Archive for July, 2010

Feminine Hygeine Product Exposes Mooner

Thursday, July 29th, 2010

 

So. I’m feeling better with all of my butt problems and will go in to see Dr. Ashworth in the morning for a checkup. That will make it a week since he carved on me, and hopefully he’ll see good progress. I have learned my lesson, so I won’t talk anymore about that subject.

I got up early this morning and felt well enough to actually go out to Mooners Compost Plant and work at my job. I picked the Squirt up from over to Dr. Sam I. Am’s house on my way so she and I could spend some time together. Dixie is mostly with Streaker Jones anymore, but I don’t take it personally.

Dixie is getting older and it breaks my heart. She has been a loyal and valued friend for a very long time. She’s been grooming the Squirt to take her place and she’s got the little shitbird almost to the kick-out-the-nest stage. Actually, what Dixie said was, “Well Mooner, Squirt needs to learn how to fly blind, so I’m leaving her with you.”

I ignored the blind-leading-the-blind jab from my trusty dog. She deserves to live her last times doing what she wants, and she wants to work with Streaker Jones developing new spoor varieties.

When I walked up to Sammy’s place, Squirt was through the tiny doggie door and at my feet before I could knock.

“Buongiorno, Bwana Mooner, nie ist your day?” This greeting was made with her “sitting pretty”- on her haunches like a bunny rabbit, a smile on her face and tail going at 90 MPH. This is the pose Dixie has Squirt use during proper, polite conversation.

“I’m hunky dory Miss Squirt, how about you?”

She got a quizzical look to her face and asked, “Que significo eso ‘hunky dory”, Monsieur Mooner? Est ist Snufft Oink Pflushott, ode es inner Suahili?”

I had to think about all of this before I answered. Squirt had just asked a question in Spanish, German, Polish, Italian, common barnyard porcine, French and I think, Swahili.

“Well,” I began. “It’s not piggy talk nor Swahili either one. Hunky dory is an American slang term used to mean “OK”, or “all right”. You asked how my day was, and I told you it is OK, I’m doing all right.” I thought to add, “And before you get too deep into quizzing me about the origins of the phrase, ask Dixie because I don’t know.”

She wasn’t happy, but she walked to the car with me and let me buckle her in without too many more questions. The ride out to the plant was cheerful, and funny, as Squirt entertained me by reciting the Gettysburg Address. She can give the entire speech where she speaks every three words in a different language, changes languages with each three words, and she doesn’t use any language twice.

When I get more time, I’ll write it down for you. But for now, take my word that you’ll laugh your asses off with this one.

I drove the Squirt around the plant when we first got there so she could see everyone and spend some time watching the big machines. Squirt is fascinated with all the big yellow iron. We professionals call the loaders and other big machines yellow iron. I parked in my slot in front of the office, and Gnat got real pissy at me when I walked through the door.

“Can I help you sir?” she asked. And then, “Mr. Johnson only sees visitors with an appointment, and we don’t expect to be seeing him around here for a few more months.”

I guess it had been awhile since I was sitting to my desk.

“Un-wad your panties and tell me what you got for me this morning, Gnat. I feel like getting something done.”

“Well,” she started, “I’ve got quite a bit to do myself and I wasn’t planning on babysitting your whiny ass all day.”

My trusty assistant shuffled some papers around her desk and said, “Why don’t you start by going through the spring catalog for If You Can’t Smoke It, Wear It, LLC. Streaker Jones and Dixie are waiting on your thoughts before going to print. I looked through it and it all looks good, so you can do that in less than an hour.”

She hesitated a second, then added, “But don’t you dare get on the computer and start messing with my financial reports. Steve Midgett is expecting me to send them this afternoon and they’re almost finished.”

That catalog would be the spring line of hemp fabric clothing we make over to New Mexico, and Steve Midgett would be our trusty CPA accountant. The hemp, as a raw material, is a bi-product from one of Streaker Jones’ growing operations. When I get the chance, I’m going to logoize some of our hemp clothing and make it for sale here to the webber and let you buy it. Tee shirts and stuff.

What would you call it when you print your logo on something- logoize or logotize? Logorate maybe.

So, I’m going through the catalog and it is obvious that the clothing guys have done a great job again. I’m still working on the ultra-lightweight protective body armor for the military, my personal contribution to the spring line. We’re using hemp and bamboo fibers in a special weave that is proving to stop the bullets from most street guns.

Anyway, I stopped taking my pain meds since I was driving and I was starting to throb with pain. Now don’t get me wrong about this pain because it was nothing compared to what I had before Dr. Ashworth lanced me. If the pre-lancing pain was a 10, this is maybe a 0.036 on the pain meter.

But I guess that I’m a big baby when it comes to pain because I wishing I wasn’t driving. Speaking of driving, I had a surprise for Squirt. “Hey Squirt, you want to go drive a front end loader with me?”

Squirt had a stunned look on her face and said, “Voglio drive los loader die mich? Are you serious?”

“As serious as the open wound on my ass little lady. Let me change my absorbent pad and we’ll head out.

I already told you I’m using what I have always called a Kotex as both a cushion for my sore tushie, and also to soak up my oozings. Actually, I use an ecologically friendly brand. Cut them in half so I’m not wasteful. They slip and slide some but I’ve gotten used to having a cotton wad stuck up my butt.

The Squirt and I were driving the loader around the plant, she in my lap and me letting her touch controls to lift and dump and stuff. She was having a blast and I managed to do but minimal damage to Javier’s carefully-managed wind rows of compost.

Sammy called as we were finishing and asked if Squirt and I would mow her lawn. We said, “Sure,” and we parked the loader and told Gnat we were leaving.

Once back to Sam’s house, I changed into my gym shorts- loose, short billowy nylon things, and Squirt and I headed out to the garage. I unplugged the heavy duty electric mower and started mowing. Dr. Sam I. Am’s lot is big, maybe 200 feet wide at the street, and her street is very popular with the neighborhood’s walkers. It’s got light traffic and the entire half-mile is tree lined and shaded from the nasty summer sun.

When I mow, I like to make long runs across the lawn parallel with the street and starting at the street. Squirt likes to help by nipping at my ankles and getting in my way. The street was crowded with walkers and as I made the turn at the far end to come back, I spotted two of Sam’s neighbors walking towards me. They were waving their hands and pointing. When I reached the end of my pass, the two nice ladies were at the curb beside me.

One said to me, she says, “Afternoon Mr. Johnson. You dropped something back there and it looks like Squirt is going to retrieve it for you.”

The other nice lady says, “Isn’t Squirt just the sweetest little thing?”

“Yes,” I replied as I turned to see the Squirt prancing my way across the grass, a blood-stained white cotton wad in her mouth.

I thought to myself, I though, “Oh shit.”

Squirt raced the last ten feet and dropped the fallen feminine hygiene product to my feet.

“Oh my,” gasped one lady.

“Why that’s a bloody Kotex,” said the other. “What the hell…”

“I can explain, it’s not what you think,” I tried.

“Oh for God sakes Mooner Johnson. Have you no shame at all?”

I thought about that. “Well,” I started, “I think I might be full of shame, but I’d need to consult with Sammy.”

“Well Dr. Am-Johnson will certainly be consulted about this, Mooner. My God but you are inappropriate.” And she finished with, “For the life of me I don’t know what Samanta ever saw in you.”

And with that they huffed off.

I finished with the lawn and wondered about two things. First, I wondered just how pissed Sam was going to get about me dirty-wadding her neighbor ladies. She thinks I intentionally disrupt her life, but I know most everything is just bad circumstances. Like this particular circumstance.

The other thing I was chewing on was the whole, “Have you no shame?” dealie. What does that really mean? I mean, whatthefuck?

I know I can be ashamed of my actions, I know I can recognize shame in myself and others, I try not to but I know I sometimes shame others. Shame is not one of my goals, and I certainly don’t like it, but where does any of that fit in with the question.

And why isn’t the question, “Do you have shame?” Isn’t that a cleaner way to ask, or am I even getting that part wrong?

“Come on Squirt. Let’s go to the ranch and have some Carta Blanca beer. Let’s finish our day at the BBQ grill.”

“Yo soy love BBQ, Signore Mooner. Vamanos!”

So, I bid you, “Manana, ya’ll.”

One Man’s Pain In The Ass Is Another Man’s Ass Pain

Tuesday, July 27th, 2010

 

OK, so I’m a slow learner. It started when I was just a little kid, the slow learning thing, and I think it was a progressive disease from that starting point. Ever since I can remember, I can either grasp something right away- or as Lauren Bacall told Humphrey Bogart, “It’s gonna be a bumpy ride.”

I’m still trying to grasp the true nature of quantum mechanics. I have trouble obtaining absolute certainty when I can’t see the subject of discussion, and my teacher tells me he knows that it exists because, “There is no other logical explanation.” Like the quark, for example. Basically, a quark is like the DNA components of the smallest parts of protons, electrons and neutrons.

Allegedly.

“Fine,” I say, “But it can just as easily be something else altogether, right?” Like with religion and faith- I say quark, you say I’m a devil-worshiping quack. The single letter changed makes a huge difference.

My first memory of learning slowly came from when I was maybe four, and Streaker Jones was over to the ranch for one of his first visits. Gram had a nasty old black cat named Lucifer, a properly-named animal if ever there was one. I pulled on Lucifer’s tail the first time and was favored with an arm full of nasty scratches. Gram said to me, she said, “Serves ya right, Butcher.” And then she added, “You’ll learn ta stay away from that devil- er else’n you’ll be a needin some sewin and one a them blood transmissions.”

Streaker Jones, also maybe four, said, “He needs time ta wurk it out, Gram. Better git his blood type.”

My good buddy Streaker Jones has always been smart.

Gram developed a special potion to stem infections from when that damned old cat would cut me up. I Got Yer Cat Scratch Fever was its name, and a little tincture bottle of it was always handy until I was almost six. Lucifer died when I was almost six and Gram thinks I was lucky he did.

I bring that mangy old cat into this conversation because his name came up last night, Sunday, at the dinner table. I’m still a touch wobbly after my butt surgery of last Thursday, so my throbbing and quite sore ass is always at the edge of my mind. And near the tip of my tongue as well.

I had dinner with SAC Ellen Saturday night and we went to Damian Mandola’s place there to the Triangle, north of the University. When I was a kid, that area was North Austin, and you could hunt rabbits near the triangle. Now, that would almost be the northern edge of central Austin.

We got a salad mista and a Margharita pizza, both to split, and some wine. The salads there are terrific and so are the pizzas. Hell, everything we’ve tried is above average to great. I always get some of their homemade sausage on my pizza half and the SACster gets roasted garlic on her half.

I don’t know why she won’t just order meat on her half because she picks half the meat off mine. I don’t get pissed about it any more, but it used to buggerate the ever-loving shit out of me. They don’t have Carta Blanca beer so we had a nice Italian something in red instead. No tequila either, but with Italian I’m liking either my beer, or a nice red wine.

We were halfway through the salad when our pizza arrived, and I had been sitting on the wooden chair for maybe twenty minutes. Comfortable under most circumstances, the chair was starting to telegraph pain signals to my Codeine-and-Gram’s-potion-soaked brain. SAC Ellen was driving because I was unsafe to do so, so don’t worry about that.

I placed my salad fork down to the table and said, “Cripers, Ellen, I think somebody just parked a Dodge Ram pickup in my ass.” I fidgeted a bit and said, “I think the front bumper took out my prostate.”

In response I got that “Have you lost your mind?” look.

“No, really,” I blundered on. “I’m starting to worry that my entrails are falling out around my Kotex pad. Like from when we watched Saving Private Ryan the other week.” I was wearing a lady’s cotton pad back there to soak up the blood and noxious fluids that continue to drain from the excavation site.

Another of the same looks headed my way, except this one had real intensity. I misunderstood the look and saw concern, so I barged on. “Would you come to the bathroom with me and check things out?”

This time, the response was for SAC Ellen to place her salad fork beside her plate and she put both hands on the table, gripping the outer edges like she would do if she wanted to flip the table over. “For shit sakes, Mooner. Would you shut up about your ass while I’m eating?”

“But it hurts,” I bravely stated through the blur of pain.

“Oh don’t cry Mooner, you aren’t going to die. But I swear to God, if you say one more word about your bloody ass before I finish my dinner, I’m packing up and leaving you here to fend for yourself.” Then she added, “Now shut up and eat.”

Since SAC Ellen is always good for her word, Streaker Jones picked me up from Mandola’s place and dropped me off to the ranch at about ten. I bided my time waiting for Streaker Jones walking around and talking to people in the crowded cafe. They needed my table to handle the big crowd and I needed to bounce some things off people. You know, get some third-party feedback on stuff.

This one lady tried to slap me when she figured out who I was. She’s a Catholic Republican and an area representative of the party. That’s not why she slapped me, but it is why she called me, “An inappropriate and Godless creature who should spend Eternity burning in hell.”

I told her I had already read her E-mail, thank you very much, and appreciated her support. She was wearing a nurse’s uniform and had her ID badge from the hospital around her neck, so I asked her, “Hey, would you mind taking a look at my ass for me? I think I might have blown something like that big BP mess out to the Gulf.”

That’s when she tried to slap me.

So. We were to the dinner table last night, the whole lot of us, and I was retelling the entire Saturday night dinner story, looking for sympathy and understanding, when my Gram pipes up. “Mooner, ya dumass,” she began. “You ain’t not one bit smarter than you was with ole Lucifer the cat.”

“Lucifer the cat? What the hell does Lucifer the cat have to do with the mess I call my ass?” My Gram often dumbfounds me.

She gives me this matronly stare that says, “They shoot horses, don’t they?” Then she says to me, she said, “Who gives a shit Mooner. You was a slow poke then an yur a slow pokier now.”

Confused, I eased myself from my chair and went to the fridge for another Carta Blanca. “Anyone want anything while I’m up?”

Only Gram answered. “I want you ta pull yur head out yur butt an stop talking about yur ass at tha dinner table”

Which reminds me. Have I told you that my actual birth name is Butcher Einstein Johnson? I wasn’t called Mooner until my first day of school. I think that’s a great story, but it’s in the book. When things are included in the book, they are verboten here. I am forbidden from talking about it now.

But I truly am a slow learner. They say the the definition of a crazy man is one who keeps repeating the same action with the expectation that he will get a different reaction. It’s like if you were to thump your thumb with a rubber mallet ten times in a row, and you expected to feel no pain with the eleventh thump.

I don’t want to dig too deep into my psyche right now- I’ve got too much pain killer and hallucinogenic potion in my bloodstream to get serious. But let me tell you about slow learners. When we get lucky and actually do learn something, it is learned. Bone deep.

When you convince a slow learner that something is what it is, he knows what it is. His learning is fact-based and reliable. After we mature and get things properly oriented mentally, slow learners are people upon whom you can depend. I guess it’s that whole conviction dealie.

I actually think the letters on my keypad are little black-shelled turtles that are slowly melting into a puddle on my desk. Vicodin has always done that when combined with one of Gram’s potions.

Have I told you that my ass hurts?

I need a Carta Blanca.

Medical Malady Alert, Home Treatment Ineffective

Friday, July 23rd, 2010

 

OK. First of all, please stop calling to tell me you feel sorry for me. Your kind thoughts are appreciated, but I didn’t tell you my thoughts on child rape for sympathy. I told you because somebody needed to tell you, and I felt compelled to run for the office. Also, please stop forwarding the e-letter that says, “You are a heretic and a devil worshiper… and for all Eternity may you burn in hell.”

If any of you Catholics actually have your own clear thoughts regarding what I said about the Vatican, tell me in your own words. Fifteen-thousand identical e-mails from Catholics around the world are not communication, it’s mindless spam. I stopped reading them after like the first three hundred. Don’t you see that you validate many of my points when you do that shit? Stop allowing others to do your thinking.

Hell, I’ll make you an offer. If any one of you can present a clear and concise argument that will show me to be wrong, I will publish it here. If you convince me I’m wrong, I will admit it and apologize. Send me a comment and state your case.

But if all you’ve got is a form letter that sounds like it came from the inner bowels of Rome, then I repeat myself- fuck the Vatican!

So. Here’s the deal I had wanted to discuss with you before the Catholic Church distracted me. Somebody took the spiked iron ball from the end of the chain on a medieval mace, and put a dense wax coating on it. The wax is thick so as to make it a big smooth ball with no points sticking through. One night when SAC Ellen, Dixie the Squirt and I were out to Fort Davis and I was sleeping like a baby, they inserted the waxy ball up my ass.

When I awoke the next morning, I had significant pressure back there. Dense, dull pain that radiated from my prostate to my coccyx. I was uncomfortable, and got somewhat grouchy from it, but I just figured I was getting a visit from Eric and Lyle. I named my hemorrhoids after the Menendez brothers, you know, the boys who shotgunned their parents to get the insurance money.

My two little guys pay me periodic visits. But it isn’t rugby season, their favorite time of year, and they don’t have any friends out to West Texas, so I was surprised. But I welcomed them. It is always safer to embrace your butt bundles rather than fight them. But, they wouldn’t talk to me, they only pained me.

Their silence concerned me for their health because they are chatty little guys. But, starting the second morning after I started feeling their pain, it got worse. What was happening was that the wax was slowly melting to expose the sharp spikes on the mace ball. Once the wax started melting, it accelerated both the exposed lengths of the pointy spikes, and the pain.

Excruciating pain.

When I got home to the ranch, it hurt so much that I attached a vice grip to my tongue to take my mind off the pain in my ass. I couldn’t sit, couldn’t stand or lie or walk, without this pain. It hurt so much in the middle of the night that I woke Mother and Gram to look at what was going on back there. Please trust me when I tell you that consulting those two on a medical malady requires absolute desperation.

I was desperate.

The metal spikes up my ass were stabbing my colon, prostate, all the muscles and glands in the region, and my butt bones as well. “Pleesh, Grmam,” I pleaded. “Do thuthin’.”

“Oh fer shit sakes Mooner. Get that gripper offen yur tongue and talk lik a man.” This from the leathery old gas bag I call Gram.

I removed the vise grip and massaged blood back into my tongue. “Please look at my butt and tell me what’s going on. It feels like I’m packing a load of ten penny nails back there.”

After maybe ten minutes of my mother and grandmother inspecting my pained areas, Gram says to Mother, she said, “Go an git me tha sewin’ basket, a bucket and my potion bag, Mother. I’m a goin’ in.”

As we waited for Mother to return with the surgery kit, Gram says, “Look a here, Mooner. Whatcha been eatin? Yur all stoved up lik when you was a kid an ate all them cotton balls.”

I ate a big box of cotton balls on a dare in second grade. Washed them down with Nehi Grape Soda. Dr. Ashburn’s daughter, Suzy, was the one who dared me, and Dr. Ashburn the one who got them out of me. Have you ever swallowed just one cotton ball?

“I’ve been on a diet that moves things along smoothly, Gram,” I told her. “This isn’t constipation, it’s an invasion.”

So my Gram and Mother are in yellow plastic kitchen gloves and hairnets, and I’m on the kitchen floor on my hands-and-knees, ass waving in the air. We always operate in the kitchen because it has the best light. Well, it has the best light and a drain in the floor so you can wash spilled fluids away with a hose.

The two of them are pressed close together, heads ear-to-ear as they study my butt from close in. “I’m gonna stick this here needle inta somthin, Mooner. Now don’t you jump er else you’ll be one a them sheesh kaboom jobbies. I’m usin’ a knittin’ needle on account a the size a this thing.”

“Wait,” I said. ” Are you nuts? Please don’t skewer me Gram.”

I told Mother, “Get me a Carta Blanca and one of Gram’s pain potions before you poke me. That’s a sensitive area and it already hurts.” Didn’t John Wayne always knock back a stiff one before he let the Doc start cutting on him?

I drank my potion and a few beers while the family matrons discussed their procedures and cures. When they had their plans solidified, Mother says to me, she says, “Alright Butcher, you bite down on this wooden spoon and be real still.”

Have I told you that my given name is Butcher?

I got good purchase to the thick, white oak wood spoon with my teeth, and clenched my eyes shut tight. The spoon was carved by a famous musician from a tree that fell there to the ranch. He was staying with us there to the ranch when he was getting over a little problem he was having with Scotch. We take in stray people as well as stray animals like Rick Perry, ostrich.

But I am ADHD’ing a major digression if I don’t get back on subject.

The two women whispered and gently prodded for a bit, and then Gram says, “OK, Mooner, this is it. Yur gonna feel a little sting.”

I did feel a slight sting, but I was so stoned from Gram’s hallucinogenic potion that I was unsure where the pain came from. What I heard was an, “Oh, my!” then a, “Oh, my God,” followed by gagging and the sound my mother makes when she faints and crumples to the floor.

Mother faints often, and with little provocation.

“What’s going on Gram, is Mother OK?” About now I could begin to tell the origins of my pain through my drugged haze, and it was starting to hurt again.

“Oh, dear God, Mooner. You done rotted from tha inside. Ya smell lik a two-week dead cow an theys somethin a oozin out yur ass looks like devil juice.”

My Gram won’t tell me what devil juice is, but I know it must be truly awful if she won’t speak of it.

Then Gram lit the little blow torch I use to make cream brulee and set the flame to the knitting needle. “OK Mooner, this’ll hurt a touch more. I need ta caramelize this spot ta stop tha oozin’.”

Have you ever been to your dermatologist to get spots burned off your face? I have, and many times. Do you know the worst part of those visits? It’s not the needles stuck in your face, or the burning sensation when they freeze your face as anesthetic, or even the sharp pain of the laser as it rids you of the offending precancerous blob.

It’s the smell. The smell of your own burning flesh is the worse smell in the world.

Gram heated the tip of her needle until it glowed bright red. “Be still Mooner, I don’t wanna brand yur holie shut.”

That made two of us. Next sound was the sizzle of flesh, followed by a small cloud of smoke and poisonous gas.

I came to at precisely 6:03:02 am, which had to be three hours after my last memory. I knew the time with such precision because I awoke staring at the digital clock on the oven. I was on my side on the kitchen floor with both Mother and Gram in limp bundles at my feet.

The previous night’s surgeries had done nothing to ease my pain, and had added a layer of charred meat throb to the mix. After I got the girls awake and sitting with coffee to the big cypress slab table in the kitchen, I said, “Look, I know you guys mean well. But I need to go see Dr. John about this one.”

“Cudn’t git me back down there fer all the china in India,” was Gram’s response. “Asides, now I know what burned Devil’s juice smells lik. Won’t be needing no reminders.”

Mother just sighed deeply and looked green to the gills.

I got bathed and dressed and went to see Dr. John, my trusted family guy. He’s a good doctor and with an actual sense of humor. He inspected me and said, “Well, Mooner, is it getting better, or worse?

“Worse, and by leaps and bounds,” I answered.

OK,” the good Doc started, “What you’ve got is either an infected or impacted gland, or what amounts to the biggest boil I have ever seen. Since it’s getting worse, let’s get my buddy to fix you up.”

Dr. John pulled out his cell phone and called Dr. Rodney Ashworth, explained the problem and then finished by saying, “He’s on his way.”

For my entire life, I have had the job to express the anal glands on our dogs. It’s a stinky, messy job, but a very important part of dog relationship management. I take care of Dixie and now the Squirt as well. First time I see them dragging their ass with their back feet poking in the air, I expresserate.

Did you know that humans have quite similar fixtures in our anal regions? Did you know that those glandular-like fixtures can become infected and impacted?

And hurt?

Since these fixtures are located in close proximity to fecal central, they can become infected quite easily. Either having poor buttocks hygiene, not my problem, or excessively stringent hygiene, will cause these infections.

Since I scrub back there like I was washing road tar off a car bumper, my infection likely came from the too much attention caused variety. You can also get infected through bad luck.

Anyway, I get to Dr. Ashworth’s place, show my cards and fill out the paperwork, and they show me right in to a room. My blood pressure was taken- 106 over 62, which made me proud. Then I waited maybe 30 seconds alone and in walks the Doc. I could tell right away why he and Dr. John are buddies. He’s one of those men that have no airs about them, knows how to talk to patients respectfully, actually talks to patients respectfully, and he has a great sense of humor.

Personally, I don’t want a man whose got no sense of humor messing around anywhere near my ass. My opinion, you must have a great sense of humor or be a sadist with a strong stomach to work on another man’s ass. I’m not letting a sadist near my gorgeous behind.

After a pretty quick exam, the Doc told me it was for sure a big boil, he gave me some shots of local anesthetic and left me alone a few minutes to numb up. When I couldn’t feel anything, he incised the boil in several spots and expelled as much of the infection as he could, cleaned me up and gave me instructions for post-op care.

While he was working on me, he told me that in the old days before antibiotics, having an infection with expellable pus was a good thing. Just like with my ass, when you cut it open and drain it, it gets better. If you couldn’t drain the infection, that meant that it would take antibiotics to effect a cure.

I’m guessing that’s one of the reasons people didn’t live so long back then.

The reason I told you about all of this is the fact that this sort of problem occurs more often than you might think. So I’m doing this as a sort of Public Service Announcement. If you feel a lump on your ass or have pain radiating down there, go see a doctor quick. The longer you wait, the more you’ll suffer. Besides, you could have something more serious than a boil.

It’s only been hours since I got home and started doing my sitz bath routine, and I feel like a new man. I’m sitting in the tub now, having myself a cold Carta Blanca beer and some of Gram’s pickled veggies she and the P-cubed made the other week.

Maybe I need to talk to SAC Ellen about expressing my anal glands for me on some kind of a schedule. Think she’ll do it out of love?

Manana, ya’ll.

Vatican Scews Child Abuse Problems Again

Tuesday, July 20th, 2010

 

Well- here we are again, in that place where I have way too many topics to discuss and not enough room at the Bloggie Inn. Just so you know, my fancy pants Editorator spent the last three hours reaming my ass out about the volume of content I have been posting here.

“Oh for God sakes Mooner,” she started. “You have placed 190,000 words on your website since the middle of March and that is almost two full books-worth of words.”

Two fulls book worths?

Then she got that sour look a person gets to their face when they realize that their mouth full of “mountain oysters” did not come from the sea. “Mooner, you write down so many thoughts, your readers are going to start thinking you’re crazy!”

Well fucking duh!

“Poppy-Cock,” I told her. “If readers are just starting to realize that I’m a nut case, I’ve still got Republican readers. Intelligent visitors to my site know I’m crazy right away.”

Then she called me a brain dead shit head, and I reminded her one more time that she needs to use fewer curse words, and exercise that big Dartmouth College brain of hers. Then she said to me, she says, “I must be crazy for putting up with you. Call Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson and authorize her to bump me up to three times a week on your dollar. I need help.”

Yes, I pay for my professional word smith to attend therapy sessions with my ex-wife. If I didn’t, she would want to edit (read censor) all my bloggie postings.

But look, I have a main thing scorching my ass besides the recent medical malady that will be the subject of my next bloggie. This butt burner is the Holy Roman Catholic Church, the subject of today’s thoughts.

Before getting into the mess that is the Catholic church, let me disclose that my most trusted advisor has asked me to not post this to the bloggie. “Too much disclosure, Mooner. You will open yourself to public ridicule, and maybe worse,” were the precise words. And then, “This is not in the spirit of your other writings.”

I have spent some time cogitating the matter and decided that I agree with Gram. My Gram said, “Who gives a shit Mooner. You are…. you.”

Gram’s right, I am me, and you can bite my butt if that’s a problem. I think you will see that I have a unique perspective on this subject. For certain, I have well-thought-out opinions. So enjoy, or not:

As a victim of child rape, I keep a sharp eye tuned to any news related to pedophilia. My personal rapist was a Baptist Deacon to my own church, and he was the Boy Scout Troop Leader of my troop. Rotten fucker. But even though my particular shitball rapist wasn’t of the Catholic species, he was a trusted religious leader who vilified me in the same way that priests abuse alter boys.

Have you read that the Holy Roman Catholic Church has issued new guidelines for pedophile priests? Oh yea, fancy new, far-reaching rules. Now, instead of a child-raping starched-collar wearing fuckball getting the protection of a protracted, full ecclesiastical trial, they can be disciplined with a judicial procedure. Same bunch of possible/maybe/probable child rapist upper management priests will do the judging, but several fewer layers of red tape and hand jobs between bad acts and punishments. Maybe this will get some action to remove offenders within years instead of decades. Woo-hoo.

However, they still will not feel compelled to notify civil authorities when they discover one of these bastards, which means prison time will be rare. Nor will they hold accountable the offender’s main boss, the Bishop, for allowing his priests to be bad boys. Even if he knew. Even…if…he…knew!

And by the way, there are no new rules providing for guaranteed reparations to the abused. Hell, they don’t even have suggested guidelines for reparations.

Now, and again I’m not Catholic, but this pisses me off. These SOB’s to the Vatican claim to be the moral compass for the hundreds-of-millions of Catholics worldwide. They sit around in their gold-gilded chairs, hoarding the unimaginable riches their Church has stolen from conquered peasants over twenty centuries. They sit in judgment of the Catholic masses, holding the moral compass of their faith.

But after decades of public exposure from literally thousands of confirmed cases of child rape by priests, the high and mighty Vatican is still cruising the waters of the Morality Sea with a broken compass. They stick their heads in the sand and poke their fingers in their ears for fifty years. Deny, deny, deny, and deny again, the reports of abuse. When they get caught with their pants down and a pedophile priest is caught red handed, they just move him to another parish so he can build a new stable of wrecked lives.

The Vatican would have you believe that these new rules are bold actions to end child rape in their church. But until the rulers of the church stop acting as if they are guilty of those same crimes themselves, no real changes will be made.

My Catholic friends accuse me of spoiling the entire barrel of priests because a few are rotten. I will admit that I don’t think that all priests are pedophiles. But if those rotten apple traits are not the prevalent nature of priests, why are offenders still getting treated as if they did nothing worse than break priest curfew?

These men rape children. Is that such a difficult thing to get your mind around? They rape children, yet the Vatican moral compass does not see the need to report them to civil authorities, where society’s moral compass gets to point directions. In my world, if you rape anyone you need to be put in jail for a very long time, and maybe worse. And the rape of a child is the most egregious rape. You don’t deserve probation for rape.

Unless you are a Catholic priest.

Again, my only logical conclusion to the Vatican’s actions here is to assume that so many priests are infected with the pedophilia disease, that they fear an epidemic should they make a truly serious effort to identify and punish. An epidemic that could lead to the collapse of their institution. My sense is that the problem is systemic.

And get this. Vatican leaders felt that along with this bold overhaul of their child rapist policies, they want to announce that they put women priests on the same Sin-O-Meter level as child rapists.

That’s right, to make a woman a priest is just as bad as raping a six year old boy. But the punishment is worse than for a child rapist. If a priest ordains a woman, he will be defrocked and excommunicated from the church. If he rapes a choir’s worth of adolescent boys, they will simply move him to a place with fewer pressures and temptations.

And you want to tell me that your religion is better than that of a Muslim extremist.

Where in the Bible are you granted the right to treat women as inferior, and children as your sex toys? You don’t place any more actual weight of guilt on a pedophile than you do for committers of those other mortal sins. Terrible sins like cowardice, envy, greed, fornication and liars. Terrible, scary sins. Ooooooo, you’re going to hell because you like my car, you envious bastard.

And those Vatican bastards want us to think that they make these decisions because they have been anointed by their God, and they only follow His orders. If that is the case, then it’s their God to blame.

Do I sound bitter? Do you get the feeling that I would have had a different punishment in mind for any person I discovered had raped one of my kids?

But you know what? I just had a thought, and I don’t like it. I’m starting to think that the people at whom I am really mad, are those hundreds-of-millions-of Catholic parishioners who continue to tithe and fund the lavish lifestyles of their church leaders. It’s the blind followers of Vatican edicts who continue to breed new children to put into the priests’ hands. I now realize that you are the most guilty Catholics. You should be ashamed enough of your church to fix it.

All of you Marys and Catherines and Agathas and Josephines- stop raising livestock for these asshole priests to slaughter. Send your Mathews and Marks and Johns to the cathedral and kick somebody’s ass.

Fuck the Vatican.

Me, I’m one of the lucky victims of child rape as I have come to adulthood relatively unscathed. Luckily, I remain a victim only and did not become an adult perpetrator, committing the same horrible act as so many victims do.

In my thirty years of psycho therapy with Dr. Sam I. Am, she is always careful to avoid casting blame for my lunacies on anything other than me. Sammy doesn’t let me tie my thoughts or actions to external events closely.

But I sometimes wonder- if I hadn’t been child-raped, would I still have ten ex-wives, would I cuss like a sailor? Would I have killed a man and needed a nationally-publicized trial to be acquitted? Would I have an arrest sheet that reads like the encyclopedia, or would I still enjoy getting stunned by a tazer as sexual foreplay?

Would I need periodic lodging over to the Shoal Creek loonie bin to get re-grounded, or would my best method of communication be the flashing of my adorable ass in public?

Would I be the most inappropriate man in the world?

I’m unsure if any of those questions are related to my rape. Psycho therapy can’t provide guaranteed answers to much of anything. Psycho therapy has no certainties.

However, I am absolutely certain that I need a Carta Blanca beer.

Manana ya’ll.

Squirt Kicks Environmental Butt, Polluter Might Live

Friday, July 16th, 2010

 

So. I think I’m tired of talking about the many things I do wrong here to my webber and bloggie, so we’ll just drop that subject. Like my Gram said to the dinner table last night, she said, “Who gives a shit Mooner. Us Johnsons make tha rules, we don’t foller ’em.”

While Gram’s logic is faulty at best, even a blind boar hits on an accurate thought every now and then. When I signed-up with Word Press and Go Daddy to do this nonsense, they didn’t have me sign any promise to obey rules about word count or any of that other nonsense. I’m really starting to wonder if those guys are all Republican.

Republicans are a pain in the ass, by definition.

Anyway, I was late to my dinner last night because I was over to Dr. Sam I. Am’s house to mow her lawn for her. She’s at some big brain doctor conference and I’m watching the Squirt while she’s away. I’m also doing chores like mowing the grass, cleaning the swimming pool and watering her plants.

When I finished with the grass, Squirt asked me to take her on a walk around the usual route she walks with Sammy. She wanted to see if her nemesis was around and available to be chased.

“Maybe Herr Squirrel es in los arboles up by la golf course. Yo es dying to estrangle der squirrelenbastard mit mine own deux hands.”

Squirt thinks that there is only one squirrel in the world and said one squirrel lives in her neighborhood. The tree-climbing rat moves around the neighborhood as Squirt walks her route- popping in and out from different locations to posture. And making the Squirt maniacally nuts. I keep telling her that it’s more than one ratlike varmint that tortures her, but she won’t buy it.

“Same uno, Mooner,” she tells me.

“Not the same one, sweetie,” I try. “It’s just that all squirrels look alike. That’s how you know they’re a squirrel.”

Too bad all Republican right-wing religious shitballs don’t carry the same genetic features. That way you could see them for what they are before they open their big yaps. Give you time to escape.

Anyway, I cleaned the rechargeable electric mower I gave Sammy for her last birthday, and placed it back in its spot in the garage, and off we go. Maybe three doors down from the house, and after Squirt has pulled me to the grass so she can dribble one drop like maybe a dozen times- Mister Squirrel shows for the first time. He runs a few feet into the street ahead of us, stops and turns to look right at us, and does that tail twitch thingie that squirrels do just to piss you off.

“Arf, arf, grrrrrrrr, you varmint die uber pain en la ass!” And then, “Grrrrrrrr, matako volmas!”

Now me, I know exactly what the Squirt just said, she called him an asswipe. Matako is Swahili for ass, and volmas is Lithuanian for wipe. This I know because it is one of Squirt’s favorite expletives. The squirrel obviously misses the threat in Squirt’s outburst and lazily runs and bounds up a tree.

The miniature dog and I have the same, “It’s more than one squirrel,” talk we always do on these walks, and I don’t make any more progress with her than the hundred before this. So, we’re walking along and we can hear the buzz of a landscape crew working a few houses ahead of us. We walk past four houses, and while the noise is louder, we still don’t spot the crew. We get to the corner and turn left, and two houses down is this beehive of activity, an almost deafening level of gas powered lawn equipment noise. And smoke.

Giant billowing clouds of dense, gray two-and-four cylinder lawn equipment smoke.

“Que en la inferno est dies?” Squirt started that full-body vibrating things she does when scared or angry. Trust me, it pays to know which, and the Squirt wasn’t scared.

“Assholes, baby. That hell is assholes,” I told her. “Small minded, air polluting fuckballs.”

OK, let me stop here to provide you with some background information that just might help you to understand what happened next. See, I am a firm believer that our delicate planet is under attack from many directions. Other than if religious terrorists were to get a hold on some nuclear weapons, I believe that the most serious of those threats comes from our consumption of fossil fuels as we burn them for energy.

I’m not stupid enough to think that we can just pull the plug this afternoon and never burn another barrel of oil or ton of coal. But I know with absolute certainty that we can pull the plug on certain fossil fueled devices.

Like lawn equipment.

I am what I guess you would call a madman on this issue. Battery powered lawn equipment is already a proven alternative to old fashioned gasoline varieties and if you still use gas-powered devices at your house, you are an uninformed moron. You are uninformed or you’re Republican, which makes you a moron, once more by definition.

Rechargeable battery technology surpasses the requirements for lawn care, and did so years ago. If you are using gas powered lawn stuff, I think you should be warned once, and then handcuffed to a bed that sits in the jail cell occupied by only you, and my Gram.

Gram is a big role player when, as she puts it, “I’m all randy an sexilated.”

I share my feelings about environmental issues with anybody who will listen. Since Squirt has been with me for a few days straight, she has had a pretty thorough indoctrination. When I start going off about the smoggy, noisy demonstration from this lawn crew, Squirt springs into action.

She yanked free the leash I held loosely in my left hand, and took off. She’s yapping and flashing her mouthful of tiny razor sharp teeth at the workers, actions seen as harmless by the men polluting our world. I’m not at all unhappy by her rants so I just watch to see what happens.

Why do I seem to get into as much trouble for what it is that I don’t do, as for what I do do?

After a minute of them ignoring her, the Squirt has figured a new tactic and she starts getting in front of the workers, putting herself between the men and their work. Me, I’m thinking to myself, I thought, “Mooner, this might require a little personal intervention.”

But, by the time that particular thought fought its way through my ADHD-addled brain- it was too late. This one worker got this pissed-off look on his face and decided to take a kick at the Squirt. I know he didn’t mean it to be a cause-harm kick, but Squirt is still young and misses many of the nuances of body language.

I have told you before that Streaker Jones is a martial arts and self defense guru and that he trains all of our family, blood and extended family both, how to fight.

And kill.

The gas-powered, environmental asshole takes this exaggerated kick at Squirt, and just as his boot reached its apex- she leaped and attached those tiny razor-sharp teeth to his crotch.

Let me say something before I end this already 1,200-word bloggie posting. I now know how to encourage a man to stop polluting. Clamp a rat trap to his nuts.

So, that’s why I was late to dinner. What with the incident report, and the proof of rabies vaccination and trip downtown for booking. Maybe I can get a copy of Squirt’s mug shot and post it to the bloggie. She’s a cute little shit for sure.

Anyway, it’s Friday and all of my full-size tomatoes have burned out in the summer heat. We’ve got an entire pantry crammed full of canned red goodness, but they just don’t cut it at Carta Blanca beer time. It’ll be a few weeks before my system adjusts.

I always get kind of weepy with the last big tomatoes of the season, morose even. I’ll need to call Doctor Sam I. Am for a psycho therapy session tonight.

Manana, ya’ll.

Go Daddy Intimidates Mooner More Chelsea Handler Camel Toe Fights Sarah Palin

Wednesday, July 14th, 2010

OK. We were discussing the word count police and my recent bloggie evaluations from Go Daddy when I so rudely left you yesterday. They basically told me to see what keywords you guys hit the hardest and design all of my content around that. And a bunch of other nonsense.

So….. that means everything I write must be about: Chelsea Handler, Kathy Griffin, Sarah Palin, Oprah Winfrey, Rush Limbaugh, pig, Rick Perry, ostrich, including their camel toes, sex, sex dreams, coming out parties, Carta Blanca Beer, plus Mooner’s homegrown tomatoes.

Notice I did all of that without putting any stop words in it.

Everything else is a waste, according to those fuckballs at Go Daddy. Actually, I like Go Daddy and have had frequent and quite lurid dreams about Danica Patrick. She reminds me of SAC Ellen in her solid sexual energy. Except the SACster is much taller and lighter in the hair and longer legs.

Then there would be the whole badge and gun thingie.

I had this one dream when we were to West Texas that night after we watched the Marfa Lights. In this dream, I was playing a game like Whack-A-Mole except that it was camel toes and the whacker was my tastefully dressed pecker. Sarah Palin kept cheating- she was grabbing the whacker and trying to make contact. I’m not a cheater at anything, so I kept asking her to let go of my whacker and to please just push her pocket meat to the mole hill assigned to her.

The ladies were all positioned behind the big game board in the manner of that old TV show Hollywood Squares. Each woman stood behind the game board that had a mole hill for her to proudly display her camel toe. I was in a harness and hanging from a bungy cord so I could bounce around and try to whack a toe to the surprise of the women. But like I say, Sarah Palin kept poking her arm through her mole hole to grab the whacker.

I was quite impressed with her hand strength. I guess pulling the trigger of a gun is an isometric hand strength exercise.

Anyway, Kathy and Chelsea get pissed because Kathy likes to win everything, and Chelsea has the hots for me. I’m older than Chelsea and I’m crazy to boot, so that makes me precisely her cup of tea. So, Kathy is bitching at Sarah Palin and Chelsea is seething at her and the next thing I know, it’s a cat fight. Chelsea attacks Sarah and Kathy somehow gets in the middle and the three of them are all rolling around and pulling hair and shit.

Reminded me of that cartoon character the Tasmanian Devil from back on the Bugs Bunny Show. There’d be this frenzy of fighting and it was like they were spinning in a big featureless ball, with dust and hair flying. Then it seemed they would all tucker out at the same time and just come to a dead stop- each of the three of them heaving and sweating. They’d catch their breath and then Kathy would get pissed again and Sarah would say something stupid and the spinning ball would start again.

Have I told you that I think a sweaty woman is sexy? In particular, I am enamored with beads of sweat in the soft hollow of a hot neck. But my ADHD is getting control of me and now I’m digressing something fierce.

As the other three go spinning around for maybe the fifth time, Danica Patrick says to Oprah, she says, “Why don’t you and I go interview Mooner. I’ve got a stun gun and Mooner’s got his whacker.”

Oprah said, “Let me zap him, Danny, I’ve always wanted to pop a man with one of these.”

Now me, I was hanging there from a bungy cord and I’m thinking to myself, I thought, “Danny? Is that her nickname?” And before I could process any additional information- “ZZZAAAAPPPP!!!”

I didn’t get into any real dream trouble because that’s when I woke up, and with quite the boner. It seems that I can just dream about tazer guns and get the desired erectile effects. Hell, just thinking about it in a daydream can do it too.

See, I was to the Sprouts Farmers Market there to the Arboretum the other day and they were stocking the shelves with a truckload of brand-fresh produce from down in the Valley. The Valley is our big commercial produce part of Texas. This time of year is when all the melons start to ripen along with the red peppers and zucchini and okra and stuff.

I was waiting for them to get everything out before making my selections, hanging out near the cantaloupes. The only thing that was a must get from my list was the okra. Everything else I just get what I need to supplement what we grow to home. Since Rush Limbaugh the pig rooted-up all of Gram’s okra patch out to the ranch, I have to buy it. And massive quantities today because Gram wants to can some with the jalapeños that just got really hot.

“Git me an tha P-cubed some okree, Mooner. It’s cannin day,” was my Gram’s instructions.

My Gram is a great canner. OK, actually it’s P-cubed, Gram’s best bud, who’s the head canner, and Gram is the canner’s head bitcher.

And lookie here- we just hit 850 words. Fucking word police.

I’ll stop right here with my first icy cold Carta Blanca beer of the day and conclude by telling you that Katelyn checked me out at Sprouts and told me she was sorry but, “I don’t have a computer so I haven’t read your blog yet.” Then she added, “I’m a little behind the computer age.”

Now me, I’m behind the computer age myownself, so I won’t take advantage of Katelyn and say stuff behind her back. But it’s too bad that she won’t read that I think she is a number-one Cracker Jack check outer guy for Sprouts, and one of my favorites. Maybe Santiago will let her use his computer.

I’m not happy with this stop-before-you-get-an-entire-thought-out bloggerating business. It feels unethical. Why don’t you guys tell me what you want and maybe I can make some adjustments. And click onto www.godaddy.com and ask them to leave me alone.

Manana, ya’ll.

Tag My Keywords, Fuck Your Word Count, Drink Carta Blanca Beer

Monday, July 12th, 2010

So. Like I have been trying to tell you guys, the bloggie police are after me. I keep getting these warnings that I am making a complete mess of my webber and bloggie. The Blog Word Count Police have issued a warrant for my arrest and I think Go Daddy has hired a hit man to get me off their overloaded servers.

In my latest “Search Engine Visibility Notifications”, Go Daddy gave me failing marks on all ten of the top ten Search Engine Visibility check points. I think maybe that’s not a perfect score but I am having trouble determining why I want to fix my problems.

Let’s evaluate this report together, OK?

  1. They say, “All pages have title tag issues. Use the main keyword, less than 65 characters, only alpha-numeric, but no stop words like a, if, the, then, and, an, to, etc.” I say, “Hunh- WTF is that supposed to mean? The title is supposed to be an accurate description of what the title’s stuff is, so bite me.”
  2. They say, “Your pages have tag issues. Good tags have 25-35 words.” Again, I say, “Hunh- WTF? Speak English, por favor.”
  3. They say, “Your pages have keyword meta tag issues.” I say, “I went through all of that keyword shit when I thought they were keystones. I fixed this jobbie already.”
  4. They say, “You have heading tag issues. “ Again, “WTF, and who gives a shit?”
  5. They say, “You have content issues. Pages should have at least 200 words and never more than 700 words.” I say, “Who voted you king of word count? It takes me 300 words to determine my subject matter, and just so that you get things from my perspective- this writing right here just exceeded 300 words. If I start ending things at 700 words, I’ll never get anything said.”
  6. They say, “You have navigation issues. Spiders have difficulty getting around your site.” I say, “I think what Dustin has done should fix that.”
  7. They say, “You have a bad site map.” I say, “Please see response to number 6., above.”
  8. They say, “You have robot.txt file issues.” I say, “Fuck you and your right-wing Republican robots.”
  9. They say, “We want to repeat that you have significant word count and keyword density issues.” I say, “Leave me alone with the word count criticism for shitsakes. I have ADHD!”
  10. They say, “You are inappropriate, too inappropriate for the the vast majority of users.” I say, “Bite me. You must be Baptist or one of their puppets, a Republican. Please go away.”

Now, I don’t claim to be any kind of an expert on anything related to the I-net, so I likewise won’t claim to have any true idea of what to do with my latest evaluation. But it sounds like they want me to manipulate all of my stuff to attract their evil spiders and robots by performing misleading advertising. And also by selling you short on content.

Look, I’m a businessman and I want to be successful. I’m also a human being, so I want you to like what I’m doing here. But it sounds like they think that you guys are dumb shits and have no greater attention span than me. Hell, even I can pay attention for 300 words. And once I get started, I can read a 400-page book in about five hours.

Can’t tell you shit about what I read, but I can read every word.

Which is a major problem for me- the read-fast-can’t-remember-shit thingie, that is. See, I am all the time buying a book that I have already read. Usually the Publisher catches me by changing something on the book’s cover. I seem to be able to tell more about a book from its cover than reading the synopsis on the back, or even the first few chapters.

I mean, I’ll be down to the Barnes and Nobles looking for a few books and reading synopsises or synopsisissi or whateverthehell the plural of synopsis is (are?), and I pick up a book by a favorite author, like say JD Robb. The new book is an Eve Dallas story and I love Eve Dallas stories so I read the synopsis and maybe five chapters. I need to read quite a bit with JD Robb because her books are the ones I buy most.

“Nope,” I say to myself. “This one’s new.” And I buy it, take it home out to the ranch, and place it on one of the tables next to my several reading stations.

Then, a few weeks later, I sit with a cold Carta Blanca beer and open my new Evie Dallas book to the first page. I take a big swallow of beer and read the first three words and say to myself, I’ll say, “Shitballs, I’ve already read this one.”

Why is that? What is going on in my brain where I can’t remember I’ve read a book by reading 2,500 words, but three will hit my memory button after I buy the book a second time? Or even the fifth time.

Now, before you answer that, you need to realize that I’m at 895 words- felonious assault with overly-dense content. That could get me five-to-ten in the Internet slammer. So I say to you-

Manana.

Principles, Beliefs and Carta Blanca Beers

Sunday, July 11th, 2010

OK. I had wanted to provide you with more details about our big trip out to West Texas, but something came up yesterday that I figure is more important than that. I was going to tell you about the infamous “Marfa Lights”, but I don’t have time here.

We went out at dusk one night and saw the mysterious lights and they were in a fine fettle for the hour we stayed. They were blinking and moving, and changing colors like crazy. Legend has it that they are unexplained by any scientific explanation, but I know what they are. The Chamber of Commerce there to Marfa pays illegal aliens to light farts as they scramble their way through the rocky foothills, heading north and east.

The reason you can’t see who does it is because you can never spot those crafty illegals, which also explains why the lights are moving around. As for the variations in color, those are caused by the variations of dietary habits of the gas lighters. I’m reasonably sure the green colored lights are from cilantro and the blue is garlic and onion gas.

I have absolute certainty about the blue gas fire.

But I can’t get into that now. This blogger posting is about the conversation I had to dinner yesterday with one of my business associates, a big landscape contractor and a great customer of Mooners Compost Plant. He buys truckloads of our products for his very prosperous business.

He is also a Deacon at his Baptist Church, the biggest one in Austin, and a very fine man. His company is populated with a hundred, or so, hard working and dedicated employees each of whom display the same honesty and integrity that this man shows to me. I will not mention his name because I said I wouldn’t.

He asked me to keep his name out of things because as he put it, he says to me, “Mooner, the only thing my wife and I ever argue about is my relationship with you.”

And, of course, he went on. “She can’t see through the thick veneer of your coarse language and inappropriate nature to the good man beneath, and she only sees how inappropriate you are. Why don’t you cuss less and try to be less ruthless about political and religious zealots?”

Then he added, “You will sell more books if you just tone down your rhetoric.”

If I was my Gram I would have said who gives a shit.

I said, “Who gives a shit? I’m doing all of this writing as my therapy and as a Public Service. Profits are secondary.”

Sometimes my Gram hits stuff spot on.

Our conversation for the next few minutes focused on what words I could use to express myself that would not be offensive or inappropriate. As an example, he had several interesting replacements for the word shit. Like “stuff” and “junk” and “garbage”.

I then did my best to get him to understand the nuances of language and communication, telling him that the reason people use specific words is because of just those nuances. We argued back and forth and he started getting a touch preachy at me and I decided to end this line of thought.

“OK, my little Baptist Deacon friend. You find me a word that completely replaces the word fuckballs, and I’ll never cuss again.”

He looked at me for maybe ten minutes without uttering a word. I could see the pain on his face as he saw the opportunity to save a heathen slipping from his grasp. He took his Blackberry from his pocket and loaded his thesaurus to the screen, this consuming another ten minutes of fevered thought.

“All right, Mooner, you win this one. But that isn’t what I wanted to discuss with you. My assistant was talking to yours the other day, and Gnat told her that your employee turnover rate is less than one percent per year for employees that have worked for you a full week, or more. That can’t be true.”

“Sure it is. Just like with you, people either love working for me, or hate it. The difference between the two of us is that I figure I owe it to the employee and myself to figure which it is, and fast. We make sure that new hires see eye-to-eye with our business Principles as fast as possible. If we agree, they stay almost forever. If not, ‘Adios and don’t look back.’”

He thought that over and then asked me, “But how do you do it? I run my entire business in the service of God and I manage my employees and my customers by the Golden Rule.” Then he thought to say, “Mooner, I never stray from my Christian Beliefs and my employees are the same.”

“And that, dear friend, is wherein lies the rub.” I went on, “I always run my business by my Principles and never by my Beliefs.” Maybe that should have been wherein the rub lies.

Now this statement dumbfounded him, so to give him a minute to think, I said, “I’m having another Carta Blanca- you want some more tea?” We were at the Rudy’s BBQ there to US 183 near Balcones Woods so I had to go get the drinks myself.

He didn’t want more tea and when I got back with my frosty cold beer he said, “Now that statement confounds me even further, Mooner. My Beliefs in God and the teachings of the Bible are as strong as any man has ever had. I never stray from those Beliefs. My Beliefs are are just as strong as your Principles.”

“It’s not the strength of your convictions that makes the difference, it is- and quite simply, the difference between Principles and Beliefs.” I tried to say this without any preachiness in my tone.

“Oh don’t lecture me Mooner, tell me what in the world you are saying.”

“OK,” I continued. “This is it in a nutshell. My Principles are things that I know to be true and correct ways to act and be and live my life. My Principles are from my experience and education. Your Beliefs are things that you think are true and correct because you have faith in them.”

Now, he has this look on his face like I just shit on his plate. Oh, sorry, he had a look like I had just junked on his plate.

He says, “But your Principles and my Beliefs are identical in so many ways, Mooner. How can your methods work better than mine?”

OK, dear readers, this last question opened a door between my good friend and customer and me. A door that usually remains tightly shut because people who live their lives as a 100% faith-based existence don’t want to hear philosophy from a heathen like me.

“Let me try to say it as simply as possible,” I started. “Some of your faith-based Beliefs have become your Principles because at some point in time- you came to know that they are true. Until you know that a Belief is true, your only justification to honor it is your faith. And since you and I were both raised as Baptist, I know that your faith is of the blind variety.”

I gathered some more thoughts and continued, “When I manage my business, and my life for that matter, when I determine what rules to hold myself and others accountable, I stop when I run out of Principles. I stop when my Principles run out because everything else is unprincipled.”

Oops- now he looks like I junked on his head.

“Are you telling me that I am unprincipled, Mooner?”

“No,” I told him. “But your management style becomes unprincipled as soon as you require other people to accept your faith-based Beliefs as their own.”

“Look,” I went on, “As people grow and mature, their beliefs grow and change. Some people become more religious and spiritual and some go the other way. Just like most people stop believing in Santa Claus, but some don’t.”

I gave him a second to catch up with me before going on. “So. My Aunt Hilda was raised in the Baptist church- she was a missionary to Africa for junk-sakes. But she still believes in Santa Claus. Where would that belong in the Mission Statement for your business?”

“Would she be a “no hire” at your place because she still thinks the jolly old elf drops the presents off for her and Woodrow, or can you and your employees all accept her with that small, but important difference in Beliefs?”

I was beginning to think I could wrap this up. “See, that is the problem when you manage based upon your Beliefs. You cannot compromise Principles but you must compromise Beliefs, because Beliefs are backed by varying levels and strengths of faith. If I know, for example, that I can walk through a burning building and I will come out the other side without a mark and holding a pot of gold- me, I’m walking.”

“But, if I think I can make it through to the other side and the reason I think it is because Pastor Browingwell and the Bible told me so…”

I stopped here with my explanation because my friend is a smart man.

When I rose to fetch another beer, I heard, “Fuckballs, Mooner.”

And my friend asked me to get two Carta Blancas while I was up.

A Small Town Parade; A Bigtime Blunder

Saturday, July 10th, 2010

So. I wanted to tell you about the good time we had out to West Texas. The hurricane was blowing big bands of rain across the state, so it rained every day and most of each day. Not heavy downpours but enough to keep things cool and wet. I was the only one of our group who liked all that rain.

SAC Ellen kept complaining about her hair and her shoes and the damp linens in our room. The Squirt was unhappy because she loves the rain but doesn’t like when it splashes all over her cute little puppy titties. Her eight miniature boobies are her favorite feature but she’s built low to the ground. So I was required to carry a hand towel with me and my job was to wipe the wet crud off her belly and girl stuff to keep everything fresh and polished for her.

Actually, Squirt can be quite embarrassing when she shows-off her little naked belly with its eight miniature nipples. She rolls over onto her back and pushes her tummy out to expose her goodies. I know she doesn’t do it just to embarrass me and now that I’m talking about my embarrassment, I realize I need to schedule more psycho therapy.

How can I wave my bare ass around like it’s a flag on the Fourth of July and be embarrassed when a puppy shows her doggy stuff like doggies do?

Dixie bitched about everything but mostly she was unhappy about the unruliness of West Texas dogs. “No manners, Mooner. No manners at all,” she said, and often. The Dixter is getting a little long in the tooth and I think she is spending too much time with my Gram. The two of them are so cranky they could turn an old fashioned ice cream maker with nothing but their bad moods.

But I am willing to humor Dixie regardless of her crankiness. She has done so much for me that I will take anything she dishes out. I did tell her that if she was on her period that these unruly West Texas hounds would be her cup of tea, she told me, “My cup of tea- you are delusional.”

Which reminds me to tell you about the big parade in Fort Davis on the Fourth. It was everything a small town parade should be except for the right wing Republican Baptist Tea Party-supporting small mindedness of so many of the people. The biggest cheers were for any float that had anti-Obama slogans, or NRA Signs or Tea Party posters on them.

Which is the root cause for my comment in the last postie about how I’m glad to be dating a Special Agent in Charge for a major United States government crime enforcement agency. That would be SAC Ellen.

See, one of the things that you do in a small town parade is throw candy and toys and stuff to the kids on the parade route. We had adorned the big wagon I’ve had since I was a boy and dressed it up with red, white and blue bunting and a bunch of American flags. I decided to cut the seat out of a pair of old shorts and make a hole that exposed only my furry, “Happy Birthday America,” tribute. That way children would only see brightly painted hair and not any adult body parts.

Then, since the parade was full of horses and livestock, I couldn’t use the sparklers and Roman candles I had planned to hold along the route, so my hands were free. Sparkly fires and loud noises spook livestock. So, I decided to get some candy to throw to the kids but all they had left at the store was big bags of Almond Joy and Mounds. Full-sized packages. I bought all they had but if I threw a full pack to each kid- no way I had enough.

This made me wonder why it’s Mounds but not Almonds Joys.

Squirt came to the rescue and advised me to open the packs of two candy parts and I would double the count, a number of candy parts Dixie felt would cover us. Then SAC Ellen reminded us that we would be pitching naked candy to kids lining a dusty, dirty paved Ranch Road and in the rain. So we needed a solution to this new problem.

I quickly solved this problem because I’ve been getting one of my products ready for sale here to the webber and bloggie and I had an entire case of printed plastic baggies in my car. So, Thursday night we unwrapped and bagged maybe 500 Mounds and Almond Joys and put them in a box to carry on the wagon. SAC Ellen wouldn’t have anything to do with the whole candy deal saying, “Mooner, this is a very bad idea.” Each time I asked her why she just looked at me in that way women look at me when they think I’ve lost my mind.

“We’re wearing plastic gloves for shitsakes,” I told her. “Nobody’s touching the candy and the bags are all new-in-the-box.”

“Mooner, you don’t have a clue,” and off she went to shop in one of the cute stores.

The next morning early, we loaded everything into the trunk and headed down to park near the parade route next to the new Whole Foods Store where they have great food and coffee. This is not the same as the conglomerated Whole Foods headquartered up to Austin but rather a local bunch with a good idea.

The coffee they price by-the-cup at whatever the temperature is, so that morning a cup of coffee, good coffee, was $.69 plus tax. We sat on the front porch of the store from about 7 am until a half hour before the parade’s 10 am start- drinking good cheap coffee, eating pastries and reading.

When we unloaded the box of bagged candy to start the parade, I noticed that the trunk must have heated a bit in the sun so the candy had warmed to that stage where it hasn’t melted but it’s really soft and malleable. I opened one to see if they were OK and it was a little squishy, and it left a chocolate smear on my fingers, but it was fresh and tasty.

“We’re good to go girls,” I told my team. SAC Ellen helped me get the cute harnesses on the dogs and she drove the car to the end of the parade route to watch. I hitched the dogs to my wagon and took my place in line.

I should have known that things were headed South in West Texas when the first comment I heard was, “Shudda painted Obammie’s ugly mug on yer ass podner. That’s always good fer a laff round here.”

Now look, like I said before. Not everyone was a right wing fuckball. They were just the most vocal.

So. I’m settled onto my display perch in the wagon and the parade gets started. The two girls are doing their best to pull me steadily, but the two feet in height difference made things a little wobbly. I was throwing bags of candy with each hand and maybe squeezing them a little tight as I threw, so I knew I was adding a little distortion.

Have I told you about the first product I hope to have available? It’s called Republican of Texas Compost and the sample bags we used for the candy were for that product. I make this variety of compost as a semi-gag gift. The compost is made from nothing but organic chicken manure and it is actually a great product.

But for marketing purposes I label it, “Ingredients: 100 percent chicken shit. Uses: Like all good Texas Republicans it’s not good for anything.”

Turns out I should have taken SAC Ellen’s sage advice about the whole candy dealie. What I was doing, basically, was throwing bags of melted and deformed candy that looked like little milk and dark chocolate turds, the labels to said bags printed with a message deemed to be highly inappropriate, nay offensive, to the parents of the child recipients.

I’m just glad it was a short parade because I was unharnessing the girls and putting our stuff up before my latest act of stupidity caught up with me.

Drew quite a crowd though. Unhappy crowd and unruly to boot if you ask me.

So, this is why I love SAC Ellen. After letting me twist in the heated breeze made by a few hundred angry West Texas Republicans, she stepped in to save me. “Step back everyone, step back now.” Then she flashes her badge and says, “I’m a federal agent and I’m arresting this man.” And then, “Put you hands up sir or I’ll need to use force.”

That sounded like some serious foreplay to me so I said to SAC Ellen, I say, “Oh who elected you queen of me. I’m not doing anything but having a good time,” and I walked to the car with my back to her. I leaned into the back seat to strap the Squirt into her seat and, “ZZZZZAAAAAPPPP!”

She tazed me right between the “M” and the “E” in AMERICA.

Since it started raining and rained the rest of the day, it was OK that we spent it all in bed. The girls studied languages and later came to get us for dinner. We went to Alpine to eat at Riata, a solid eating establishment. As we waited in the bar, I had an interesting conversation with Martin Lujan, a graduate from High School in Alpine who was back for somebody’s graduation.

If I had any computer skills, I could type Martin’s real name, but you say it Mar-teen. He said that his family goes way back in West Texas and he gave me some interesting information about the area.

Martin is a former US Navy man and now a law student at The University of Texas. I told him that I usually do not like lawyers and I hope he wouldn’t become what most of them become- a giant flaming asshole.

He assured me he would not become an asshole, and the very attractive blond woman, who joined him after my group was seated for dinner, seemed to agree.

I don’t remember what everyone else had for dinner, but I had grilled pork chop, potatoes, a nice iceberg wedge with a tangy blue cheese vinaigrette, and of course, icy cold Carta Blanca beer.

Speaking of which, it’s CB Time! Manana ya’ll.

Kinky Endorses Woodrow the Dog; Mooner’s Feelings Hurt

Wednesday, July 7th, 2010

Welcome back guys. I enjoyed my visit to west Texas but I am glad to get back home. I want to tell you all about my time we spent in Tea Party-ville, but first I want to inform you about something that has developed outside of my sphere of influence. I am discouraged that I didn’t know about any of this but like Gram says, she said, “Who gives a shit Mooner. Now ya know so quit yer yappin.”

What sticks in my craw is that Dixie has known for quite awhile and with everything I have done for Kinky over the last few years, I at least should have been e-mailed or something. I know Kinky is a big deal and he’s busy, but I have stuck my neck out for the Kinkster on several occasions. Maybe I sticked my neck out because it was more than once, or maybe I sticks my neck outs.

How would you say it if you had multiple necks?

Whatever, I was surprised to get back and read my e-mails this afternoon and find that Kinky is endorsing a local dog for Governor in a big write-in campaign for this fall’s election. A local attorney saved a pooch from the gallows and turns out the dog is far smarter than Rick Perry and has a better stage presence than my current voting choice, Democratic Candidate Bill White. I would vote for my favorite pair of old socks before I’d cast a ballot for that Republican shitball religious-right Baptist puppet, Rick Perry.

Wouldn’t wash the smelly old socks first either, and they’d still make a better leader than Rick Perry. At least when they stand up they stand up on their own.

And speaking to that, the Governor’s namesake three-hundred pound African bird has gotten himself in deep trouble out to the ranch. Seems that while I was gone the ostrich Rick Perry got frisky and tried to get sexy with Aunt Hilda’s shrunken head-in-a-box, Woodrow. Aunt Hilda has been laid-up to bed since it happened late Sunday night and Gram put a $10,000 reward on Ricky’s poofy-feathered ass.

What that means to me is that the giant bird and that fat pig Rush Limbaugh will remain in the closet until this all blows over. But I am digressing the shit out of us. My ADHD went all fritzy in the car on the way back from Fort Davis and I’m still not right yet. As soon as we got home I grabbed a six pack of cold Carta Blanca beer and headed out to the tomato patch before I even unloaded the car. I’m sitting here now, five beers later, and still I’ve got the brain fritz.

The fritzing is the result of playing Password with SAC Ellen, Dixie and the Squirt all the way from Fort Davis to Johnson City- more than 400 miles for you non-Texans. And, “No,” we aren’t related to those Johnsons. Since the dogs won’t talk to anyone but me, I was serving like I guess what you would call a guest moderator/participant-interpreter. Not only was I someone’s partner for each word, I also had to translate every clue and each guess for the entire game.

As if that isn’t enough to induce serial murder after 450 miles, the Squirt mixes her speech with a full dozen languages, some of which I don’t comprehend. Like we had this one word, “STING”. Did you know that Squirt can say, “Sting,” in forty different languages already? I didn’t, do now and still don’t give a shit.

But I did kind of like the Swahili way to say it- “Kuumwa.” Swahili is one of those sexy, musical languages that make me want to get married.

I wonder if the word “koombaya” is Swahili.

Anyway, that stupid Rick Perry grabbed Woodrow’s mahogany box- snatched from the ample lap of a surprised Aunt Hilda, and took off for the barn. By the time he was chased away the box was all scratched and dented and Aunt Hilda was a mess.

Have you ever seen an ostrich run full-out?

Gram wants to kill him but I think that the ostrich Rick Perry fell in love with Woodrow because Woodie’s dried-out, 150-year-old shrunken brain is larger, by far, than anything that bird has ever known. Ostriches, like Rick Perry, have very small brains.

I always try to date up in the brain power department myself, so I understand his going for Woodrow and his larger brain.

Now you might be thinking that I am digressing your distractions to sub-distractions of their own, but you would be wrong. You are wrong because the dog’s name, the one running against Rick Perry for Governor, his name is Woodrow as well.

Small world, but I am still pissed at Kinky for dropping out of the race himself. He has royally screwed with the plot of my first book and made me look like I fabricated a bunch of shit for artistic purposes. Since my book was written as a real-time dialog just like the bloggie here, the book was in post production when Kinky retired from the race, and that was after I made a bunch of publicity for him.

OK, I’m not mad at him, just disappointed.

So. Go to www.votewoodrow.org and for a $20.00 donation you can help Austin Pets Alive and even get a free tee shirt if you want. Your donations will help abandoned pets find a good home and avoid the needle.

Maybe Austin Pets Alive would like to linker-up with me here to the webber and bloggie for a little cross pollination.

I’ll tell you more about all of this but I’m too tired to focus. I keep thinking about how I almost got in trouble out to west Texas and about how I am really glad I’m dating a Special Agent from Homeland Security and now I’m thinking about how she looks when she gets all sexed up and I need another beer.

I’m pooped- manana.