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

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.”


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.


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.


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