administration, so I’m fearful for the nice nurse.

“Don’t fight over me girls,” I intervene. “I’m not worth the effort.”

The expected chorus of, “Oh, you’re worth fighting over to the death,” never came because the nice nurse took the hint and left the room.

I got dressed and checked out by 2:50 am and we drove to SAC Ellen’s place over to the north campus area. It was maybe a five-minute drive from the Loonie Bin. I now know that she moved to this place to be closer to me when I spent all that time locked up to Shoal Creek. We had cold Carta Blanca beers and some sweaty tazer sex and I guess we napped for awhile as well. Her alarm clock went off at 9 am and we got up and into the shower at which time the lingering effects of the tazer blast provided additional entertainment.

As we were dressing, the SAC’ster said to me, she says, “Hey Mooner, call the judge and thank him for jailing you yesterday. I needed this before facing this damned meeting this week.” Then she thought a minute and said, “I guess it would be the Judge jailing you that led to the zapping.”

I told her, “I think that would be accurate,” and that I would call, and we dressed. Thank goodness I have a change of stuff there to her place because my jury duty clothes were a bloody mess. She dropped me to the impound place to where my car had been towed and I paid the almost $500.00 in charges that had built-up in less than a day. My normal behavior would be to get arrested and or tazed again with an emotional outburst about how unfair all of this was and how none of it was my fault and all of that.

Nope, I took my punches like the man I have become and felt grateful for my service to my country. I took jury duty seriously and never once attempted to be falsely released from serving. I think I went far beyond the call for duty and made efforts uncommon in most men.

I am a certified nut case but I think a true American.

If you think about it, the great American Jury- those twelve tried and true, are the final true firewall between innocent people and potentially abusive power structures. Without the Jury, law enforcement, governments and brutish businessmen could ruin the fabric of freedom and free enterprise that makes America what it is at its best.

I think this is the end of what you need to hear about me attempting to serve on a jury, but I want to push a point maybe harder than is necessary. It doesn’t matter what you are- your color, sexual orientation, political ideology or religious system because we, as Americans, we each have the same rights.

And responsibilities.

Somehow we need to stop all extremists from using our freedom-based Constitutional governments to force their agenda and non-Constitutional belief systems down our throats. Stop with all of the religious-based politics. Religion is a personal choice the same as abortion and it has no place in lawmaking.

Stop calling me un American just because I have beliefs other than yours. The real difference between us is that I think you have the right to think as you do and that I don’t have the right to force you to do as I wish. When we govern based upon religion and/or ethnicity, what we get is Hitler’s Germany and Afghanistan. No amount of so called silent majority has the right to make America into their image just because they have the votes.

Let adult Americans make decisions for themselves. Let freedom ring!

I”ll be on vacation until July 6th, 2010.

Hip-Hip-Hoooraaaaay! Mooner Got It Up!!!

Tuesday, June 29th, 2010

Hey everybody, welcome to my new and improved webber and blogger site stuff. Dustin has been working overtime to get this done for me and I am thrilled!

It will take me some time to get all of the parts installed and prettified, but like Gram said, “Who gives a shit Mooner. You have yerself a major league spider web there.”

Please be patient with me and I’ll make it worth your while.

I got it up!!!

Is That Jury Hung, Or What (Part 4)

Monday, June 28th, 2010

When Oprah talks about ,“A-ha moments,” I am now required to wonder precisely what she means. When I told you in the last posting that I had one of those moments, I meant that I had an “A…HA!!!” moment, sort of a “Shazam!!!” jobbie. Or even more like, “A-ha, I caught you, you rotten bastard!” You know, like it’s a big deal. I thought those moments were really big mental awakenings with at least one stunning aspect.

Then last night when I got home to the ranch, and Streaker Jones and my Gram were watching a Tivo’d episode of the Oprah Show, the lady on the show was talking about her, “aaaaaa-haaaaa,” moment. This woman’s A-ha moment was more like a, “Hmmm maybe I’m starting to have an inkling of an idea of what’s what.” If I was to write down in English what she said and then I wanted to punctuate her emotions, the last thing I would choose to use is an explanation point, like this- !.

I wonder why the English language has no punctuation mark that equals the opposite of the explanation point. If I was to design one it would be like this- ~ , you know the little squiggle dealie that you put over a senor to make it a Spanish Seen-your.

My efforts to design this mark would be to mimic the sound that a deflated balloon makes as the last little bit of air escapes when you let one fly through the air. The first escaping air would be an ! , and that last little bit would be the ~ . The definition of my new mark would be: “Punctuation from Mooner Johnson, who stole it from the Spanish: 1. Indicating dullness, flatness or disappointment; 2. The most mild surprise possible; 3. The opposite of an exclamation point.”

What I think I’m actually trying to say is that this lady’s idea of an A-ha moment was something quite different from mine. Hers was akin to how it feels when one raindrop splatters on your windshield and you say, “A-ha, I think it might rain.”

My A-ha moment was more like that time Streaker Jones and I went skiing up to Colorado and I tripped and fell into the icy lake. An “Ah-fucking-ha!!!” moment. My God the water was cold and the A-ha part was knowing I would drown.

When I asked Gram what she thought about this A-ha situation she said to me, she says, “Who gives a shit Mooner. Eye-has is as Eye-has does. I cain’t see a differnce one.”

Efforts to correct my Gram’s grammar are always futile. But is she funny, or what?

Anyway, so here is what my A-ha moment was. I was in the courtroom for jury duty last week, admonished simply for being me, and sitting in the witness stand that served as my dunce’s chair so his Honor could keep a watchful eye on me. What with my ADHD getting all fritzy on me, my head was spinning with dozens of thoughts. I had talked my way out of getting jailed because everyone was so hungry. (Read the last several bloggie postings if you are lost.)

“Look everyone, just give me thirty more minutes and I’ll let you go home.” This was almost a plea from the Judge.

I was listening to the Prosecutor and defense attorney spin the truths of the process to suit their needs and I heard the prospective jurors answer questions, and question back. Now, it was 2:30 in the afternoon after an 8:30 am start, and we had been given only two each twenty-minute breaks. But no food time.

Some of the additional thoughts swirling through my brain at the moment were: several different two Sarah Palin questions and lines of thought; trying to memorize the sequence to replace the battery to my cell phone; how many freckles were on the cumulative faces in the room- I counted sixty-three on this one woman’s face before she stared me down and I lost count; who was the dead body in this murder trial; did Gram catch this one particular squirrel that has been terrorizing my tomato plants; if Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry will ever come out of the closet; various and assorted other thoughts.

My brain was fighting with itself in vain effort to keep the activities in the courtroom to a sharper focus than all the other thoughts. I kept struggling with all of these thoughts but lost focus on the courtroom drama, and my brain started swirling.

Then everything came into sharp focus and my A-ha moment came.

“A-ha!!” I exclaimed. “I am innocent by reason of Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, your Honor.” I thought another second and followed with, “IRADHD, Billy. I’m gonna be famous.”

Jeff, my attorney, had me bailed out of jail by 9:30 but he was so pissed that he made me take the bus back to my car. The bus schedule features far fewer buses late at night, so when I finally got to my last stop it was 11:15. I walked across the street to my car, which wasn’t there.

Towed it was, and mightily pissed was I.

Luckily it’s summer and I had my portable tomato kitchen with me. Since I wasn’t going to be driving, I popped the top on my chilly Carta Blanca beer and sat down on the concrete base of the big light to where my car had been parked. As a karmic reminder of my idiocy, when sitting I banged my head on the sharp edge of the metal sign attached to the light post.

Hard.

Blinking with banged-head pain I looked up to read the sign. “Towing Strictly Enforced- Illegally Parked Cars WILL BE TOWED!

Fucking sign.

This is when I think to call home to get a ride, so I reach into my hemp cloth tote and retrieve my cell phone. When it won’t power-up I start getting pissed about that and then remember that the battery is out of it. So now I’m searching through all the stuff in my tote for the battery when I feel something warm and sticky run into my eyes.

I’ve got the cell phone in my one hand with the other buried deep in the bowels of my tote. I’m sitting directly under my big light source so I have to turn in a contorted kind of twist to keep the tote out of the deep shadows so I can see inside, and now I have blood running into my eyes and it’s starting to drip off my nose and onto the tote, my legs and even the ground.

You know how head wounds can bleed. Fucking sign.

I’m starting to get pissed because I can’t find the fucking battery and cars are driving through the parking lot and I don’t pay any attention to anything because I’m focused on getting my cell phone operative. Maybe a few frustrating minutes pass and I say to my self, I say, “What the fuck, I haven’t eaten since breakfast, I’m gonna have myself a tomato and finish my beer.”

So. I put the phone away and grab a big purple heirloom tomato, sea salt and pepper, and my big carving knife from my bag and prepare to chow down. I slice a fat slab the tasty homegrown heirloom, get it seasoned and pop it into my mouth. As I swallow the last bits of finely-chewed skin, I wipe the blood from my face with the back of my knife holding hand and then I raise the bottle for another long pull of Carta Blanca.

“Don’t move, Sir. Put down your weapon and stick your hands up.” Instructions from a bull-horned voice and now a spotlight in my eyes.

“Oh leave me the fuck alone, Deputy. I’m just having a little lunch and minding my own business.”

Have you ever noticed just how conflicting the instructions given by peace officers can be? “Don’t move,” are always the first words out of their mouth and they are always followed by some instruction that specifically requires motion.

“Besides,” I instructed. “You have given me impossible rules to follow, so I choose to not play your childish game.”

I slug some more beer and begin operating on my tomato for another slice of that tastiness.

“I said drop the weapon, Sir!”

“When I’m finished and not a second before,” I told him.

I’m starting to think to myself that maybe my bloody face might be a mitigating circumstance in this interchange, and that’s when I hear that electronic whirring sound, noise that is deeply imprinted on my very senses- the sound of a tazer checking its charge in preparation for a discharge.

“Oh for shit sakes don’t tazer me,” was all I got out.

ZZZZAAAAAPPPPP!

More Jury Woes; Squirt Helps Mooner (Part 3)

Sunday, June 27th, 2010

So. Before I attempt to finish telling you about my jury duty dealie I want to discuss this thing that happened to me this afternoon. I was over to Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson’s house babysitting Squirt for a few hours and working with her on her English.

Dixie is teaching her to talk using this system that teaches multiple languages at the same time. When immersed into a pool of five human, three barnyard animal, four plant and the basic spoor languages, a student learns to sink, or swim, quickly. Since the Squirt seems to have grasped the basic ideology of verbal communication and has not drown in her teacher’s word pool, Dixie wanted me to work with her on speaking English exclusively.

Me, I think that the best way to learn the nuance of any language is through its pop music. To help Squirt catch on to English, we watched HBO on TV. HBO is running and re-running this special called the Thirtieth Anniversary of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Now I want to be the first to say that the name is way too long, but the show was appropriately named. The list of acts performing read like a who’s who from popular music.

I won’t go into all of it because that isn’t the subject of this bloggie posting, but I must tell you about this deja-vu dealie that happened to me. Simon and Garfunkel walked out on stage and started singing, and I flashed to this time I lived with my buddy Lloyd up to Lubbock. It was 1968 and the summer after the big tornado ripped through Lubbock and lay waste to big patches of town.

Lloyd, who wants to be called Curtis now- his actual first name, had a nifty new stereo and all of the Simon and Garfunkel records. I could hear the music from his room through two closed doors as I lay in my bed at night.

When S&G sang, “Hello Darkness my old friend,” on the HBO special, my mind flashed to that summer and tears welled in my eyes by the bucket full. I didn’t actually cry, like boo-hoo, but I silently cried through the rest of their set in the same fashion I do when I hear Andrea Bocelli sing Time To Say Goodbye.

When the Italian tenor sings that song, I cry over the loss of my father and Dr. Sam I. Am’s mother, Marie- the two people I most miss from my life. I think of them often and wish I had spent more time with them before they died. The tears and dense sense of loss hits me two notes into that song and those emotions crescendo with the music and then fade just as quickly with the song’s finish. It wasn’t that way in the early aftermath of their deaths as I would be morose for days at a time. Now I go from OK to bucket-of-tears-and-emotions and back to OK in the time it takes to sing a song.

I don’t get morose anymore, in part because my remembrances are as much the joy of my memories as the deep losses. When the song ends, I always take a deep breath and feel as if I was visited by those two favored spirits. I have learned to embrace these emotion-filled happenstances when before I dreaded them.

For shit sakes I’m tearing up now.

Anyway, as for the tears shed today for Bridge Over Troubled Water and the other S&G hits, I can only guess at the root cause for my emotions and tell you that I fear I am spending too much time looking back at my life with regrets. Or maybe guilts. In my entire life I have never intentionally tried to harm anybody, except when they fully deserved it, but I have caused considerable harm none the less. Sometimes I hurt people when my intentions are to bring them joy.

I have these moments more and more often now and Dr. Sam I. Am tells me that it is a sign of my impending maturity. “When you truly accept the responsibility for your actions, which can only happen after you realize the impact those actions had on others, you can then actually feel the pain that you have caused. Once you can actually feel the other’s pain, that experience Mooner, is the hard evidence of growth.” A Pause, and, “Maturity will come when you can manage to discontinue hurting by accident.”

She looked right into my eyes and said, “You have left quite a swath of destruction in your path Mooner, but always in an almost childlike innocence. You are the most responsible man I have ever met and I think you are making remarkable progress. But you remain mostly clueless.”

Then she finished with a kiss to my cheek and said, “Did I tell you I have increased my hourly rate to $175.00 per hour?”

Maybe that exchange can help you understand my love/hate relationship with my psycho therapy.

Squirt has that sixth sense that good dogs have and felt whatever it was that bothered me as Paul and Art sang. She jumped into my lap with her front paws on my chest as I sat in front of Sammy’s big TV. She looked right into my teary hazel eyes with her little brown ones, and she teared-up as well. Then she snuggled onto my chest, pushed her head under my chin and nuzzled my neck.

Silently the two of us soaked the front of my shirt as the music played. Her itty bitty puppy breath was like a salve on my neck as we listened to the sounds of my youth.

As quickly as this moment began, it ended when the next act took the stage. Aretha Franklin is a special lady but for whatever reason her finger doesn’t grip the trigger to my emotions. I took a deep breath, kissed Squirt on the top of her adorable head and told her, “OK you little shitbird, tell me what you want for dinner using only the English language.”

She backed up to where she was sitting in my lap, cocked her head sideways and thought. She brought her now dry eyes to mine and said, “I do like lechuga e your homegrown tomatoes, Monsieur Mooner. Me gusta roasted goat as well.”

“Good job Squirt! That’s only three languages and all are homo sapiens,” I praised.

Which reminds me of something else. I have finally found someone who loves their homegrown tomatoes with the same lustiness as do I. Her name is Renee Studebaker and she is the garden writer for the Austin American Statesman. You can read about her at www.statesman.com/go/reneesroots where you can see what she writes about the local gardening scene.

However, since there was not a single reference to either sea salt or Carta Blanca beer in any of Renee’s writings, it is obvious that her obsession remains second tier to the lunacy that is me. At one time I was on the group that got the newspaper to start focusing on local gardening issues rather than reprinting stuff from Atlanta’s paper. But that is very old news and a bigger story than this space allows.

OK, where did we leave off with the jury dealie? I think I was daydreaming this debate over whom I would choose to have sex with, if I was forced to choose between the Sarah Palin lookalike or the actual Sarah Palin. The Judge awakened me with his question of, “What did you just say Mister Johnson?” to which I replied, “I said don’t fight over me girls, there’s plenty Mooner to go around.”

The entire courtroom found this funny and now people started turning their phones on and snapping pictures of the festivities for Facebook and Twitter.

“Oh for the sake of Mother Justice Mooner, do you even know how to behave yourself?”

I figured this might have been one of those rhetorical dealies so I just sat there wondering if I was spending the night with my rosy red ass in his jail.

“Answer me Mooner. Are you always so inappropriate?”

“Must be, your Honor. According to US News and World Report, the most inappropriate in the entire world. They did a poll and I won. Got the certificate to prove it.” It hangs in a place of honor out to Mooners Compost Plant right next to my Environmental Excellence Award- another story I might tell you guys, just not here.

“Alright Mooner, you come up here and sit in the witness chair so I can keep an eye on you.”

I told him, “Wow Billy, this will be just like when we were back to grade school.”

“That’s right Mooner. Except that Mrs. Browningwell didn’t have the power to put you on death row and I do. Now sit still and do not open your mouth until I ask you a question.”

His Honor turned the festivities back into the hands of the lawyers and I did fine for what seemed like an hour, until I looked at my watch. “Holy shit, it’s 2:30. I must be starved.”

“Mooner, that’s it. I am remanding you into custody. Bailiff, find a cozy cell and pitch Mister Johnson’s rosy red ass right on in it.”

“But look at the time, Billy,” I admonished him, “You are starving these poor people to death.”

And this would be where I had one of those “A-ha!” moments that Oprah Winfrey talks about so much. But I have hit the bloggie word count wall one more once with this jury story.

Look and listen because I am going to impart some real wisdom to you guys. As soon as you get a chance, perform the following sequence of events:

  1. Pop the top on a frosty cold bottle of Carta Blanca beer and take a slug.
  2. Cut two 3/8ths-inch thick slabs of the best tomato you can find; season it with sea salt and black pepper, both coarsely ground; cut those into quarters and arrange them on a small, chilled plate.
  3. While still in the kitchen, eat one of the little quarter-slices slowly enjoying the many flavors that burst into your mouth at first, and then savor the flavor of the skin as you chew on those skeletal remains.
  4. Take another slug of your beer, again savored, then head to whatever room houses your music system.
  5. Decide who you miss in your life the most- living or dead, and play the music you most associate with that person.
  6. Cry, feel sorry for your loss and then grateful for what you did have when that person was still around.
  7. Cancel your next psycho therapy session and send me a check for 10% of whatever your therapist charges for a visit.

I am told that the act of paying for therapy is a large determinant of that therapy’s success. If you won’t pay me, at least make a comment to display your appreciation and enhance your therapy.

Bon appetit!

Are Two Sarah Palins Too Many?- Jury Still Out (Part 2)

Friday, June 25th, 2010

OK, let’s continue our discussion of my jury duty experiences. When we left off, I had avoided potential conflict at the X-ray stand, the numbered paddle problem had been exposed and I had already been admonished by the Judge simply for being there.

And that would be when my phone started ringing. “Oh for crap sakes Mooner, turn your phone off.”

“Sorry, your honor,” I muttered. “It’s a new one and I can’t quite figure it out.”

“I told him at least twice your Honor.” This fussily said by the jury rustling fuss budget.

I fumbled with the off button and put the offending electronics back into my pocket. This phone distraction got me off the hook and the Judge says, “Next.”

Number 26 stands with his raised number 25 paddle and says, “I’m number 26, your honor and my name is…”

“Oh for shit sakes Mooner, will you trade paddles with that man so I can get on with this?”

“Objection your Honor,” this from the Prosecutor. “This man, number 25, has intentionally disrupted the record. He held a number 26 paddle while representing himself to be number 25. I move to strike his testimony and arrest Mister Johnson for mal intent.”

I’m thinking to myself, I thought, “Mal intent. What the fuck is mal intent?”

Maybe I should try to stop thinking to myself because the judge says, “Mooner, stop cursing in my courtroom and let me handle this or I’ll pitch your rosy red ass into my jail. I have experience with that, don’t I Mister Johnson.” That last part was statement not question.

Then he said, “Objection overruled Mister Prosecutor- irrelevant. He means well but trouble sticks to Mooner like ticks on a deer’s belly.” He added, “Now let’s move on.”

We traded paddles and the judge went all the way through the rest of the numbers without incident. The judge starts back in on his speech about how jury duty requires you to be honest and answer questions under oath and that he can pitch your rosy red ass into his jail if you tell lies. I know that this threat lacks any actual teeth because so many people tell so many obvious lies and their rosy red asses do not go to jail.

Me, it’s not my lies that get me locked up. It’s always the circumstance. And circumstantial evidence.

Anyway, the Judge is about five minutes into his speech again when my fucking phone goes off. Again. “I am so sorry Billy- I mean your Honor. It’s a new phone and I can’t figure it out yet.”

“Bailiff, would you please remove the battery from Mooner’s phone for him?”

He did, but under my watchful eye to insure I could figure how to put it back later. And we get back to the silliness that the judge has to go through as part of the voir dire jury selection process. Those silly words basically mean “truth telling” in French, and it is used to see if potential jurors might be prejudiced either for, or against, a particular party in a legal action.

Why are most French words so silly sounding? I think if I was French I would feel compelled to wear frilly dresses and speak my French with a snotty nose and phlegm-clogged throat.

Again, prejudice has no place in a courtroom. Except, of course, for the attorneys on both sides of the isle- prosecution and defense alike. With the exception of my guy Jeff, I think I might hate all lawyers. I say might only because I haven’t met all the lawyers.

I bring the bias part up now because bias raised its ugly head right at this point. “Your Honor, I wish to approach the bench.” That would be the Prosecutor.

“OK,” from the Judge.

A snippy announcement, “I would like to call number 25 to the bench for a conference.”

The judge says to me, he says, “It’s show time Mooner but I am warning you. If you drop your pants and wave your ass in my courtroom I’m authorizing the Sheriff Deputies to shoot it.” He then turned to the two armed men watching over things and told them, “If this man waves his bare ass at me, I want you to shoot to kill.”

Everyone laughed but me as I walked to the podium known as the bench. The prosecutor starts in on me right away, “Allow me to cut to the chase Mister Johnson. You have been arrested and charged with murder more than once, right?”

What the fuck is this all about?

“What the fuck is this all about?” I waited a beat and he replied, “Just answer the question.”

Now me, I have already been sworn in and promised to tell the truth, which does not require a promise from me, but I know I need to be careful what I say and sometimes the truth can hurt.

“I plead the Fifth.” Take that asswipe.

“Your Honor, will you instruct him to answer.”

“Answer him Mooner.”

From me, “The Fifth.”

“Did you know that this is a murder case?” The Prosecutor.

From me, “I do now- hell everybody knows now. Did he kill anybody I know?”

“Lower your voice, sir. Now, can you tell me why you should be allowed to participate in a murder trial when you hold the District Attorney, my boss, in such low regards?” He says this and folds his arms in that “got you” posture small-minded men use.

“Just because your boss is a brain dead Republican right wing religious fuckwad doesn’t mean I can’t render fair judgment for another man who is assumed to be innocent.”

He was looking at me with this stupid look on his weaselly face so I added, “Maybe I mean presumed innocent.”

Then my ADHD started this fritz dealie it does when I get angry and I had dozens of thoughts spinning in my head all at once. “Hold on just a minute and let me sort out my thoughts,” I told them.

After some short period of time the snotty Prosecutor blinked and said, “Come on Mister Johnson you are giving the wheels of justice a flat tire.” And then he turned and snickered for the audience.

“I have an idea Mister Assistant District Attorney,” I said.

“And that would be?” he inquired.

“You go fuck yourself because I plead the Fifth.”

Normally, this is where I would lower my pants to half mast and display my tastefully-coiffed butt hair, currently plucked and dyed to say, “Happy Birthday USA,” in red, white and blue. Like I told you the other week, SAC Ellen and I are taking the dogs, Dixie and Squirt, and meeting some folks out to Marfa for July Fourth. I’m going to march in their parade and the dogs are going to pull me in a wagon. This particular parade route is too long for me to waddle backwards with my head between my knees, so I’ll be pulled in the wagon this time.

I love parades.

I left SAC Ellen in charge of our accommodations for this trip and you would think we were planing a trip around the world. I have never heard so much conversation and cogitation required to book three rooms for three nights in west Texas.

“It’s Marfa and Fort Davis for shit sakes,” I said this one time after she had spent several hours on the phone with various hospitality people. “You grill those poor people like you think they smuggled a weapon of mass destruction into your territory.”

I think maybe my attitude cost me a sexless night but I always stand up for the little guy.

And I am digressing. Basically, the Prosecutor did not want me on this jury but the defense did. So this Assistant District Attorney is trying to grill my ass in front a courtroom full of nice people and the defense attorney is doing nothing to stop him. The Judge, of course, takes a neutral stand because that is his job and he harbors at least a slight bias towards me hisownself.

I won’t bore you with all the details of the discussion, but the Prosecutor’s argument was basically this. “How can you, Mister Johnson, provide an unbiased ruling in this case when you have been accused and acquitted of so many crimes, including murder?”

My answer, “I can do that by setting my bias aside and factoring your case against the accused tempered with the defense presented by this other lawyer. And since I have a very clear understanding of what, ‘beyond a reasonable doubt means,’ I will, thereunder, render fair and impartial judgment.”

“But you are biased by your experience, Sir,” was all he managed to get out.

“Well fucking duh. Of course I am,” my clever response. “Is it not that lifelong experience coupled with my promise to be fair and just that qualifies me to be a juror?”

Now the Judge is paying attention. “Stop preaching and go sit down Mooner. The Prosecution deserves you for poking his stick in your cage.”

When I took a deep breath to continue my sermon, the Judge stopped me cold. “I said sit!”

I sat. I got several pats on the back and “Atta boys” from my fellow prospective jurors- rewards for a job well done. I started thinking about things not courtroom related and the next thing I know, I’m debating that, if I absolutely had to choose, whether I would rather have sex with the Sarah Palin lookalike from down to the security station or would I choose the actual Sarah Palin.

Would I prefer a 300 pound-plus local girl with a cartoon of the Alamo and my autograph on her ass and who looks like the politician, or would I instead be more desirous of the actual lunatic right-wing religious fuckball with nice skin and who seems to maybe have a dirty side?

See this is a debate because I would have sex with either of them if I liked them because I do not judge books by their covers. Which reminds me that I need to get the cover designed for my book. I have been letting that slip and need to get it on schedule.

Anyway, it seems that my not paying attention to the live action and thinking about having sex with the two Sarah Palins had turned into a dream in which the two Sarahs were fighting over who got to have sex with me. I was at the point in my dream where I say to the girls, “You don’t need to fight over me girls, there’s plenty of Mooner to go around.”

I hear a voice that says, “What did you just say?” to which I repeated the part about not fighting over me.

That’s when everything unraveled on me. But I better stop right here before I offend the blog word count police again.

Let’s all have a cold Carta Blanca beer and a slab of homegrown tomato. More later.

Mooner Signs Sarah Palin’s Ass; Lookalike’s Husband Angry (Part 1)

Wednesday, June 23rd, 2010

Sometimes I think my life is this fictional story whose author is this lunatic fuckball who’s got no boundaries, has multiple personalities and a deep-fried brain. I called Dr. Sam I. Am for a little phone psycho therapy last night and when I told her this theory she said to me, she says, “That is remarkable insight for a lunatic fuckball whose deep-fried brain knows no limits and is void of appropriate thought from any of his aspects. You are showing progress and I am a psychotherapy miracle worker.”

Bitch.

She also went on to say, “Look Mooner. You are crazy and that’s OK in my book. Just be grateful that you remain, for the most part, functional.” And then she started laughing.

When I asked her what was so funny she says, “The functional part.”

See what I mean- bitch.

If you keep up here to bloggie central you know I was scheduled to jury duty starting yesterday morning. You also know that I am the most unlikely candidate for the title “Juror” as you are likely to find. Think about it.

Ten ex-wives will keep me out of any domestic dispute; I have never been convicted of a single felony yet I have been arrested and incarcerated more than a few times. Wait, yet is a bad choice of words in my case and I don’t mean I have yet to be convicted, like they just haven’t been able to pin a murder on me that I was guilty of committing. I was using yet to mean however.

As for civil cases, I have been involved in so many of those nasty things and involving so many issues, it is nearly impossible to find a civil issue that I have not had as part of a lawsuit of my own. You can’t chose a civil issue that is outside my courtroom experience. In fact, my attorney Jeff has won the “Texas Most Diversified Lawyer Award” nineteen years straight.

Streaker Jones, my family and I are Jeff’s only clients.

Now look, I would love to serve on a jury because I think that I reason better and clearer than 99% of the total pool of prospective jurors who want to serve on a jury, plus I have seen what can happen when all the decent folks opt out. The litigants, the criminally accused and we the People all deserve the best minds you can find and the least biased as well. Jury bias can cause terrible trial outcomes.

Think OJ Simpson, and I rest my case your Honor.

Many, if not most, qualified prospects simply do not feel that jury service is important enough to endure the time and effort to serve. And anybody with an IQ of like 67 or higher can get out of jury duty if they choose. In fact, most of those brighter people seem to do just that.

To each of those people I say this. Imagine yourself on trial for murdering a man that you accidentally killed in self defense. Imagine that this dead guy was a Deacon to his Baptist Church and a State Delegate to the Republican Convention.

Now, imagine that the only people from your jury pool pull who can’t weasel out from serving are Baptist conservative Republicans with an average IQ of maybe 58 quotient points.

Oopsie!

Then if you think about the simple fact that you have spent maybe forty years of your wasted life bitching about the Baptists and their hand puppets the Republicans, maybe you can start to formulate my argument that you should embrace jury duty and try to get others to do the same.

Like yesterday, for example. I got up at 4:30 am to get dressed and ready and I drove over to the shopping center there to US 183 and Anderson Mill. That’s the one the Capitol Metro website told me to go to if I wanted to start from my place way out to the boonies and arrive to the courthouse in time. Ignoring the “We Enforce Towing” sign because the bus stop is located on the grounds of the center, I parked and got out. My bus arrived within a minute of its scheduled time and got me to my transfer stop just in front of my express bus to downtown. I want to state here that the buses were clean, the drivers helpful and the timing good.

After a short walk from where I debarked the bus, I got to the courthouse in time to have a party at the security checkpoint. Because I have several metal objects embedded in my skin, I am the party at the x-ray booth. Many people recognized me and I even gave an autograph to this woman who looked just like Sarah Palin except maybe for the extra 200 pounds she was packing.

This is going to be a two-part story, I can tell right now. And remember that I rode the bus because they have no available parking spaces for potential jurors, only actual chosen jurors, and the City tows overdrawn parking meters.

When I signed the nice woman’s Lilly-white left butt cheek I noticed that there was no evidence of underwear and of course, I commented. Her little toothless redneck husband, who had been quite supportive of me having my hands all over her giant ass to draw a picture of the Alamo and sign my name with a Sharpie, became a surly little toothless redneck shitwad when I asked about was I just not seeing the underwear, or was there no underwear to see. Since this woman’s ass was big enough to conceal a meth lab, I thought my question appropriate.

Actually, it was her answer maybe that sparked the Mister’s surliness. In answer to my question the nice lady said to me, she says, “Here Mr. Johnson, take a peeky-poo fur yer-sef.” And she sprightly yanked her jeans to her knees.

Now me, I’m thinking to myself that it has taken some jean lowering practice for this nice lady to get the 12 yards of tightly-packed denim that skins her ass to her knees before I can blink. Her husband, and again this is just what I think, is not blaming me for this particular jeans lowering event. Instead, I think he is blaming me for her already acquired expertise at lowering said jeans.

“So yer tha one ain’t cha Mooner,” he said with tobacco stained spittle spritzing from the gaps between his remaining teeth. “Don’t know iffn I want ta shoot ya er kiss ya.”

Luckily we were scheduled on different floors or I maybe would have had a problem there. Then I get to my floor and endure the seventh grade spring dance that is getting 70 prospective jurors identified and into their appropriately numbered seats. We were all getting identified and assigned numbers by the fussy man in charge.

“Single file Indian Style,” said this guy in charge of jury rustling. “And make sure your phones are turned off.” And then, “O-f-f,” he spelled for us.

Now me, as a quarter American Indian blood owner, I turned my new phone off and took no offense to the Indian style dealie because I think political correctness is oppressive. Never understood why that phrase has such common usage anyway, but I’m not offended. However, the man with the tomahawk nose and long braids two doors down from me held a differing view.

“I’m not moving until you take that back,” he said. It was taken back, with political correctness, so we moved into the courtroom to take our places.

I was number 25, and my day started going to shit as I reached my assigned middle isle seat, expecting to find my plastic paddle marked with a number 25. “This has number 26 on it and I’m number 25. This is out of order.” I’m quick to point out problems because I think the earlier you identify a problem- the easier the solution.

“If you are number 25, sit where the plastic paddle number 25 is located, it is not that difficult.” Not quite a scold from the rustler.

“Fine,” I said as I sat on the opposite isle seat number 26 with plastic paddle number 25.

“I thought I said for you to sit at your number Mister 25. Are you going to be a problem here Mister 25?” A few seconds of agitated jury rustler foot tapping and then, “Move it Mister 25 or you’ll be in contempt of court. I asked are you going to be a problem, now answer me.”

Calmly I answered. “Not so long as you pull your head out of your ass and decide where you want me to sit.”

That’s when I get this “Harumph” noise that my first grade teacher used to get her students all in our seats for an assembly to the auditorium. He grabs me by my arm, gently but firmly, and says as he points to each seat, “22, 23, 24, and then 25, Mister 25. It doesn’t go 22, 23, 24,” now he swings his hand dramatically to point across the isle, “and then 26, now does it?”

And I said, “Not when I count sir. I usually get to eleven and need to start over.”

I am a funny guy.

So he glares and places me in my correct seat next to number 24 but my little plastic paddle still says 26. Now, after this three minute distraction Mister 26 takes his seat, the one that is his correct seat, and he raises the number 25 paddle in the air in front of his face. I decided I liked him right away because he says nothing- he just sits with this big grin on his face.

Now, the Judge starts his speech and part of his introduction to the jury process is to introduce yourselves starting with number one. “Stand up, hold up your paddle for the Court Reporter to see,” starts Judgie Poo, “And say your number and state your name.”

Of course all goes well from numbers one through 24 when I stand with my paddle held high and say, “I’m number 25 your honor, and as you know, I’m Butcher Einstein, known as Mooner, Johnson.”

“Oh for Christ sakes Mooner,” his honor almost swears. “Whose campfire did I piss in to deserve having you in my courtroom?”

OK, let’s stop here and have a cold Carta Blanca beer. This jury thingie is a long story.

Manana.

I Think Mike Matusow Has ADHD Too

Friday, June 18th, 2010

Nobody is talking to me so that means that something is brewing in the form of a surprise. Since it’s Fathers Day on Sunday, I’m guessing that would be the surprise. I’ve decided to mess with everyone’s head because I am the only father in my immediate group.

Exclusivity has its benefits.

I’ve been telling everyone that I am going up to Durant, Oklahoma to the Indian Casino there to play some live poker this weekend. I have been doing lousy playing on the I-net because I can’t stay focused. Just last night I, stupidly, tried to run a three-bet bluff in a $24.00 tournament on Full Tilt. A three-bet bluff is a bet on the flop, turn and river when your cards can’t carry a tune.

I know better than that, but I pulled a Mike Matusow anyway. I firmly believe that Mikey suffers from ADHD just like me. I keep trying to convince Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson to develop a specialized focusing therapy for gifted poker players who have ADHD but she says the market is too small.

“OK, Mooner. Besides you and Mike Matusow, name me another gifted player with your affliction.” This from my ex-wife but still psycho therapist.

She’s right, I guess, but if she could just understand the frustration that Mike and I suffer at the hands of ADHD, it might penetrate her cold dark heart to our advantage. Really, think about it.

You pay $10,000 to enter a big championship tournament- one of several thousand players to join. You play perfect poker hour-after-hour for three days on end. You build a big chip stack by playing solid cards, executing crafty bluffs and without ever having your entire stack at risk. Creative and crafty play from a gifted poker player.

And then you are sitting three places from the money, your chip stack is 200% of the average and you hit trip nines on the turn to a board of Ace, Jack, and Seven. The Internet whiz kid who is your heads-up opponent in this hand bets half of the pot on that nine, you raise the pot, and after tanking for three minutes, whizzer boy re-raises you all-in.

So, you fold right?

Nope. You think about when you played with this kid on Poker Stars a few months ago and he ran a bluff with the Ace-King, just like this one. Since you will be close to the chip lead when you bust this little shitball plus get three minutes of TV time on ESPN, you spend a few minutes in the tank pretending to agonize over your already made decision.

You wipe your hand over your grimaced face one last time and say, “OK, I call.”

Whiz kid shrugs and flips over the Eight and Ten of clubs for the straight. “Please don’t tell me you played the Queen-Ten like that Mooner. You never play rags like that.”

You look but don’t see the straight and proudly display your three nines. “Nope, Kiddo,” you proudly say. “I only play premium hands.”

It is about the time the word “premium” floats out of your mouth that you count the five cards in a row that make his straight. “Fuck me,” you think to yourself.

You must have thought it out loud because you catch a ten minute penalty for inappropriate language. At the blind and ante structure this late in the tournament, the $10,000 in chips you have left after the whizzer doubles through you has become one pitiful $500 chip in those ten minutes. You sit down, put the chip in the pot to almost cover your $5,000 big blind.

Your cards come- Jack and Six, one black and one red. You stand up and start the walk of shame before the flop even hits the table.

But that was a major league digression.

Fathers Day is a tough one for me for two reasons. First, I am a father and don’t feel that I have been that great at it. I have always tried to do the right thing by my kids but I’m so crazy that what I try has often times been very wrong. I’m way smarter now than when my kids were in true need of good fathering, but they now could care less about any lessons I might impart to help them live better lives. I know that is not a unique fatherly view, but it is mine.

The other thing is that my own father and grandfathers are long gone. Men that I admired and ignored as best I could. As a typical child, I didn’t listen or learn most of the important wisdom I should have from them. I figure that my kids ignoring me is payback.

What I’m trying to say is that I think I have been a good enough father to deserve an “Honorable Mention” on Fathers Day, but I don’t deserve sappy cards and presents or a party. Those trophies that say, “World’s Best Father” that so many kids give their dads needs a companion for sale this time of year. It would be inscribed, “An OK but not so great dad, we don’t get to choose.”

My Fathers Day card should read: “Roses are red, violets are pretty; Other kids have great dads, Ours is sometimes shitty.”

Look, I am not getting all maudlin and morose on you, I’m just attempting to tell it like I see it. I could have done a great job fathering my kids but I am so crazy with the ADHD and my other maladies that I often got in my own way.

Maybe what I am attempting to say is this. Because I don’t feel that I am such a great dad, the celebration of Fathers Day does not stir me to want a party.

Now- start celebrating Ex-husband Day and I am definitely your man. I am the best ex-husband ever! Ask any of the ten women who would get that vote. I think the best day for Ex-husbands Day would be like April 15th, you know do it the same day as tax day.

On Tuesday, March 25th, I posted an article I wrote years ago that I would like you to read. In fact, let’s get a cold Carta Blanca beer and read it together. It will make you feel better about yourself.

Rick Perry Joins Rush Limbaugh In Closet; Republican Party In Turmoil

Thursday, June 17th, 2010

I want to move. Oregon or New Mexico or maybe Finland, you know someplace with summer temperatures the other side of hellish. I’ve already got sweat on my face, sweat running down my back and sweaty balls and I’m taking a shower for shit sakes. June 15th and its already 95 degrees and 95% humidity.

Just so you know, I have a Summons to Jury Duty next week and for a period from June 21through July 2. Are you fucking kidding me? What attorney or prosecutor will want to be looking at my ass sitting in a jury box? But, you never know.

And get this- the letter with the Summons says, “Since there is no parking for the Courthouse, we suggest you make arrangements with Capitol Metro to get to the Courthouse by the 8 am starting time. Again, are you fucking kidding me?

From my place way out here to the far northwest part of the County I would need to leave yesterday at 8 am to get downtown by 8 am today if I use Capitol Metro. Then, once I got there I would need to turn right around and head back so I could get showered and shaved to be back to the courthouse by 8 am tomorrow morning. Assuming they want me to stay for a visit once I’m there, I’ll be needing to make other arrangements for transportation.

The point I digressed about this jury duty business is that I might not be posting anything much next week. But I’ll make it up to you in some fashion or another.

As for Rush Limbaugh the pig, the carpenters just finished installing a private entrance from the side of the house into my closet. It’s like a weather-safe doggie door except bigger. Rush is just too frightened to come out of the closet all the way. He’ll come out and play and stuff but he’s back in the closet every night. And any time he hears the nerve-grating screech that is my Gram’s voice he burns the ground racing to his new door.

He’s like Liberace or Rock Hudson or maybe that lady from the view who got her stomach stapled and lied about it. Everybody knew about their secrets, nobody really cared about them, and each one brought a world of shit down on their own heads while they hid from their truths.

Rush Limbaugh is the most ridiculous of them all if you ask me. Except for Gram, he has a loving and supportive family who both know of, and enjoy, his differences. He is funny and smart and provides me with endless hours of entertainment when he rams his snout up Gram’s ass and furts her.

Gram is the best furt victim I have ever seen in my decades of furting. Jumps out of her socks every time. And since she’s always in everybody else’s business, there’s ample opportunity to catch her bent at the waist with her butt exposed.

But now I have a new problem with Rush Limbaugh’s refusal to come clean and leave the closet. Rick Perry the ostrich has done that thing that baby birds do when they bond with the first living thing they see. Except Ricky has bonded with my Gram, in whom the term living thing has perverse meaning, and that big ass bird is no baby.

Lucky that Dixie speaks Strothio Camelus, that’s the African black ostrich language. There’s a small problem in that Rick Perry was separated from all other birds as a newborn and was raised in a pen with a bunch of pigs. That information should lead you to the conclusion as to the particulars of my current, new problem.

Living with pigs will cause a person to develop pig-like habits. I know that sounds trite as all get out, but it is truer than fictionalized. Pigs jam their snouts up everyone’s ass and squeal and oink and shit all over the place, and so does Rick Perry. Two hundred pound flightless bird thinks he’s a piggie.

Brings new perspective to that whole, “If pigs could fly,” dealie.

Dixie is having a terrible time translating for me because Rick Perry speaks ostrich through his nose, again like a pig. Apparently that messes with the syntax of the vowel sounds in ostrich talk making it difficult to decipher.

When I told Dixie to tell the bird to stop furting Gram or I’d be grilling his skinned carcass on the spit to my big smoker out back, Dixie translated his response. “Well Mooner, he either said that he will be most gracious to accommodate your every wish, or he asked me to tell you to go fuck yourself.”

Sounds like he’s gonna fit in with this family either way.

Star Jones. The lady from The View, her name is Star Jones. Had her stomach stapled and wouldn’t come clean and married this guy that many called gay. I don’t see why any of that should make a difference. Lots of gay people are happily married to the opposite sex. They just can’t marry within their desired sexual parameters, happily or not.

Fucking right-wing Christian Republican shitballs pushing their belief systems up our ass again.

I did a little investigation to learn more about ostriches and discovered several interesting things. First, he’s got 46 feet of intestines and that explains the fact that his farts can melt the glass out of a window frame.

Second is that they run in circles when they try to run away from danger and third, and most interesting is this. An adult ostrich will have two eyeballs, each the size of a billiard ball, crammed into a dense, thick skull. Each eyeball is far larger than his brain.

This set of facts are why my Gram gets so much credit for her senses. Mother thought it was a political statement when Gram sensed the bird’s name was Rick Perry. But once again, science bears Gram’s vision as dead on target.

The running in circles with a very small brain seems visionary fodder for my Gram.

Anyway, Rick Perry has bonded with Gram and keeps furting her by poking his snotty beak up her ass and making this noise that less resembles the sound of a, “Furt!” and is closer to the sound a flat tire makes just as it blows and shreds against the fender at 70 miles per hour.

So now Gram has Rick Perry on the same list as Rush Limbaugh, that’s the “Execute on Sight” list, and that means I’ve got the both of them hiding in my closet. Twenty-four hours a day except for excursions to potty and make mayhem. It’s a good thing the bird is flexible and can get out of Rushie’s door.

And speaking of mayhem, I’m sitting to the dinner table with the family last night and Gram says to me, she says, “Mooner, call yer young a-dult buddies Johnny and Sammy an ask em iffn they lik fancy red Fer-Raries.”

I almost choked on my Carta Blanca and sprayed a mouthful over my plate of enchiladas. “No way Gram. These guys are my buddies and I will not have you ruining their lives.” This I said with resolute firmness.

“Oh stop yer whining Mooner. I’m gittin a touch randy an need some fresh boys ta meet.”

Sweet mother of God, I pray for the young men’s souls.

“No way. And don’t ask me again.”

Then she takes a slug of her own beer and says, “Aw who gives a shit Mooner. I was jist fuckin with ya.” And she added, “Tha P-cubed an me is headin down ta tha Drag ta see what we can shake outa tha cracks.”

That means that Gram and her best buddy, Penelope Paxton-Parades, are taking Gram’s 550-horsepower Ferrari down to UT to troll for young adult males. More frightening imagery.

Sam Barnes and John Egloff, the aforementioned adult young men, have agreed to be my age appropriate consultants for their age group and advise me for all this webber and bloggie nonsense.

If things don’t get any better you can blame them.

But my ADHD is fritzing like crazy and I need to head over to Sprouts.

Rush Limbaugh To Remain Closeted- Pig Cries Like A Baby But Won’t Come Out

Tuesday, June 15th, 2010

This dealie yesterday was the last coming out party I will ever throw for anybody. I had invited a full house of accepting guests and laid out quite a spread of Rush Limbaugh’s favorite foods in an effort to make his exit from the closet as memorable an experience as I could.

As for the food, when they say that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, cube that sentiment and they would be talking about a pig. My particular pig favors pork link sausages smoked and grilled on a hot fire, fat slabs of ribs, and baked beans full of bacon and jalapeños.

When it was time for his big announcement, Dixie and Squirt went back to the big closet in my master suite to get Rushie. A few minutes later Squirt comes waggling back and gets all prostrate at my feet, looking up into my hazel eyes with her soft brown ones.

I acknowledged her by saying, “What’s up Squirt? I don’t see Rush Limbaugh.”

Squirt sits up like a bunny rabbit, her speaking pose as taught by Dixie, and answers, “Es muy mal nin einer news Mooner.” Then she paused and thought for a few seconds, and went on with, “Snork oink crying muchacha el Rush Limbaugh en la closet e no la come out to la fiesta.”

“What? No news is bad news? Rush Limbaugh is on the floor of the closet crying like a little girl?” I thought to my self.

“See Monsieur Mooner. Essen like el bambina paquita.” Squirt’s unexpected reply.

I must have been thinking out loud.

“What the fuck, Squirt. You get in there and tell that pig to get his ass out here and right now!”

Of course, Squirt starts crying now and Sam I. Am comes over to us and gives me that look like I’ve done something wrong, and now she’s eating my ass out at 100 decibels.

Which reminds me. I was out to the Barnes and Nobles bookstore on US 71, which is the Galleria store, and one which has not yet banned me from their premises. I was there to meet my fancy pants Editorator and go over a few things so I can finally get my book to print. This entire publishment thingie is a giant pain in my ass. At the coming out party yesterday she made the appointment.

Anyway, she’s late and I’m just looking around and listening in on all the conversations in the store. Across the room are two young guys sitting to a table for two, appropriately, and talking- a laptop open between them. They are talking computers and tattoos and such and I hear one of them say, “Dripping Springs,” and since the Johnson Family Enterprises are headquartered to Dripping Springs, I decided to have a chat with them.

I also thought this would be a good time to pick some young adult brains about I-net and webber and bloggie stuff. Turns out these were two bright, articulate and helpful guys and I like them both. John Egloff, it was his laptop opened between them, and Sam Barnes. Sam had a ball cap worn backwards and slightly askew like younger men do, and John was hatless but had horn rimmed glasses. I wore horn rimmed glasses when I was his age and he looked as dashing as I back then.

Actually, he likely looks more dashing than did I back then because wire rims were all the glasses rage in the sixties but wire rims pissed me off. I was that hippie guy with horn rimmed glasses and his bared ass hair shaved into a peace sign and dyed purple. If you went to UT in the sixties you at least know my ass.

So. I introduced myself and made sure that neither they, nor their families, work for us because I was looking for unbiased input. Once we got that out of the way, I told them what I was doing. My first question was, “What kinds of things would attract you to a new bloggie dealie?”

See me, I like to make my questions simple and to the point. Sam and John look at each other likely, I think, using their eyes to ask each other, “Is this crazy old fart for real?” Apparently the answers were “Yes’s,” because they started talking to me.

Is that the plural of one yes? If not, what the fuck is?

Now this was two men so you need to understand that their answers were likewise biased, but here is some of what I heard from them:

  1. Funny stories.
  2. Outrageous stories.
  3. Stories where people do stupid things.
  4. Stories where guys are always doing the right thing but get in trouble anyway.

Let me stop here because I said, “Let me stop you here. Have you guys been reading my life stories to my bloggie?”

They said, “No,” and then told me that they really like to read about older people talking shit about young people. “You know,” John said, “Like when they say we are lazy and have no ambitions.”

“Yea,” Sam added. “Old people seem to think that we feel entitled and that we don’t have to work hard.”

Then John continued, “We love reading about how they think we are worthless and make fun of us.”

“What did you mean when you said you like stories about guys who get into trouble when they haven’t done anything wrong?” I asked.

“Well,” he told me, “I had just moved out and into my first apartment with these guys and hadn’t been there but a few days when the cops bust the door down and want to arrest everybody because one of the guys was allegedly selling herb.”

He finished with, “I get all balled up in this cop-u-drama and I didn’t do anything except choose bad roommates. Funny now, but not then.”

God do I know that feeling. Then I told them about recently getting booted out of the Barnes and Nobles and a few of the times I’ve been arrested for just being a nice guy. I tried to explain to them that not all old people are shitbrained Baptist Republican fuckwads and maybe they bought just a little of that.

I was fritzing like crazy with my ADHD and I was starting to feel like a meth addict. That’s when Missy Editorator came up from behind me to say, “Hey Mooner, who are these two attractive men?”

John and Sam didn’t exactly melt at the sight of her but they did get that glassy-eyed hound dog look a man gets with the sight of a woman of remarkable looks. “Sam and John,” I told her. “Two helpful and interesting guys.”

They were really nice men and had interesting things to say and said them interestingly. I told them I would be happy to introduce them to some young women that work for our companies but they told me they can handle themselves in that department.

So I promised to try to get old farts to be sensible with their ideas about young adults and that seemed to be thanks enough for their help. Now, however, I feel like a total fuckball for calling them young adults because that sounds like political correctness to me. John, Sam- if you guys read this could you send me a comment or something to discuss what it is that your aged persons like to be called?

Like for me, I am an old fart, I’m proud to have lived long enough to be an old fart and an old fart it is. Me- call me an old fart.

Of course, then Jerri Brown comes over to speak with my already Editorator and she’s a former big wig Editorator herownself and maybe she can assist me with some last-minute stuff on my book as well. So, we’re talking about all of that and who should walk in but Laura “Dildo Diaries.net” Barton.

Laura is also known as the world’s first female streaker. I said to her when she introduced herself, I said, “Holy fucking shit! Laura Barton the streaker!” I felt tears start to stain my eyes but I manned up and put them down.

“Don’t cry Mr. Johnson, that was a long time ago,” Laura said.

Then we spent some time telling naked-in-public stories and she did most of the talking because she had interesting things to say. I need to ruminate about what she said and maybe I’ll tell you more of her story at a later date.

How big are her balls to have been the first female streaker? I mean really. Streaker Jones is the first male I know of who ever streaked and that was as a first grader back to the fifties. Of course, his balls hadn’t even dropped back then but they are now large and quite steely.

Oh yea. The Dildo Diaries is a feature-length documentary of the old law Texas had about how sex toys are illegal. Same kind of ridiculous right wing Baptist religious conservative Rick Perry Republican bullshit as always. Award winning film.

OK, my ADHD is seriously fritzed. What I meant to say is that when I went to give Rush Limbaugh a chunk of my mind he was actually in the fetal position on the floor to my closet and crying like a baby. There’s all of this snoinking and moinking and snotty-nosed snunkling oinking noises from the pig and this giant puddle of pig snot has pooled on the hand woven Navajo rug on the floor.

I warned everybody that talking pig makes your nose run.

“He says he’s not coming out of the closet Mooner.” This from my trusty Golden Retriever, Dixie.

“You tell him that if he doesn’t want to be the little piggie that goes to market, he’ll get his ass out of my closet and go face the music.” I amaze myself at how I can stay calm in stressful situations.

“Don’t yell Mooner, you are going to make things worse.” Admonished by the dog. Now my dog is telling me what to do and talking down to me as well. Then she adds, “He says he is not strong enough to face the truth, Mooner. He says he wishes he was as strong as you but he just isn’t.”

I am strong, aren’t I.

Now what do I say? I thought a minute and sat on the floor an rubbed the boar bristles that form a little tuft on his chinny chin chin. “Look Rush Limbaugh. There is nothing you should be ashamed of here, it’s just facing the truth about yourself. So what if you have developed an overdeveloped taste for Gram’s magic mushroom potions. You don’t really need to quit snorting them in the all together, just don’t overdose yourself and get all nutso.”

I cogitated a bit more and continued. “I’ve been taking gram’s potions from a tincture bottle my whole entire life and look at me, right?”

That didn’t get the change in mood I’d expected so I changed tactics. “OK, how about this. Lots of people can’t help themselves and stick their noses in other people’s business. You just poke your nose up their asses and furt them. It’s what a pig does for shit sakes. And your sexual preferences are of little concern to us as well. We don’t care if you want to fuck a buffalo so long as the buffalo is OK with it.”

“Of course, you need to know that Stanly is a Bison and not a buffalo, and I think you need to take the hint that he is not weirdo-sexual. He told Dixie he likes pigs just not in that way.”

Wait a minute, I’m at 1,981 words at that last at. Not the actual last at but the last at before 1,981. Almost five full bloggie postings.

Fuckballs.

Thank God for Carta Blanca beer.

Rush Limbaugh the Pig Remains Closeted; Wiccans and Witches Show Support

Monday, June 14th, 2010

I’m waiting for the rain to stop so I can crank up the big grill and prepare the food for our big coming out party for Rush Limbaugh the pig. We have quite a crowd, what with all the immediate and extended family, an even half dozen of my ex-wives including Roshandra and her new beau, and Harry from over to Sprouts with his fiancée, Patty Pritchitt, and the Sheriff and his wife.

Roshandra brought this local politician as her date and I am reserving judgment until the end of the night. I can say in advance that I like his politics but I remain unsure as to his motive to date my ex. Patty is the camel toe lady out to Sprouts from awhile back and I really like her. She and Harry are a strange but fun couple what with him devout Catholic and her Wiccan.

Streaker Jones brought Sunny, the TV reporter and my ex-lover, who has the honorable distinction of being a person whose distinction I can’t distinguish for you. The reason I can’t tell you about what distinguishes Sunny from the rest of the women gathered here to the ranch is because my fancy pants Editorator, the one for my soon-to-be-published book, is also here.

When I told her I was going to bloggerate until the rain stopped she said to me, she says, “Look here Mooner Einstein Johnson. If you spoil one more secret from the book by writing in your blog I’m going to have Dr. Sam I. Am commit you again. You need to extinguish your distinguishments and establish some dignities.”

Then before I could snappily retort, she snapped, “Einstein my rosy red ass. Your Gram is right about that one. And establish some priorities as well. Nobody is reading your blog anyway, otherwise you would be getting more comments.”

“Bullshit,” my first snappy retort of the day. “I know with absolute certainty that I have many daily readers to the bloggie.” Then, when she looked at me like I’m crazy I gave her a sloppy raspberry, “Pfflluughhbbttt!” An appropriate second snappy retort to follow the first.

“Mooner,” she told me with not just a little scorn in her voice, “You are fucking clueless, you giant moronic shit-for-brains asshole.”

Now she’s got that “searching for words” look that intelligent people get when they are frustrated. I saw the opening and took it. “Ooo, listen to the fancy-assed professional word smith using all of those nasty words when there are so many better words to use for proper communication. How can you tell me to clean up my act with that trash-filled maw glued on your face.” Snappy retort number three, and one of my best.

She’s always telling me that I cuss too much in my writing and that curse words are the tools of lazy writers and only belong in quality prose strictly for emphasis. When she first told me this I said to her, I said, “No shit little Missy Edito-fucking-rator. I only fucking use fucking cuss words for fucking emphasis!”

Of course, later I realized that I also use cuss words to portray an act, like shitting, and as an endearment like when I say that Squirt is a cute little shitbird. Speaking of the Squirt, she is here with Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson and has offered to help Dixie interpolate for Rush Limbaugh the pig.

Squirt wiggled up to me and did this adorable thing she does whenever she first sees me. She comes right to my feet and then throws herself flat to the ground with her head resting on her front paws. Then she’ll watch me with expectant eyes, whipping her little tail in a happy wag. She won’t speak a word until I address her, but she literally vibrates with excitement until I do.

“Well if it isn’t my favorite little shitbird. Besides your entire carcass, what’s shaking Squirt?”

Taking her cue, Squirt sits up like a bunny rabbit onto her back haunches and almost exclaims, “Gooten morgan Senor Mooner. Ein essen here to assist Hier Limbaugh mitten der oink snurt snuffloosh die gruber from el closet.”

She is so fucking cute when she mixes her syntax and scrambles my synapses. “Thanks for coming Squirt. I know that the Rushster will appreciate your support. Just remember that he only speaks piggie and a limited dialect at that.”

Then I thought to add, “And be sure you blow your nose before speaking too much Porcine. That’s why pigs’ noses are always snotty.”

Did you guys know that’s why a pig always has a snotty nose? Their entire language is snorted and squealed through their noses. Makes me wonder about anteaters.

Patty and Gram are sitting to a corner of the kitchen talking about magic spells and stuff. Since Patty is a Wiccan and Gram’s an old witch, they seem to be getting along. Gram seems to think she can charge more for her potions if she can give them a little boost by casting a spell on each bottle.

I heard her tell Patty, Gram says, “How do I tell tha differnce a tween a good spell anna bad un?”

“Well Gram,” Patty patiently replied, “You know what the spell is used for when you learn the spell. Good spells may be used for evil purposes and bad spells might be used for a good reason.”

Uh oh, Houston we have a problem. Now me- I knew what my Gram was going to say back to Patty without even thinking, but Patty is just newly exposed to the 90-pound vial of nitroglycerin that is my Gram.

Gram says, “Who gives a shit Patty. Spells is as spells does. Now answer my fuckin question an spill tha beans.”

I’m just glad that Patty is kind of heart and long of fuse. The last person to put a hex on my Gram cast this spell that my Gram would have sex with all the criminals down to the jail. Actually the hex word was “rape” and not sex, but you get my drift.

The Sunday after this lady put the hex on Gram I got a call from Sheriff Wozniac. “Mooner get down here right now and I mean pronto. Your Gram has managed to lock herself into the west wing of my jail and she’s abducted a full dozen inmates and got them handcuffed to their cots.”

Then he said, “I’ve never heard so many grown men crying Mooner. And these are hard men.”

Maybe that’s what Patty meant about knowing your spells. Is it a bad spell if you hex some old gasbag into doing what she most wants to do?

Wait a minute. Did I tell you about the ostrich yet? You know how city-dwelling assholes like to drive to the country and dump their unwanted pets out the car. Well, some country-dwellers do the same except they drive from their place already out in the country to a country place in another county.

Because our ranch is located near to multiple intersections of various major county arterial roads, we get more than our share of dumped animals. We get dumped people as well, but that’s another whole can of worms.

Maybe I could have saved word count by simply saying the ranch is on a busy street. Bottom line is that somebody got tired of feeding and caring for their six-foot tall, 300-pound can’t fly, but can run like a greyhound, bird. Cute shitbird except for the beady eyes and maybe a too surly attitude.

Anyway, last week Gram is out to the big garden and encounters this ostrich and she named him/she/it Rick Perry on account that it hides its head from the truth and then uses the same thick skull like a mace, you know that studded metal ball on the end of a chain that knights swing to slug things. That’s how an ostrich attacks- with his thick, numbed skull. Swings it like a mace.

We learned about the thick skull macing bit when Gram tried to sex the ostrich. Wait now, I don’t mean Gram tried to have sex with it, but rather tried to determine if it was male or female.

“I was partin tha tail feathers on that rascal to see iffn it had any danglies and next thing I know I’m flat on my back and ol Rick Perry was swingin its head like one of them bozo dealies like them Lithuanian cowboys do down ta South America.”

Have to love my Gram, but I am digressing like a sumbitch. My ADHD has been a touch fritzie today so maybe I need a beer.

Oh look, it’s stopped raining so I better get along. But don’t start bitching at me because you’re still getting 1,530 words by the time I stop. That’s almost five quality bloggie postings.

Now, go crack your own frosty cold Carta Blanca beer and toast to Rush Limbaugh for coming out of the closet.

Will Rush Limbaugh (The Pig) Come Out of the Closet?; Mooner Tells All

Saturday, June 12th, 2010

It’s Friday folks and time to clean-up a few loose ends. I’ll start by finishing the part about when I was over to the Barnes and Nobles and this one woman started a big scene. I know I broke my promise to finish yesterday but you just need to get over that. I’m doing the best I can with limited time and resources.

Besides, I’m not charging you yet and I think I have the right to disappoint you until you’re paying customers. If you are a Republican or a Baptist and that’s not acceptable to you, go fuck yourself.

As you recall, I was researching for Dixie in the kids section and the kids all started misbehaving and this one severely obsessive/compulsive woman had this book with the mug shots and criminal histories of all child molesters reported to be living in the area.

I think the woman is bi-polar, like Bi-polar Bob over to Shoal Creek loonie bin. It’s all ups and downs with Bob and I was sensing some of the same from this lady. Mental health professionals call the two extremes Manic, the upsies part, and Depressive, which is definitely the downers. These extreme mood swings typically last days and longer as the pendulum swings back and forth.

Not for this lady though, no siree Bob. This gal could go from sweet neighbor lady to the Devil’s right hand man in what seemed to me to be two seconds. Maybe less.

When she comes up to Bert Massey, he’s the head of security for the Arboretum, and holds a picture of Clovis Williams up to my face, the lady was all triumphant smiles and confidence. However, when Bert points out that said Clovis is nearly a foot shorter than me, and that I show no evidence of ever having a Popeye tattoo on my forearm, she went ballistic.

“He only looks six feet four inches tall,” she yells angrily. “It says right on the bulletin that he uses disguises.” Then she starts stabbing at me with the pen she’s holding. “Gotta be body putty or something stretching him out.”

Body putty?

After maybe a dozen pokes I took the pen away from her.

“Don’t you dare touch me mister. I know your not you, you’re Clovis Williams.” Now spittle is flying from her mouth so I know she’s off her medications. Bi-polar medications give you the dry mouth something fierce.

It would take seventeen properly medicated bi-polar patients to lick a stamp.

This I know to be a fact from this one time when I was locked up over to Shoal Creek. But, my ADHD is digressing us. Let me just say this about that. The new no-licky sticky stamps are one of those, “Why didn’t I think of that?” kind of dealies.

So. She’s being restrained by mall cops now and she starts staring at my shoes with her just arrived crazy eyes almost spinning in circles. If you know a bi-polar person you know those eyes. She says, “Check his shoes for elevators,” and then she starts snapping with her teeth and kicking and writhing around trying to get at me.

Now, let me take a breath here and explain something to you. I’m not that crazy, like this lady, but I am crazy. Having spent many months locked away to the loonie bin myself, I have a unique and experienced perspective on crazy folks. I always try to err to the side of compassion anytime I encounter one of what Dr. Sam I. Am calls, “Your people, Mooner.”

So I tell Bert, I say, “It’s OK Bert. You can let her go. She just wants you to listen to her. Crazy people don’t often feel well heard. I can handle this.” This is something I am sure about.

“OK Mooner, if you’re sure about this.”

I said, “I’m sure,” and he said, “OK,” and his guys let her loose.

She just stood there crazy-eying me for a minute, looking me up and down at the same time. It was like she had lizard eyes- you know where they kind of pop out and can move independently? Then both eyes latch on to the hemp tote bag that serves as my portable tomato kitchen and she says, “What’s in the bag buster?”

“Just my stuff,” I told her. “Not your business.”

I mean really, this was not her business.

Her eyes started that lizard dealie again, and then she says, “Make him open that tote bag Sheriff. He’s got kiddie porn inside.”

Now with her eyes doing that independent action she was looking at Bert and me at the same time, he and I answer at the same time. “I’ve/he’s got no warrant,” the I’ve from Bert and the he’s from me.

And then, again together, “And I’m/he’s not the Sheriff.”

“I don’t care whose who’s or what’s your problem, I’m looking inside that tote bag.” And with that, she grabs my tote by a strap and gives it a yank.

She was stronger than she looked so as I defended myself and the integrity of my private property, I yanked back and maybe just a little too hard. I pulled her clean off her feet, her still latched to my bag, and she smashed into me with my tomato-filled tote between us. I felt my precious reds get squished from the impact and felt a few squirt as vine ripened tomatoes will do when exposed to significant pressure.

When the lady pulled away from me still trying to steal my tote, her pretty white blouse was covered in deep red goo. Blood colored goo because of the mini plum bias to the varieties I was carrying that day.

The woman felt the wet through her blouse and when she wiped her hand across her chest and looked at the gatherings on her fingers, she screamed and said, “He stabbed me, somebody call 911!” and promptly fainted like an empty flour sack to the carpeted floor.

I opened my mouth to say, “It’s OK, it’s just tomato goo,” but all I got out was the “It’s.”

ZZZZZZZZZZZZAAAAAAAPPPP!!!

I love the smell of ozone and fried synapses in the morning.

One of the silly mall cops got excited and blasted me with his tazer. I came to in the back office area of the store with Bert looking over me as I lay on the floor with my head in the lady’s lap. Bert’s just shaking his head as I open my eyes and says, “Can you focus Mooner?”

“Oh wow, oh wow, oh wow,” is all I can muster. “Oh wow,” is all I can ever muster when I first come to after getting tazed. “Take my cell phone and hit #1 on the speed dial. Tell the woman who answers that I’ve been hit with a stun gun and I’ll meet her to the La Quinta near her office in thirty minutes.” That would be the SAC Ellen. She won’t pass on this opportunity.

Now the lady speaks up. “I’m so sorry Mr. Johnson, I had no idea it was you.” Then she eyed the boner that is the major attraction in the aftermath of all of my stunnings. “Would you like me to take you home and fix you a drink?” And then she whispered in my ear, “I’m not wearing any underwear- want a little peak?”

What a nice offer. “That is a very nice offer, Miss, but I’m spoken for.”

The crazy eyes came back and she started getting surly again when the manager walked in.

He surveyed the scene for a bit and then said, “OK Bert. I’ll take this nice lady out the front way and you take Mooner out the back and put him directly into his car. You, Mooner, will drive away and stay away.”

He helped the lady to her feet and as he walked her out he said to me, he says, “You are one disruptive asshole Mooner. Please stay away from my store.” And then after a beat he pleaded, “Please.”

“Stop whimpering Stanley, I got what I need for now. Just call me when my Jeff Hwang poker book comes in.”

“Someone will meet you at Sprouts to deliver it to you. I’ll let Harry know when it gets here.”

Harry is the manager over to Sprouts and my buddy. And I just checked the word counter and we’re at 1,600-plus words.

Fuckballs.

The 400-word limit is basically one double-spaced page with 12 point type. I guess I do four or more pages with each posting so I’m giving you an entire week’s worth of postings for the price of one.

What a bargain. But I do need to get back to the ranch and spend some time with Rush Limbaugh the pig. He’s been in the closet and I’m trying to talk him into coming out. Hiding in the closet is never a good idea especially when everyone knows that you are in there and why.

I asked Dixie to translate for me and she says that Rushie said, “Tell Mooner that Gram will kill me if I come out of the closet. Gram just doesn’t understand me.” Dixie speaks pig.

Actually, Dixie speaks the Southern United States Porcine dialect, which is our version of the original Chinese piggy speak. But like Gram says, she’ll say, “Who gives a shit Mooner. I’m gonna Louie Louie that fuckin pig if he furts my ass agin.”

I hope Gram means she’ll Hawaiian luau Rush Limbaugh if he sticks his snout up her butt- you know roast him in a hot rock BBQ pit.

I told Dixie to tell Rush that Gram will be hurt and maybe angry at first but she will eventually get over it. Then I said to her, I said, “Dixie, tell him I’ll gather a support group and grill some ribs and sausage and make it a coming out of the closet party for him.” That hog does love his pork ribs and links.

Streaker Jones said he’ll come and SAC Ellen has said that she’ll introduce him and make a nice speech in support of his decision to come out of the closet.

It is a terrible waste of your life to live it cowering in the closet. I just hope that Rush Limbaugh can muster the strength to come all the way out.

Just hit 1,750 words and I need a Carta Blanca.

Rush Limbaugh Hides In Mooner’s Closet; Santiago and Katelyn Serve Sprouts Proudly

Thursday, June 10th, 2010

You can stop writing me and e-mailing me and calling me about the entire Barnes and Nobles Bookstore dealie because I promise I’m going to finish it right here, and now. I mean shitsicles folks, don’t you understand how complicated my life is even if I didn’t have ADHD?

I mean really. How can I stay true to my promise to write everything in real time as it happens in my head and only tell you stories from the past tense after they become past tense?

That has got to make sense.

Anyway, the exceptional layer of additional bullshit on this bowl of seven-layer dip is from when I went to that bloggie class from the Writer’s League a few months ago. They said that the absolute, written-in-stone, take-it-to-the-bank, bottom line maximum number of words in any blogger posting is 400 words. Anything more than 400 words is a blogging disaster.

400 words? I can’t blow my nose with 400 words. Take yesterday’s posting as an example. That puppy clocked-in at 1,900 words and I never got around to telling you about who I saw over to Sprouts and neither did I finish with the bookstore stuff. Like Gram says, she’ll say, “Who gives a shit Mooner. It still fuck-strates the crap outta me.”

It is frustrating.

But really, who does give a shit? I mean really. Who wrote the silly 400-word rule? And what about this- if I write “400”- one word count, wherein the speller checkie job to Microsoft Word calls “four-hundred” two words, so I’d be breaking the blogger rules if I had 401 words writing it four-hundred, but I’d break Roberts Rules for English if I wrote it 400.

Are you getting a sense of my problems?

Therefore, since I have found it impossible to live by all of the different and differing rules set by others, I simply choose to live by my own, carefully-planned and well thought-out rulers.

Which reminds me. Do you think I use too many hyphens- that would be these things (-), the little dash thingie I placed between the parenthesis- those are these things- (( ))? And why don’t we spell it paranthisisses. That makes more sense and would make a great Spelling Bee word. I’d write a song like the one for spelling Mississippi.

Anyway, fuck the rules and let me get back to my story. So, this morning I went to my usual Sprouts store to get some kale and a bag of those edamame beans because Mother had a hankering for greens and beans. Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson got Mother hooked on that particular Sicilian dish way back to when we were still married. Gram, however, has never acquired a taste.

“Git that damned Eddies momma’s beans outta my face Mooner. Them damn things taste like sweetened laundry starch.” Then she’ll say, “Ruins a good batch a farm greens iffn ya ask me.”

Anyway, I was actually looking for Lima beans but Sprouts was out so I substituted the Chinese variety. Or maybe they’re Japanese. I got some other stuff to make the trip worth making and went to check out. Santiago was my register man and Katelyn was my smiler and bagger woman. Santiago was smiling as well because that’s just what the people at Sprouts do. It’s just that I’m more susceptible to the smile on an attractive lady’s face than an attractive man’s toothy grin.

OK, look. That doesn’t mean I want all you men to stop smiling at me. I just mean that a woman’s smile melts a little deeper.

Anyway, they were telling me that they were afraid to talk to me because they are concerned that I might embarrass them here to the bloggie. I was careful to not promise anything except that I would entertain and inform. They also were afraid that I was saying bad things about the store.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I said, startled by the question. “I love Sprouts Farmers Market.”

I love Sprouts. Which brings us back to the bookstore dealie. Let me summarize thusly:

  1. Dixie is writing a kids book, and asked me to research formats of kids books.
  2. I went on Friday morning awhile back, early and in shabby shorts and UT tee shirt, a greasy ball cap and without shaving.
  3. I looked for a poker book and didn’t find it, went to the info stand and waited in line behind this Baptist shitbird who was difficult to help.
  4. I had, as always in season, my portable tomato kitchen and shared a slab of red wonderment with my fellow line standers, but not the Baptist.
  5. When I cracked and shared the required cold bottle of Carta Blanca beer, I was chastised for drinking in the bookstore. So, I guzzled the bottle and put the empty back into my tote.
  6. When I finally got to the head of the line….

I asked the information lady about which children’s books are most popular and she asks me, “What age children,” and I say, “I’m not certain,” and then she says, “I know who you are Mr. Johnson and you are just as difficult as I have been told.”

I’m thinking to myself, I thought, “What the fuck is this all about?” So, I asked her.

“What the fuck is this all about?”

And she says, “Mr. Johnson, I am in your Gram’s prayer group at the church and your rotten soul is number two on our standard agenda. It was number three but then we seemed to lose interest in Tiger Woods soul. Pastor Browningwell says he’s not sure Buddhists have one.”

I’m thinking that maybe I’m proud to be moving my way to the top of this list so I ask, “Who sits at number one?” You’d want to know who sits at one if you were two, right?

She looked me square in the eye and said, “That’s easy, Mr. Johnson. Your sweet grandmother and mother, God bless their souls and give them strength.” Then she added, “Now go look at whatever you want but don’t bother anybody.”

“Fine,” I said. “But if you knew how things really are you’d put me to number one.”

Now, this Barnes and Nobles is the one there to the Arboretum and the kids section is pretty cool. Located deep to the back of the store, it’s kind of like a little store of its own. With short benches, chairs and tables spread about and these little play areas, it’s what I’d design my kids section to be if I had a bookstore.

So. It’s pretty crowded with moms and their kids or maybe nanny’s with other folks kids, but many women and children whichever. I start perusing the stacks looking for what look like popular books and after maybe an hour I have at least glanced at every title in the entire section. And I’m totally lost.

I get a brain storm and figure, “Who best knows what a kid likes better than the puller of the purse strings that hold the cash that buys the books?” So, I gather maybe an armload of what looks good to me, and I’m stopping at each group and asking the kids opinions.

“Do you like this book, little girl?” and, “What do you think about puppy books Willy?” I knew he was Willy because his name was on his shirt pocket.

By the way, remember that I told you I guzzled the beer so I wouldn’t waste it? I did and I had been belching the yeasty beer gas during my perusals.

I was finally getting a feel for things and was stooped to talk to these adorable twin girls about The Little Engine That Could, when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I figured it to be one of the kids with a small ball bat but was wrong. As I stood to address my tapper I came to realize that the entire Arboretum Security staff was there to back up the head of Security, Bert Massey, the tapper and using his night stick.

“Hey, Mooner, can you come quietly with us?”

I answered, “Sure Bert. You need my help with another snake escape?” Bert and I are well acquainted from several previous incidents here to the mall. Well, it isn’t really a mall but I think of it the same way. The last time I saw him was when this stripper from Las Vegas left the car window rolled down too far and her python escaped.

“Na,” he said. “Different problem today.” Then he shuffled his feet around and said, “Look Mooner. I’m sorry to do this to you, but will you mind stepping outside with us?”

“Sure,” I told him. “Just let me get a final opinion on the Little Engine and Little Lucy Songbook.” I turned back to the twins.

“Mooner!” It was almost a shout. “Now. Please, now.”

“OK, Bert, keep your knickers on. What’s the big rush?”

That would be about the time the first little kid started crying and then Willy took the plastic hammer away from this other kid and whacked him on the nose and then things got a little chaotic. Now, everybody in the store has gathered to see what was up, and this one lady came over to me and said, “I know you. You’re that child molester from Florida. The one that was stealing little kids from the bookstore.” Then she added, “Look- same ratty shorts and greasy cap as from the picture.”

She held up this three-ring binder with a bunch of mug shots that were in those plastic sleeves. When she held this one photo up to my face she said, “See?”

“Let me see that,” and I grabbed the book from her. “Look here Bert. This is a picture of some asshole named Clovis Williams. Says here he’s 5 feet 7 inches and has a Popeye tattoo on his forearm.”

I rolled my sleeve up for inspection and said, “See here- only thing I’ve got inked on me is my Salvador Dali droopy clock tattoo. Not a Popeye in sight!”

OK, now stop the presses. My little tool bar word counter daealie says I already hit 1,682 words at the end of that last paragraph. And I think it’s time for me to have a little tomato snack and a cold Carta Blanca beer. This morning I plucked the first of the little miniature plum variety, the one that looks like little tear drops. These get a deep ruby red, almost purple color when they ripen.

These little guys are the bird’s favorites right now. And the acid is way up in everything after the great rains we had the last several days. By this time next week we’ll be harvesting everything we planted this year excepting for the okra. We salvaged as many okra plants as we could and replanted them back in rows after Rush Limbaugh the pig tore them all to hell and back.

I’ve been hiding him in my master suite to keep him out of Gram’s sights.

Fuckballs. Now I’m at 1,840 words.

Manana ya’ll.

Will Rush Limbaugh the Pig Break His Addiction to Hallucinogenic Drugs?

Wednesday, June 9th, 2010

So. Yesterday when we left off I was attempting to tell you the story of when I went to the Barnes and Nobles Bookstore to do research for Dixie’s children’s book. I was deep into it when Dr. Sam I. Am killed the time on me.

My own time was killed because my watch quit, and since Scott the watch guy is in Colorado fishing, time continues to stand still for me. I like to know precisely what time it is and that need has no specific origins. I know it’s kind of silly, but knowing the time to-the-second is important to me.

Anyway, by the time I got back to Dr. Mean Britches’ office for my afternoon therapy session, I had bigger problems than hashing over events that are now ten days old. It seems that Rush Limbaugh the pig had figured how to open the combination lock on Grams potion pantry out to the ranch and overdosed himself on Gram’s hallucinogenic concoctions.

The pantry is in the barn and sits over the top of Gram’s main mushroom cellar. She grows the mushrooms that serve as the foundation of all her potions down below and then she brews the finished products in the pantry. It seems that Rush Limbaugh has developed quite a sweet tooth for sour cherry juice, one of the many carriers and flavorings Gram uses in her blends.

Dixie tells me that Rush told her he blacked out standing at the back door to the kitchen while he waited for Beetle Bob to throw him some scraps from breakfast. Next thing he knew Gram was firing at him with her double-barreled twelve gage as he ran from the big garden. Beetle Bob is one of Mother’s charges and a paranoid schizophrenic of serious proportions.

“Iffn I ever catch him I’m gonna shoot yur fuckin hog Mooner Einstein Johnson. I walk inta my pantry ta git some bottles a my new church lady potion ta take over ta tha sociable an yur pig has gone an tore tha whole place to hell an back,” this from an irate Gram.

And then, “Einstein my rosy red ass. Only a mormon ud be dumb enuff ta let a pig run loose to a working ranch.”

“That would be moron Gram,” I told her. “Mormons are religious folks like the Baptists.”

“Who gives a shit Mooner. Morons is as Mormons does.”

Maybe I could have said that better but I’m unsure.

“Lemme say it this way Mooner. Don’t mind yur snot nosed hog havin a little cherry water. He just needs ta ask,” she instructed me.” And then, “But he got all halli-juicinated and rooted up my en-tire okree patch.”

“You got tha name a that pig right onna furst try Mooner. Ignorant fat pig what’s addictolated ta high quality medications and cain’t keep is snotty fuckin nose outta a lady’s bidness has gotta be named Rush Limbaugh.”

Then she finished with, “An if he furts my ass agin, I’m shootin you!”

“Look Gram,” I tried to say, “For starters I tried to tell you not to even start dosing that hog. Every time he gets a snoot full he gets to be a hand full of trouble. And he only sticks his nose up your ass because he likes you.”

To maybe end the conversation I said, “If he didn’t like you he’d eat your clothes hanging off the line like he was doing when he first got here.” My Gram still hangs her clothes on a line to dry in the sun.

Wait a minute, my ADHD is fritzing the bejesus right out of me. I was meaning to tell you what happened over to the Barnes and Nobles and I keep getting side tracked. But have you ever seen a 650 pound pig when he’s got a couple gallons of magic mushroom tea under his belt?

I wonder what his hallucinations are about. Does he envision pens full of pretty little piggies in frilly dresses that melt into pink puddles with frilly dresses or does he maybe hallucinate to the meaner side of things.

I don’t think I actually hallucinate any more since I’ve been on my Gram’s potions since my first breath. But even if I did, how could I differentiate my imaginations from my drug-fueled imaginings? Think about it.

I’ve been married and divorced ten times; my grandmother drives a 550-horse power Ferrari around town like she owns the roads; I have been arrested at least a hundred times for everything from jay-walking out to California to murder here to home. I have been incarcerated against my will at least a dozen times over to the Shoal Creek Loonie Bin and have by now spent almost two years time over there. My dog talks to and back-at me and now she is teaching the Squirt to do the same, and I have a significant case of the ADHD. The ADHD puts multiple thoughts in my head at the same time- some real and some imagined, and that is very confusing.

OK, wait again. All of my thoughts are real but some of the thoughts are of imaginary things rather than real ones. What I’m talking about is sort of like how some of your dreams are about things that happen in your real, awake life and some are not.

Which reminds me. I had this dream last night and it was from the celebrity camel toe series of dreams I was having with some regularity. The stimulus for this dream must have been having watched the Kathy Griffin special there to Bravo TV. Kathy talks about this Oprah TV show where Oprah is wearing these real tight jeans that give her a camel toe that, as Kathy put it, “You could saddle-up and ride.”

She was also saying, “Shitballs and fuckballs,” often, and Gram wanted to put a hit out on her for stealing from me. “I lik Kathy Mooner, but she shouldn’t be stealin yur words thatta way. Maybe I should call tha man up ta Dallas and send him a tainer.”

Maybe I should interpolate for you. Gram thinks Kathy, or Kathy’s people, have been reading my blogger dealie and using some of my stuff in her act and that would be a terrible enough offense to call the hit man up to Dallas and give him a retainer in case Kathy doesn’t stop. That would be the same hit man who is holding a $250,000 retainer to insure that I don’t marry Gnat. The whole family likes Gnat too much for her to fall prey to my matrimonial machinations.

Me, I’d be happy just to meet Miss Griffin. Ive seen her numerous times when she comes to town for her shows and I like her. Watch her reality TV show and specials as well. Which is what led to me having this new dream.

So. In this dream I’m stranded at the border between Mexico and Arizona. I’m stranded because I don’t have my passport and I’m stuck straddling the big new fence they built- one leg dangling over each country with my shorts stuck in the bob wire that caps the fence.

On the Mexican side below me stands Oprah and Kathy Griffin and on the other side stands Sarah Palin and Renee Zellweger. Each woman is enticing me to jump to her side of the fence by wagging her camel toe at me. They somehow seem to know that I am both a major admirer of and an experienced judge of, camel toes. Especially those of the celebrity varieties.

Now look, I am not proud of the bulk of this dream but I feel compelled to tell you, so here goes. On the Mexican side, Oprah shows me the camel toe that Kathy mentioned in her TV special and I am mightily impressed. Kathy is impressed as well because she tells me, she says, “Look Mooner, I withdraw from this competition because Miss Winfrey’s far out classes mine.

This is when I realize that Chelsea Handler is straddling the fence with me and she is attempting to distract me from my task. She’s in this leotard and tights and she’s tugging the fabric to emphasize her toe and I must admit, it is massively impressive. I reached out and ran my index finger along the raised fabric edges and Chelsea squirmed and giggled.

But I am a man of honor and I run a fair contest so I removed my finger from Chelsea’s ridges and began my inspection of the American crotch meats on the Arizona side of the border. I examined Renee first and I swear to you I couldn’t see a thing. That poor girl was so skinny she couldn’t have mustered a visible camel toe with a vice and a pair of needle nosed pliers.

“I’m sorry Renee,” I told her. “You need to go eat something before I can even rate you.”

Renee starts crying and snuffle-snotting like women with hurt feelings do, and Chelsea is laughing. “Don’t worry Mooner, I’m not laughing at her,” she informed me. “I’m laughing at the look of disappointment on your face.”

Then she said, “Just like a man. You get four Class A camel toes to choose and it’s the fifth one that gets away with your heart.”

“Not true, Chelse,” I replied. I call her Chelse in my dreams. “I’m just feeling sorry for her.”

And that’s when Sarah pipes up and says, “I haven’t got all day Mooner so look at what I made for you. I call it “You can see Russia from the porch on my coochie.” With that Sarah Palin whipped her cute little skirt from her waist with a flourish.

I woke up this morning with the taste of down feathers in my mouth and was craving borscht soup. I had chewed a hole in my pillow, which explains the feathers, and Sarah let me rock in the chair on her porch- speaking to the cold beet soup.

I’m not apologizing to you for my sexual dreams about Mrs. Palin anymore. They’re dreams for shit sakes.

But, as I sit here writing about this to you I am thinking the following things all at the same time:

  1. Will Rush Limbaugh the pig kick his drug habit?
  2. Have I convinced Gram to leave Kathy Griffin alone?
  3. Will I ever be allowed back into a Barnes and Nobles Bookstore?
  4. Is Chelsea Handler as tender in person as in my dream?
  5. Am I communicating with my audience?
  6. Does anybody give a shit if not?
  7. Will the Carta Blanca Beer folks ever send me a case of beer for my being their biggest fan?
  8. Did I remember to take the bag of groceries with the whole Sockeye salmon I got on sale from Sprouts out of the trunk of my car?
  9. Would I have actual sex with Sarah Palin and would it be as good as in my dreams?
  10. Other stuff and things.

See what I mean about the whole hallucinations dealie? Which one of those thoughts is not normal to you?

Juli, I’m Sorry; Don’t Drink Beer At Barnes and Nobles; Psycho Therapy Is Frustrating

Monday, June 7th, 2010

I just got finished with my morning psycho therapy session and the topic of discussion reminded me that I still haven’t told you guys about what happened when I went to the Barnes and Nobles Bookstore over to the Arboretum.

I was doing some research for Dixie because she wants to write a children’s book and needs formatting advice. I guess she wants me to do it for her because I’m already a successful author and I have kids.

Anyway, I was in therapy this morning and Dr. Sam I. Am asks me, she says, “OK, Mooner, let’s talk about your latest fuck-up. It’s been more than a week and you haven’t spoken a word about it.”

I just sort of stared at her like she was the moron because I truly didn’t know what she was talking about. Then I remembered and I said, “Oh yea. I was up to the Sprouts yesterday to get some organic lettuce. It’s been so hot that all the lettuce burned out and the big ranch garden has only summer crops. Sprouts has the best price on a three-pack of organic romaine anywhere to town.”

The good doctor is just staring at me so I continued. “I got my lettuce, some apple cider vinegar for salad dressing, and a big bag of turbinado sugar. Then I saw that they were selling berries for $.99 per half pint and I loaded up on those. When I checked out, Juli, one of my favorites, was my register person and she was sort of pissed at me.
Doctor pain in the ass is still just staring at me so I say, “OK, look Sammy. I know I told Juli I wouldn’t name her by her real name to the bloggie in that posting last week but I forgot. She was hurt that I mentioned her name and was obviously embarrassed by what I had written.”

Now the bitch doctor’s steely gaze is getting under my skin. “Oh for shit sakes Sammy, I told her I was sorry and would never do it again.”

I decided to return the cold shoulder and not talk to her so I started looking around the office with my lips zipped tightly shut. I grew tired of counting the little holes in the ceiling tiles when I got to 13,188 and glanced at my watch to see how much more silence I had to endure until my time expired.

“Fuckballs!” I said. “My watch has stopped.”

And after I spoke, “Oh fuckballs twice. I was gonna make you talk first.”

“You will never learn Mooner.” said Dr. Am-Johnson. “I am strong of heart and will and you Mooner are, simply put, still you.”

I keep telling you guys she’s a bitch.

“I need to call Scotty and get him scheduled to fix my watch,” I said with manly concern.

“Stop whining about your watch Mooner. You’ve got bigger problems than knowing the time to the exact second. Now, tell me about the incident at the bookstore.”

Have I told you guys about my buddy Scott? He retired from the TCEQ awhile back and now he does a little consulting but mostly he does retiring and watch/clock repairs. He is one of the few good men I know from my entanglements with government officialdom and he has become a friend. Maybe he does retirementing.

Anyway, he is a watch and clock collector/seller and a terrific repairer of timepieces. He can fix anything and he is honest and trustworthy. He has a large collection of military watches and he is quite active in that market, I understand. If you need a repair or you want to buy an interesting timepiece, contact him at smccoy26@austin.rr.com . He might not get right back to you because he is after all, retired. But you will be glad you waited.

Have I ever told you guys that I like my watch to provide me with the exact time? I don’t know why and I can’t place a single event in my life that was crucial in a to-the-second sort of way. Except for a few fireworks dealies and maybe the one time Streaker Jones and I decided to see who could hold his breath the longest.

But I should have known that Streaker Jones could beat me in a breath-holding contest. He beats me at everything except wifing and the whole ex-wifing thing. Maybe that might need to be wivesing and ex-wivesing thing. And it would be things, plural.

Oh for shit sakes. They would be things.

“Mooner!” Dr. Sam I. Am yelled at me. “De-glaze your eyes and look at me.”

I snapped out of my watch thoughts and looked at her. “What, Sammy? What, what, what?

“Lower your voice buster, and tell me about your problem at the bookstore. Tell me now or I’m calling for the ambulance to haul you to Shoal Creek Mental Hospital where I’ll book you a three-week engagement.”

And then she added, “Maybe that will improve your focus.”

“OK, fine. First of all, it wasn’t my fault. I just want to get that straight from the start,” I began. “Well you know that Dixie wanted me to do some research for her and it was Friday a week ago. Not last Friday three days past, but the one before that. It was the Friday before Memorial Day, whatever day that was, maybe the 28th of May, I think.

“So, since I was going to Sprouts anyway I decided to stop at the B&N books to look around since it’s so close and they have a big kids section.” Now I took a big breath and continued, “It was early and I didn’t shave and I had dressed myself so my outfit wasn’t fully coordinated, and I was wearing a greasy auto parts cap because I forgot to take it off.”

Maybe I was providing too much detail because Sammy says to me, she said, “Mooner, get to the point.

“OK, the point was this. I walk into the store and spy the kiddies section straight to the back of the store. I was headed back and remembered that Jeff Hwang has a new book out on Pot Limit Omaha and I’m trying to learn to play that game better to broaden my poker horizons. I walk over and they don’t have it on the shelf. There’s this guy standing beside me at the Poker Section and he’s holding the last copy.

He says to me, he says, “Look here,” and he shows me the inside of the book. “You can order right from Jeff at www.jeffhwang.com .”

“Thanks, man,” I told him. “But I wanted to get started right away. I’ll just see if another store has one.”

“So. I go to the information desk and have to wait in line behind this shitwad who’s asking about do they have the new inspirational book by that TV evangelist Tupac Shamir or whateverthefuck his name is. You know, the Indian guy from India except that he sounds like a Harvard law graduate and dresses like a TV talk show host.”

Maybe that guy’s name is Shupok Darfur.

I took another big breath and continued to Sam. “I had my portable tomato kitchen with me and since this was looking like an endurance kinda conversation ahead of me, I sliced off a couple slabs of Early Girl and passed them to the folks now crowded in line behind me. I didn’t give one to the guy in front so’s to not disturb his already trackless train of thought.”

Now I’m getting into my story when Sam interrupts me. “Get to the point before I kill myself, Mooner. You are driving me to distraction!”

“The point is, you can’t drink alcoholic beverages at the bookstore. When I popped the lid off the frosty Carta Blanca beer from my little kitchen and passed that around, the information lady working with the brain dead questioner ahead of me got snippy.”

“ ‘Put that beer away, sir.’ This was loud whispered like a teacher telling you to stop pulling on Susie Ashburn’s pigtails back to first grade. The teacher is whispering because you are supposed to be taking the spelling test that all the other students seem to be managing without distraction.”

“Anyway,” I continued, “I just downed the rest of the beer myself, stashed the bottle back in my hemp tote bag, and headed to the children’s section to begin my research. When I got back there…”

“Oops, sorry Mooner,” Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson interrupted again. “Your time’s up. We’ll continue in this afternoon’s session.”

I really think psycho therapy helps. I really think psycho therapy helps. I really think psycho therapy helps.

Gram says that if you can say something three times in a row real fast it will become true.

I love my life. I love my life. I love my life.

Fuckballs.

Suicide Prevention Technique; Mooner Saves Jumpers

Saturday, June 5th, 2010

Hoo-Yaa!!! I just met with my web expert, Dustin Sparks, and I am major league pumped. He is going to fix my many I-net problems and help me get things designed and pretty as well.

He’s the man who told me about 99designs to do the logo contest. If you have been to the contest site the winner is Number 211 and the designer is SteveO. The contest drew logos from almost 40 designers and I looked at like 250 different designs.

Several friends in advertising have chewed my ass out for going to 99designs because it bastardizes the process and you can’t get the highest quality. “All you will get are amateurs and stoners giving you designs,” was how one put it.

But after the success of my 99designs logo adventure, I agree with Gram on this one. As she would say, “Who gives a shit Mooner. They’re all locos ta me!” And then she added, “Crazy artists ever one of em.”

Every time I’m ready to choke the life out of that old bat she saves herself by lighting up my life with the same mouth that has brought me most of my miseries.

I am very excited about the logo decision as well as all of the stuff that Dustin is doing here to the webber and bloggie. He’s doing layouts and sliders and clickies and all of that technical shit that would drive me to drink if I was responsible for them. Fact is the thinking about it has caused me to crack open the first icy Carta Blanca of the day.

If I was one of those suicide intervention officers for the police, I would always carry a cooler filled with Carta Blanca beer on ice along with some fresh homegrown tomatoes. If the tomatoes are out of season, I’d substitute a bowl of fresh smashed guacamole, fiery-hot salsa and a bag of good corn chips- like the store branded ones from Sprouts.

Then when I perched myself on the window ledge with the potential leaper, I’d give him a thin slice of vine-ripened heirloom with just a touch too much salt and pepper. Let him sit with that for maybe two minutes and get his salivary glands into action. Then I would pull a Carta Blanca from the cooler and make a big deal out of stripping the ice and icy water from the bottle, and I’d wipe the moisture from my hand on my shorts.

Of course the police would require me to wear a uniform or slacks, but they will work as a coaster as well as shorts. Then I’d say to the guy, I’d say, “Man this is thirsty work.” I’d make another big production out of opening the bottle.

Grampa, that would be my Gram’s long suffering and glad to be dead husband, gave me my first bottle key when I turned eighteen. Made of thick stainless steel, it bears the deep, obviously hand-stamped logo and catch phrase of my Grampa’s second favorite beer.

“Hamms- From The Land Of Sky Blue Waters, Hamms The Beer Refreshes!” are the words and the picture logo is of a happy, dancing bear. The sharp end used for punching the nifty triangular-shaped hole to the top of a metal beer can has long since seen use for its original purpose, but the flip top cap popper end is still going strong after thousands of uses.

The etchings show the polished and worn evidence of my many uses, and all of my pants have small worn spots or even holes to prove that I carry this treasure with me at all times.

So, after letting my charge sit with a mouth-full of over-salted tomato slobber, I would fumble with the antique church key and miss opening the bottle on the first few tries. Then, when I do get the cap pried off, I’ll let it flip off and over the side of the building.

“Holy shit,” I’d tell my jumper. “That’s a long way down!”

Then, I’d raise the bottle to my lips, but stop just short of my mouth and say, “Oh man, have I got terrible manners. Would you like to have this one?”

Of course he would and he reaches for the frosty bottle. I’d let him enjoy that first amazing swallow and when he shuts his eyes in pleasure, I’d zap him with the stun gun I have hidden in the waist band of my shorts and pull him backward into the building to safety. I’d sit on his chest and finish his beer while waiting for backup.

Maybe I should trademark this move and sell it to the police. I would do training seminars and get the police to volunteer to play the part of the jumper. I’d get to taze their shaggy asses and get them to pay me to do it. Major win/win kinda dealie.

As for my I-net improvements, Dustin hopes to have some stuff to look at soon. And I need to give him a plug because anyone who can work with me and my ADHD and still provide quality output needs to be plugged. You can get Dustin at www.dustin.net

Rethinking Memorial Day; Katlyn at VIVOS Gives Good Advice

Tuesday, June 1st, 2010

So, we were all celebrating Memorial Day, which in the USA is the day we pay homage to those brave men and women who risked their life for our country. I’ve got the big grill fired up and we have a goat, a full rack of beef ribs and a few dozen links of sausage smoking away. I use a blend of oak and hickory for most smoking but today I’m going to pop in a little bit of mesquite for the last half hour. It’s about noon and the day is heating up as I start this story.

All of the men got an early start- that would be Harry, from over to Sprouts, Streaker Jones, Woozie who would be Sheriff Wozniac, Gnat’s Special Agent in Charge who is her beau, chief Ruffled Feathers who is Streaker Jones’ uncle from New Mexico and an unnamed musician. We cracked the cold Carta Blanca beers at 7:15 am, Harry started pouring Hornitos shots maybe at 8:05 and Gram gave us a little pick-me-up at 9:00 sharp with a new BBQ potion she wanted us to test drive for her.

To her magic mushroom tea base she added liquid smoke, squid ink and some other stuff she wouldn’t name. When I asked her what else was in the little bottle she said, “Girl’s gotta have her a touch a mis-tree bout her, Mooner.” That’s how she put it.

When I asked her what she was going to name the new brew, she said to me, she says, “Cain’t decide. Gonna be Burn my meat an I’ll kill ya, or maybe it’ll be Smoke my meat not my grass.

I suggested Burned meat will smoke your ass, and she whacked me with the big wooden spoon in her hand and said, “Mooner, who told you to stick yur pointy snoot inna my bidness?”

Anyway, like I said, it was noon and the men folk were gently buzzed and enjoying the day off. Since we also had a touch of the munchies, I fast-grilled a few sausage links and cut them into big chunks. Placed them on a long oval platter with a mound of the cold-pickled veggies I like to make. Wait, it was a pile of chilled cold-pickled veggies. I make the pickled veggies without cooking them in the brine.

Think rings of onion, jalapeños sliced in quarters, cucumbers, carrot, celery, eggplant (yes eggplant and from our garden), radishes, and some other stuff. This batch was heavily dilled with dill plucked from our garden. Ask and I’ll give you my formula.

Beside the platter was our fresh picked cherry tomatoes, all Sweet 100’s, which I halved and marinaded with coarse sea salt and black pepper, basil from the garden and chunks of Maytag blue cheese. The marinade was lemon juice and this Greek olive oil I like.

So, we’re standing around and eating from the platter and bowl of food using toothpicks to spear bites. I’ve got a work counter built by the grills and the platter sits in the middle with the men standing around it. We each have a frosty bottle of Carta Blanca and they make those nifty water rings on the tile surface of the counter when we set them down. I always sit my beers down in spots to where the water rings resemble butt cheeks.

Streaker Jones says that’s me doing some brand marketing.

I like to stab a chunk of onion, meat, tomato and cheese onto a toothpick with my right hand and hold a spear of jalapeño in my left. Two-fisted eating is a manly endeavor and common practice at these events.

Then what Streaker Jones said next is the reason for the moral of this blog posting. He said to the group, “Fellas, don’t cha rekkin tha Germans anna Japanese anna Iraquis an even tha Taliban has gotta right ta have a Memorial Day?”

“What the fuck, Streaker Jones!” This in unison from the rest of us.

“Think about it an git back wi me,” Streaker Jones said to halt further discussions.

I started to say, “But…”, when he cut me off with, “Mooner, I said ta think furse.”

Which reminded me that last Friday we went to the VIVOS Mexican place over to RR 620 near US 183. I took SAC Ellen there for happy hour so we could sit outside and enjoy one more afternoon before it gets hot. She wears a bullet-proof vest and professional suit to work and it just gets too hot for her to sit out after the first of June right after work.

Our server was Katlyn who closely resembled the SACster except younger and with nifty tattoos. I love tattoos. Katlyn made numerous suggestions and we had a nice chat with her. We got Eastside margarita’s because they don’t serve Carta Blanca beer, an oversight which must be corrected. We got a small cup of queso- especially good here at VIVOS, and something called California Nachos. The nachos had avocado and alfalfa sprouts on them.

“Alfalfa sprouts,” I barked. “I’m not eating my nachos with a fucking hay bale on top.” And with that I downed my drink in one gulp.

I motioned Katlyn over and ordered another with two shots of Hornitos and told the SACster, “OK, I’ll eat your damned rabbit food. But now you’re the designated driver. No more drinks for you!”

I’m thinking, “Take that!” to myself. I liked the thought so I said to her, “Take that!”

I might have said it a touch loud.

SAC Ellen said to me, she says, “Mooner, after you lower your voice you think about why you feel the sprouts are a bad idea. But shut up about them because you can always take them off if you please.”

God I love a woman with clarity of thought.

I really had no good reason to be sprout prejudiced and I ended up picking some sprouts from SAC Ellen’s nachos to bolster the roughage on mine. The added flavor made the nachos taste clean and rich. And I almost forgot to mention VIVO’s salsa. It is unique and I think it is flavored with onion juice.

Their salsa is rich and sharp flavored. Oh yea, and their chips are top three in town.

Anyway, having recently been required to think before sticking my feet in my mouth over the nacho dealie, I was able to apply that lesson to Streaker Jones’ comment.

I guess what he was saying is this. The virtue of heroes lies in the eyes of their beholders. Or said another way, can a man be a terrorist to me and a hero to you? Did you also win exclusive rights to honorarium when you win a war? Is it our might or our viewpoint that makes us right? If I ask you to honor my heroes should I honor yours? Can I honor your fallen heroes without showing support for your cause? Are brave acts less brave if you fight for a bad cause?

Fuckballs.

This discussion put me in a terrible place because I truly believe that every man has the right to have his own values and to think whatever he chooses. And as long as he doesn’t infringe on others he can practice his preachings in safe harbor from me. But I think you lose your right to breathe clean air if you want to force others to think and act as you do.

And I really don’t like you if your forcing is based upon religious beliefs. See, that’s when I can’t distinguish a Muslim extremist, who wants to shoot me dead, from a Baptist asswipe Republican who wants to poison my brain with his religious Kool-Aid or kill doctors for performing elective surgeries.

My grandfather fought in WWI and Daddy was in WWII, the Korean War and some other stuff. Sam I. Am’s father was a WWII pilot and her mom was a WASP- one of those amazing women service pilots in WWII. My appreciation for all of them is not lessened because they didn’t die in service and I honored them yesterday as well.

You don’t need to be killed in a war to suffer a death in your heart from the fighting. Every person I have known who fought in a war saw no glory there. But every one saw the necessity to fight.

Now that I think this through, I also realize that many of my American heroes were fighting for their religious beliefs and not just for Freedom. They fought for God and Country. So, if I was to prejudice my thoughts against one religious-based hero I would need to adjust my support for those I was honoring yesterday.

Which reminds me. I am sure that somebody else has already thought of this, but I want to rename the Religious Right and call them the Religious Wrong. It scorches my butt when they represent themselves to be all for personal freedoms while they kill our true rights at every turn.

I need a beer.