Archive for August, 2010

I’ll be back Thursday, September 2nd

Sunday, August 29th, 2010

DrLaura F-ball! MoonerJohnson F-ball?

Saturday, August 28th, 2010

 

So. I’m up early this morning and reading the Austin American Statesman, our local newspaper. I’m an old fart and I love the newspaper, as an actual pile of paper. I love the smell of it, the feel of the paper between my fingers and I adore my clumsy, fumbled attempts to fold its sections for my most comfortable reading.

I can read it sitting at the kitchen table, out on the porch, while sitting on the pot, driving the little farm tractor, on a plane or a bus or a train. I like to read it anywhere, Sam I Am.

Dr. Seuss’ Sam I Am, not mine.

I love washing the ink off of my fingers when I’m finished. I inspect my hands before each washing to see how much ink has stuck to me. Usually, the amount of deposited ink I wash down the drain confirms how much joy the paper gave me at that day’s reading.

Because President George W. Bush and his fuckball associates ruined our economy, my newspaper carries maybe half the weight that it had before. I enjoyed more pages of print, more stories, stronger smell and more ink down the drain before Bush crashed our economy with his silly war and blind eye to Wall Street.

I miss ignoring all of the ads stacked into a full newspaper, and I miss my investigations to determine precisely how an advertiser had managed to get me to read the few that caught my wary eye. With a four pound Sunday addition, a couple of ads would trip me up and make me read them. A two pounder can’t seem to manage an override of my efforts to ignore advertisements.

I love a newspaper printed on paper. I love everything about it. It is my source of news and information, and the place I gain insight about the world that I cannot obtain from my family and circle of friends. I don’t want to ever give it up.

This is a problem for me

I am an environmentalist. Not a saboteur-tied-to-a-tree-or-chained-to-a-rock environmentalist, but rather I consider myself as what I call a practical environmentalist. I understand that we can’t change ten thousand years worth of civilization’s bad habits overnight. I think we need a conscious, planned restructuring of wasteful and damaging habits.

However. My insisting that I read a paper newspaper that then requires me to waste water to wash ink into the drain- adding chemicals into our water system, is beginning to bother me. I have always justified this personal indulgence because of everything else I do that exemplifies my planet-saving mentality.

I became an environmentalist many years ago, when I first realized that we would run out of potable water with our wastefulness, and polluting, of every body of water and watershed on the planet. I’m somewhat of a water maniac if truth be told. Like my constant scoldings of automatic sprinkler system owners.

But I’m becoming torn by my justifications to break my own rules just because I keep so many more. Can I justify my newspaper habit because I recycle everything possible, and pee in the sink to save water? I think this is what Dr. Laura would call a, “Moral dilemma.”

I’m going to need some extra psycho therapy to work my way through this one.

And speaking of the good Dr. Laura….. Are you fucking kidding me? It’s 2010 you psycho right-wing religious shitwad. You preach your “always-take-the-moral-high-ground-and-do-the-right-thing” dribble day after day, and yet you feel free to pitch the N-word around like it’s your favorite new toy?

Shame on you.

Holy shit but my ADHD is fritzing my brain to distractions! I think I had a point when I started this bloggie dealie, and I better make it before I get off track again.

OK, let’s look at it this way. Is my justification for reading a paper newspaper the same thing as Dr. Laura’s justification for her idiotic usage of the N-word? Am I a fuckball- granted, a fuckball of a totally different nature from her, yet am I a fuckball like Dr. Laura just the same?

I think I want to puke. Is it too early for a Carta Blanca beer? I will be back when I finish mission incommunicado, y’all.

Mexican Jails and Carta Blanca Beer

Friday, August 27th, 2010

 

So. I just got back from being incommunicado for the week, and I will be required to be so, again, from Sunday through Thursday next week. I’m not supposed to tell you what I am doing, but I’m dying to do so.

OK, I’m squirming in my pants to tell you.

I’ve been thinking about how I can tell you what I’m doing in some fashion that won’t get me into any trouble, but will provide you with hints that will tell you what’s what. Like some kind of a word-gram dealie. You know, where I write a quick story and you find a key to know what words to write on paper to get my message.

The problem with that is I’m too tired from answering questions to write something as complex as a word-gram.

Then, I thought maybe I’d tell you some parable, you know like Jesus does in the Bible, or as I think other religious high muck-a-mucks do in their Holy Books. But I haven’t been able to think of any story to tell about a guy who spends inordinate periods of time listening to men in suits say terrible things about him while he is required to sit and, “Look confident and un-fazed at all the nastiness.”

Another option might be to do a crossword puzzle with a complex solution that tells you what I’ve been up to if you turn it a certain way when solved. But I would be bearing false witness, and standing in your judgment as a liar, if I said I was smart enough to do a crossword puzzle of any kind. Much less one that might provide clues if turned in a clockwise rotation of 136 degrees.

I did try to write a crossword puzzle this one time when I was in jail down to Mexico. I didn’t have any paper, so I was scratching it onto the walls of my cell. The walls were old fashioned stuccoed adobe with a fresh whitewashed finish. I was using a nickel I found in the lining of the jacket I was wearing when arrested to draw my boxes and to write.

My major problems with the endeavor were my ADHD and that entire obsessive/compulsive thingie. My clue questions were so long and detailed that I’d used up an entire wall of my cell by the time I got to Number 6 Across. Then, all of my erasures for corrections started to flake off the stucco, and that got me pitched into solitary for attempted escape.

I don’t like Mexican jails or the law enforcement types that run them. So I stay away from that border. In fact, I have a 100-mile rule and the navigation systems on all our vehicles have alerts programed into them whenever they get within 150 miles of Mexico.

Ever been in a Mexican Jail?

I couldn’t take the dogs with me on this mission incommunicado, and I missed them like crazy. And mostly the Squirt more than Dixie. Dixie has been spending most of her time with Streaker Jones, but Squirt has been keeping me entertained with her constant chatter.

Which reminds me. I was asked this question that made an especially nasty accusation about Streaker Jones. It pissed me off so much that I forgot my decorum and I answered, “Let me answer by saying this, fuckball. How about I tell Streaker Jones what you said and that you called him Mister Jones?”

Should have maintained my decorum.

Anyway, Squirt is asleep on the chair next to me and she is adorable. She snores like my ex-wife Ingrid, you know Ingrid right. She owns Ingrid’s Hot Wax Emporium and provides me with the ass art I use in my moon shows.

Made the mistake of telling Ingrid that she snores like a bullfrog. A few days later I asked her to pluck and dye my ass to look like George Washington crossing the Delaware River for this thing I had down to City Council.

Imagine my surprise when I saw the TV report to the Nighttime News and realized that Ingrid had instead plucked me to show two dogs attempting to couple.

My ass looked like a pink poodle trying to mount a lime green St. Bernard.

But we made up, and had Ingrid sex. And let me say right here and now, that Ingrid sex was both fun, and dangerous.

Look, I’m beat and I want a cold Carta Blanca beer. I’ll get all rested-up and try to do another bloggie posting before I re-incommunicado.

Manana, y’all.

Mooner Incommunicado 4 Week; Please Read April Blog Posts

Sunday, August 22nd, 2010

Or maybe May, June or even July. Grab a cold Carta Blanca beer and enjoy. See you in a week!

The Cockroach Solution; First Amendment Yin Yang

Saturday, August 21st, 2010

 

So. I’m cruising over to the Sprouts there to the Arboretum, and I’m clicking through radio stations because Howard Stern is reruns on Friday and I heard all his shows this week. I punch AM 590 and get Rush Limbaugh’s voice saying, “And aren’t we glad we have the Internet so we can get the real news!”

Are you fucking kidding me?

Wasn’t it not so long ago when Old Hog Jowls was bitching about I-net news? He was complaining about how Internet reporters have no moral compass, nor are they accountable for the truth. Am I crazy?

OK, of course I’m crazy. Let me rephrase, “Am I imagining that Rushie has taken both sides of another fence?”

I find it repugnant that many of these so-called pundits consistently twist every story and circumstance to suit their ideologies for starters. But the real American Tragedy to me is that their followers seem ignorant of the ruse. And it isn’t just the right-wing religious fuckballs doing all the ruse’ing. We’ve got ourselves some rusers of the liberal bent as well, also fuckballs, and listed on the Mooner Johnson Fuckball Roll Call.

It isn’t what you believe that buggerates the ever-loving-shit out of me. It’s how you conduct yourself.

After I switched around some more, I heard some other numb-nuts talking about how our President is a Muslim and a foreign-born Muslim at that. Again, are you fucking kidding me? Get yourself a grip to reality for shitsakes.

Before the Presidential election, anti-Obama forces spent very significant economic and research assets to dig that dirt, and plant their seeds of anger. All of this, “He’s a Muslim and not American born nonsense,” is just that. Turns out to be sterile dirt and sterile seeds both.

But when do these guys ever let a little truth get in the way of their ruses? Maybe that should be rusi, or possibly russess.

Americans’ right to free speech, maybe our most important right, is a huge benefit that carries an opposite, and equally large negative. That balance is ignorance and blind faith. When the followers of a free speaker are too dumb to see lies, or so devoted as to ignore them, Rush Limbaugh is born.

Yin, and yang- a terrible thing to waste.

Which reminds me. I spotted a cockroach in a cardboard box when I went to my office this morning. We don’t have many bugs out to Mooners Compost Plant because of all the bats. Seeing the roach, thinking about the bats and thinking about this poker player named Jerry Yang reminded me that Colleen Lindsay is having trouble with palmetto bugs. You know- tree roaches, the big suckers. She needs to get some of our Mexican Free-tail bats from down to the Congress Avenue Bridge. Those guys will snatch the air clean of any insect. And they’re real cuties.

Anyway, I need to prepare for going incommunicado again, so this will be my last posting for a few days.

Manana de la manana de la manana de la manana and so forth until next weekend, y’all.

RushLimbaugh and RickPerry Destroy Garden; Gram Gets Bent

Friday, August 20th, 2010

 

So. An unexpected pleasure that became a benefit of my rescheduled incommunicado event, and return to Austin, was for me to be able to spend time with the SACster’s sister from out to the Pacific Northwest. Her sister, let’s call her Kathy, is a research scientist in the behavioral issues field. She and Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson have become fast friends, so when we made dinner plans for last night, Sammy was on the list.

I am trying to get more in tune with the whole “commonality of interest” syndrome. Since Dr. Sam I. Am and Kathy both work with human behavior, they have much to talk about. I must admit I was a touch taken aback when they started discussing a joint research project that would entail scientific observations of me.

Maybe it’s not a syndrome but simply a dealie. But like Gram says, she’ll say, “Who gives a shit Mooner?”

Kathy wanted Mexican food, so of course we went to Vivo, and for the first time ever we had wait staff not named Caitlin. We did have Katelyn’s husband, Garrett, and his pal Kyle, and still no Carta Blanca beer for me. Caitlin and Katelyn were working inside but we, of course, sat out to the patio.

We’ll call SAC Ellen’s sister Kathy, because she remains uncertain if she is comfortable having a close identity with my rantings. She and I share mutual leanings on most important issues, she is smart as a whip- which seems to be a family trait, and she laughs at all of my jokes. Well, she laughs at most of my jokes.

Some of my jokes.

Anyway, she’s smart, well read, thoughtful and compassionate. When we first got seated for dinner and our drinks arrived, I asked her if I could use her name here to the bloggie. She thought long and hard, with her pretty facial features scrunched studiously.

“Well, here’s my evaluation of the available evidence, and my unscientific conclusion. I say unscientific not because I lack the skills to evaluate, but rather because I don’t have any baseline data to use for comparative analysis.”

Deep breath, then, “In my rural home area, the bulk of the settling populations who migrated from around the country, did so in the 1960’s and 1970’s. And in a strangely unscientific way, that census was a distinctly dichotomous array.”

Deep breath, re-scrunching of pretty facial features, and slow exhale. Then, “These war baby pioneers were either Hippies, like me, or persons holding opposite world views.”

Stare blankly into the distance, deep breath, adjust reading glasses and take a deep sip of Eastside Margarita. The Margarita was on the rocks, with a lightly salted rim. “The old timers in town call my group the Hippies, and have named our opposites the Hicks. I don’t approve of that name, Hicks, Mooner. I think it’s disparaging. Let’s call the others Them, shall we?”

Breath, scrunch, gaze and another long sip before, “However disparaging I might find the old timers’ name for Them, their politics are distinctly revolting. And often unnerving. More guns, no taxes, no public schools, kill abortion physicians not babies, Jesus is my co-pilot and let’s have a whale for lunch are but a few of the many mantra of Them.”

Me, I’m thinking maybe it should be “…many mantra of the Them.”

Now I get an expression-less look followed by, “I wouldn’t want to be hunted by my crazy neighbors for anything you might say, Mooner. I can put my face on a wanted poster any time I choose to, and without your assistance.”

See, I get that. And I love when a scientist talks science to me. Maybe I can get SAC Ellen to dress-up in scientist clothes before she zaps me with her stun gun.

So, we’ll call her Kathy had the Enchiladas Verde and fell in love with Vivo. Me, I still love Vivo, but I’m getting testy about the entire Carta Blanca beer thingie. Maybe I should offer to bring my own beer and pay them a bottle fee. I’ll need to research the records of the Texas Alcoholic Beverage Commission and their archaic rules. Wouldn’t want to put the Vivo’s liquor license to risk.

Which reminds me to tell you that Rush Limbaugh the Pig and his sidekick, the ostrich Rick Perry, got into more trouble with Gram while I was gone that short period of time. I told the two of them to stay in the closet and out of Gram’s sight while I was incommunicado.

But you guys know Rick Perry and Rush Limbaugh. They want to stay hidden in the closet, but just cannot control their impulses if their lives depended on it. Those two shitballs headed out to the garden in the middle of the night, because Rushie felt, and I’ll quote him here, “Ricky and I felt we deserved to take what we wanted as long as we left a little for everyone else.”

And armed with that asshole demeanor, they ransacked the just ripened sweetcorn.

To quote my Gram, she said, “Tha pig is gonna be a hulie how with a apple up his ass Mooner. An that fucking bird a yurs ul make me a nice chickin dinner.”

When I corrected her to the fact that Rick Perry is an ostrich, she says to me, she said, “Who gives a shit Mooner. By tha time I roast ‘im alive he’ll be squawkin lik a chicken.”

I decided not to risk telling her that pigs are the guest of honor at a luau. I did tell her, “I love you,” and, “I’ll plant more corn.”

When I inspected the garden, I once again realized that we had named these two animals correctly. Our big garden has, well had, four long rows of Silver Queen sweetcorn. Maybe a hundred big stalks of corn with just browning tassels when I last looked Saturday night.

Now, what we have are six lonely stalks, standing tall, and what appears at first glance to be the aftermath of a tornado. Uprooted corn stalks and empty corncobs strewn all over the place. At least they cleaned the cobs. Hell, they ate many of the cobs.

And let me ask you this. Have you ever smelled when an ostrich with a distended belly full of fresh sweetcorn takes himself a big old number two? Holy shit! Maybe the sixty-something feet of intestines in that bird might help to get that meal to sustain him for a month. However, the pile of ostrich poop resulting from the digestive process can only be called foul smelling.

I wonder if that smell is the origin of the word foul?

Just thinking about it causes me to need a Carta Blanca.

Manana, y’all.

#colleenlindsay- Hero; Mooner Lied

Wednesday, August 18th, 2010

 

OK, so I’m a liar. The dealie that was to make me incommunicado has been delayed a week. Of course it wasn’t delayed until after I was already there. Now, I will be incommunicado all of next week because I have to go back. Which gives us time to discuss a few things.

I am still waiting for your entries into the bloggie contest, and I am especially awaiting responses from #colleenlindsay and #americacalling with special bated breath. That pound sign business is my attempt to twitterate Colleen Lindsay and Calling America, and get their attention.

Colleen is a publishing professional with many years experience and who is living the life experience of cancer. She is living cancer in real time and on Twitter. I admire her attitude and frankness and I think we could be buddies. I know who she is, specifically. Her name, her photo is posted to Twitter, and she makes comments about herself. From all of that, I get a feeling that I know her.

And please, don’t start that dog person/cat person crap with me. I don’t have any cats, only a dog. But that isn’t because I don’t like cats. Gram always said that cats are more trouble than dogs, and I bought in to that shit. Dixie is more trouble than any of my ten ex-wives, and cats are so aloof I bet I could ignore my cat and it would be happy.

So, I figure I know Colleen and that we would get along famously.

America Calling is another dealie entirely. What I am certain of, is that they have a Twitter account and that they started following my bloggie and my new Twitter stuff. I know that they, like Colleen, post voluminous numbers of tweets on a daily basis. I know that, contrary to Colleen, their tweets reflect a distinctive anti theme. Anti to Democrats, liberals, President Obama and many of the values I hold sacred.

I don’t know if they actually write anything or express any views. But I do know that they make conservative comments about events, and provide reference to articles and situations they think support/express conservative views. I know that they sound as angry about our President as I am about brain-dead conservative right-wing religious fuckballs. But they don’t have a face to see, like Colleen’s.

I guess what I might be attempting to say is, “I know what they are (probable right-wing religious Republican or Tea Bagger fuckballs), but I don’t have a name or face for Calling America.” Maybe they are a bot. You know- some mindless, soul-less computer program with keywords as triggers. Like a mean spirited HAL 2000.

Like some evil Republican locked a poor computer genius in the basement until he created this content bot. Then, he flew the computer guy back to his native China, or Malaysia or to the Ukraine or wherever, and sicked the bot on Twitter World.

Then, all of that leads me to think that they chose to follow my rantings for some reason other than to support me. Maybe they consider me to be a threat to the American Way, like taxes for education. Or maybe one of them is a closet liberal and he snuck me onto their follow list over to Twitter.

But like my Gram says. She’ll say, “Who gives a shit Mooner. Iffn they follow ya, they’s followers.”

Now, I don’t mean they follow me like lemmings. If that were the case, I’d be leading them to this tall cliff I know out to Lake Travis.

I know it is supposed to be “sneaked” and not snuck. But it should be snuck.

When I read Colleen Lindsay’s tweets, I get lessons to remember if I become afflicted with a malady more significant than infected anal glands. While I am a truly manly man, I’m told that I can be a crybaby. I’ll remember Colleen’s battle and try my best to follow her lead.

Speaking of ass glands, remember I told you I took a cell phone photo of my recently-incised wound? The one that made me faint. Well, my new phone, the one I got after I fell into a swimming pool with the last phone and the same one I used for ass photos, is quite sophisticated and has a great camera.

Sister and her wife Anna took my phone on their trip up to Yellowstone last week because their digital camera was down to the shop, and my cellular takes great photos. Sister is big on taking pictures for nostalgia sakes, and Sister is quite nostalgic.

Anyway, I got my phone back when the ladies returned last Friday, before they could show their vacation pictures to the family. When I returned home early Monday, we set Yellowstone show-and-tell time for after dinner Tuesday night. Sister and Anna, Streaker Jones and Gnat, Dixie and Squirt, Aunt Hilda and Dubbie J, and SAC Ellen all gathered with me to the TV room after dinner to see the photos from the amazing National Park.

Dinner was fried okra, stuffed zucchini squash and cucumber salad- all made from our garden’s crops, and broiled catfish from one of our ponds. And Carta Blanca beer. Wait. The catfish were from our pond, and then I broiled them.

We all get seated and Sister hooks my phone up to the TV with the RSTLNE connector, or whatevertheshit you call those cords, and starts flipping through the pictures. She starts in reverse order since that was quicker than backing all the way through. Sister also knows that she needs to get straight to things or my ADHD is liable to sidetrack events.

So. The first is a picture of the two wives hugging at the airport in Austin when they got back home, followed by a picture of the two of them hugging at the airport up to Wyoming as they were getting on the plane to fly home. Then we had the rest of their trip in reverse order- maybe 200 photos. Roads, deer, bison, bears, birds, trees, campsites, mountains, campers and shit, the two lovebirds that are my sister and Anna, and each over-and-over-and-over again.

This trip was right after that bear attacked those people awhile back, so bears were a central theme. I was starting to lose interest when Sister said, “We’re almost to the end,” and this picture hit the screen.

“What’s that, Sister?” asked Anna. “I don’t remember that.”

“Huh,” Sister replied, “What the hell is that?”

Aunt Hilda said, “Dubbie J thinks that looks like one of those apes from back to Africa.”

Gnat said, “It looks like the dark brown shag carpet on the floor in that rat nest apartment I had in Moscow.”

Then Gram pipes up, “Looks lik sumbody shot one a them black bears inna ass an dumped im onna side of tha road.” Then she added, “I heard they caught that crazy bear. Serves im right, but that’s one ugly wound..”

This is when I woke from my daydream and looked at the picture. “Oh my,” I gasped, and fainted dead out.

I know you are wondering why I didn’t delete that nasty picture of my ass from my phone, so I’ll tell you why. You know that I try to be a better man at every opportunity, and this is one. I’m going to look at that picture every once in a while until I can look at it and not drop like a pair of wet Jocky shorts.

But if I’m going to loan my cell phone to people, I need to remember to warn them.

Anyway, I will try to keep in touch before I head back to incommunicado’ville, and I will fill you in on my trip when I get back. In the meantime, it’s 103 degrees and I’m grabbing a cold sixer of Carta Blanca and heading to Sam’s pool.

Manana, y’all.

#colleenlindsay #americacalling; Mooner’s Blog Contest

Friday, August 13th, 2010

 

So. Unexpectedly, I will be incommunicado for all of next week and maybe some of the following week. What that means is that I will not be posting bloggie dealies, nor will I be answering viewer mail.

It also means that the Johnson Family household out to the ranch will be having some issues.

See, as you all know by now, Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry are in the closet, the one in my master bedroom. Dixie, Squirt and I have been hiding and protecting them from public scrutiny for many weeks. Public scrutiny and my Gram’s ire.

The dogs are going with me, so that leaves Mother as Rush and Rick’s sole protector. But Mother is afraid of the big ostrich, and Rush Limbaugh the pig is afraid of everything. I bought Gram and her best buddy P-cubed some tickets to Las Vegas. That way the two of them can go out to Sin City and enjoy the man buffet that is men away from home. It also keeps Gram’s twelve-gage double-barrel shotgun in the gun case.

I just wish Gram would let what happens in Vegas stay there. Have you ever sat through a dinner of fresh grilled goat, guacamole tostados and ranchero beans while listening to your grandmother relive her recent Vegas trip?

Tales of innocent young high school football coaches from Michigan, tied to the bedposts with their own shirts and socks, does not go with grilled goat.

I let Anna the Amazon tie me up this one time and it didn’t turn out so well. She had me bound and gagged, ready to play “Who’s Your Daddy,” when Sister called. Anna took the call despite my readiness to say, “You’re my daddy.”

Sister needed help with some thing or another, and Anna went to help. “Don’t go anywhere, Mooner. I’ll be right back,” were Anna’s words as she left the bedroom.

Gram cut me loose the next morning when she came to get me from breakfast. “Let me look at them knotties, Mooner,” she said. “These here look lik they might hold better n tha ones I been usin.”

Holy shit but my ADHD is fritzing me to death.

Look. I had this idea that I want to run by you. I have been accused by some readers of only presenting my view of the world on some serious issues. At first I wanted to say, “Well fucking duh!” But then I got to thinking that Mooner’s Webber and Bloggie Rule Number 7 requires me to, “Listen to and contemplate other points of view.”

So let’s have a bloggie contest and I’ll post the ones that I think best portray both opposing and supporting views to mine. I’ll award a copy of my new book to each posted writer as soon as I can get it through publishing.

Maybe this can be like a monthly dealie and we can pick a topic of discussion for each month. What do you think?

OK, here’s the rules. You know how I love rules.

  1. Entries must be on the named subject.
  2. Limit yourself to 1,000 words max. Unfair since I don’t limit myself, but I have ADHD and other mental maladies, and it’s my fucking website.
  3. I am the only official judge, but I promise to be fair.
  4. You can’t hurt my feelings, so say anything you want. My feelings have been stomped on by the best, and I’m still kicking.
  5. Don’t make threats. I’m dating a Special Agent in Charge for shitsakes, and she’ll feel responsible to investigate threats.
  6. I’ll give you credit for credibility of argument, new twists and analysis, and for both humor and compassion. As an example, I can guarantee you that my buddy Lloyd would be a winner on any subject he chose. Go see what I mean at: http://lifeslessonslearnedlate.blogspot.com/2010/08/prologue-to-part-iii-i-got-some-feed.html .
  7. I can choose as many winners as I want. If you don’t like my rules, you are obviously a brain dead Republican religious right-wing fuckball.
  8. Send all submissions to me at mooner@moonerjohnson.com which is my e-mail address.

Now, do we start big, or choose a small subject and work our way up? I think we should start with a bang, so here goes. The first subject is:

“Mooner Johnson thinks that the Holy Roman Catholic Church totally screwed-up in its latest rulings re: child rape/molestation and women as priests, the latest in a long history of screw-ups. I think…………”

Is that a good premise? I’ll not be able to read anything until I get back, but this gives you time to do some smart writing. I look forward to see what you can do. I would love to hear from #colleenlindsay or #americacalling, two twitter folks I follow. There are a bunch of others, but those two are fresh on my mind.

I follow Colleen because she and I share some commonalities. I follow Calling America because he/she/they seem solidly entrenched in ideology the opposite of mine.

See you when I get back. And drink Carta Blanca beer. Are you listening Carta Blanca?

Reader Questions Answered; Rush and Rick Still In Closet

Thursday, August 12th, 2010

 

OK. Seems that now might be the time to answer a few questions from viewer mail. When I decided to make the commitment of time, and energy, and the attention span necessary to do a webber and bloggie, I set some rules for myself. Maybe if you see my rules, they will answer some questions off the top. Here they are:

  1. No subject is off limits.
  2. Nothing is too inappropriate to discuss.
  3. Be willing to discuss subject matter that has painful roots in personal experience.
  4. Maintain personal integrity- tell the truth even in the face of public ridicule.
  5. Do not take a stand on any issue without having a well thought-out position.
  6. State pertinent well thought-out positions.
  7. Listen to and contemplate other points of view.
  8. Admit when I am wrong.
  9. If there’s a hard road- take it.
  10. Give credit- talk about interesting or smart or courageous people.
  11. Don’t have more than ten rules.

 

Now, I admit that anyone who knows me will say there’s nothing new in these rules. As my Gram put it, she said, “Who gives a shit Mooner. These rules is what we taught cha. Tell me sumthin I don’t know.”

I would also hope that any person writing a blog would adopt the same spirit as I have here, but the Pollyanna in me was raped and killed when I was an adolescent boy. I know that almost everyone else out there cares only about their own, pointed views. That’s one of the reasons I decided to do this. I thought maybe there might be an audience for somebody willing to be brutally honest.

Anyway, I have gotten many interesting questions and comments and this seems like a good time to answer a few. The first- “How can you have ten ex-wives who still like you, and now have a girlfriend of the high caliber of a Special Agent in Charge of US Department of Homeland Security?”

Well, that’s a tough one. My critics will say the answer lies in the overly generous Mooner Johnson Ex-wives, LLC compensation package each of the ten enjoy. New houses of their choice, alimony, free psycho therapy sessions with ex number one (that’s Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson), medical and life insurance are among the group benefits my exes enjoy.

Anna Johnson-Johnson-Johnson, that’s Anna the Amazon, is my ex-wife and is now Sister’s wife. That makes Anna family in a whole new way, so we have to get along. Sister is my actual sister, like Mother is my actual mother and Gram is my gram. Which brings up a very interesting point. Why am I not Brother, or Son or Sonny Boy? I’ve never been known by any names other than Butcher, Mooner or He’s A Disruptive Little Shit.

Several of my exes have been interviewed for print and TV, and basically what they say is that they took me with my flaws up front and weren’t surprised to be an ex in the end. That would be with the single exception of ex number one- Dr. Sam I. Am. She will tell you that I am her unshakable curse.

Personally, I credit my manly Johnson charm and pheromones.

Question Number Two. “You started life as a Republican. What happened?”

Well, that’s a tougher one than the first because I was raised Republican, but I have wiggle-waggled between major and minor political parties most of my mature, adult life. I was mostly Republican until maybe partway through President Reagan’s second term, when I started sensing the right-wing religious influences gaining power over that party. If memory serves me here, it was about the time that fuckball Rush Limbaugh was getting popular.

Rush Limbaugh the radio personality, not Rush Limbaugh the pig. The pig is one of my favorite people. And just to answer another question simply, yes, Rush and the ostrich Rick Perry are still hiding in the closet.

Since then, I have attempted to vote for the man/woman/dog based upon their platform. I voted for Kinky for Governor when he ran, and I voted for Reagan, and I voted for Dixie when she ran for Mayor. I voted against George W. Bush for Governor of Texas and for him as President the first time.

Yes, I did. Might have been the single stupidest thing I have ever done except for that one time I peed on a 220-Volt electric fence. I think maybe that’s why one of my balls hangs lower than the other.

But look, here was my flawed logic. In Texas, our Governor wields real power and I felt Georgie was dumb enough to screw things up. Plus, Ann Richards was a great Governor and I wouldn’t have voted against her anyway. However, since our President has limited power to start, and federal politics is so complicated to get things accomplished- I thought George W. was too stupid to screw-up our entire country.

So, I’m batting Zero-Point-Zero on George W. Bush voting.

Today, however, I will vote against any politician who presents clear evidence that he desires to insert his religious beliefs into my life using the power of political office. Here to Texas, that often requires me to seek a third party candidate to support, like Kinky Friedman.

Specifically, the Republican Party has become the political puppet of the Christian right. That is wrong. In my opinion it flies in the face of our Constitution. Again, I think Anne Rice got it spot on. The right-wing Christians have lost Christ.

Which is a perfect lead-in to Question Number Three. “What is it with you and the Baptist Church?”

Well…. this one is easier to answer, but more complicated to explain. Fact- I was born into a generations-old Baptist Family. Fact- I was raised with a minimum of two visits per week to a Baptist church until I was sixteen years old. Fact- Mother and Gram are Baptist tithers and supporters to this day. Fact- I have been Baptized twice in the Baptist church. Once when I was at age ten because I believed that baptism in the Baptist church was my only road to personal salvation. The second time was after I was molested by the Baptist Deacon Boy Scout Leader of my Baptist Church-sponsored troop. I sought the second baptizing in an effort to gain forgiveness for being such a bad person as to deserve getting molested by someone I trusted.

Fact.

At sixteen, I had been reading psychology writings about child molestation, gaining some sense as to why I felt responsible for another man’s horrible actions against me. Then, I had my first sexual experience with a female, the daughter of another Baptist Deacon. One night after an RA and GA meeting at church, this young girl showed me what her daddy had taught her to do for a man.

While we didn’t have actual sex, she performed other near-sex acts for me that I fully enjoyed. At least until she told me that her daddy had taught her, and then I felt even worse about myself.

But those things are background only, and in my mind allow me the authority to take my stand on the Southern Baptist Convention and its member churches.

It is the beliefs, as practiced by its followers, that I abhor. That entire, “I have the only way to heaven,” bullshit- the foundation of their church, that is what sets me off. Enough said?.

Question Number Four. Many have said, “You are crazy if you think I believe that you have dogs that can talk.”

Actually, this is not a question but like Gram always says, “Who gives a shit?”

According to Dixie, most dogs have language skills, but they lack an outlet for expression. She feels that I am so totally fucked up, with the ADHD and other stuff, that my brain provides a fertile environment into which she can push her thoughts.

Since Dixie herself is a language savant, we have made quite a team. Squirt, Dr. Sam I. Am’s adorable little puppy, is showing to be an able assistant and helper for Dixie. But the bottom line is this-

it’s OK if you think I’m delusional about the entire talking dog thingie.

To answer Part Two of Question Number Four, “Why does Dixie speak only with you?”, allow me to quote Dixie herownself.

“Mooner,” she’ll say patiently, “I have you.”

A simple yet eloquent answer. I wish I could express myself as simply as my dog.

I’m pooped with all of this explaining things for now. I need a cold Carta Blanca beer and it’s only ten-thirty. Which brings up the final question for today. I’ll start with the answer- No, Carta Blanca Beer does not sponsor my webber and bloggie. I wish they would, I encourage them to do so, and I feel that I would make a model spokesman for them.

It’s time for my first sitz bath of the day. Manana, y’all.

Three Caitlins No Carta Blanca; Rick Perry, Puppet

Tuesday, August 10th, 2010

 

So. I was up to Dallas on business yesterday and had to miss President Obama’s visit to Austin. I drove up, leaving Austin at 5 am, then had to drive back to Austin in time for a dinner appointment. The need to drive back made me miss the President’s late afternoon visit to Dallas as well.

Since the Dallas trip was on a legal matter, the loss of opportunity to see my President in the flesh was a deeper cut than otherwise. Now is not the time for me to speak about the state of our legal system other than to say, “God bless the American jury.”

I’m a Democrat in most all ways, and I consider our current President to be my President, both because he is President and because I voted for him. But even if the Republicans still held that lofty office, I would have wanted to see McCain in the flesh. Because he would be my President. We Americans don’t have many chances in life to get close to a President to pass on the chance if we have it.

Governor Perry showed up to the airport to greet the President as he departed Air Force One yesterday, and politely clapped. Little Ricky wasn’t there to meet our President, he was there for publicity sake. That’s simply what politicians do, so I am not taking a poke at him for that action.

What buggerates the ever-loving shit out of me is what he used his personal face time to accomplish. With all of the issues facing our fine state wherein the President might help, our Governor handed a Presidential aide a four-page letter about border security. Like border security is our biggest problem in Texas.

See why we named our stray ostrich Rick Perry?

What about the sorry state of Texas’ education financing, mental health initiatives and feeding our poor? Oh, that’s right, except to insure that creationism by God is the only concept taught in our schools, none of these issues are important to our Governor. Our right-wing religious puppet governor.

Border security would not be a problem in any state if we eliminated our country’s biggest problem- that self same puppeteer controlling little Ricky and his ilk. Remove right-wing religious influences from politics, and we have no border security issues. Stop treating pot smoking with the same logic as used to eliminate teen sex, and our borders become safer overnight. Stop using the same methods of control attempted with the Eighteenth Amendment, and allow adult Americans the right to choose their past times, and smugglers will stop killing people.

Then, our borders become safer in one instant. Then, the only real concerns we have with our borders are those of rational immigration.

Just like with Prohibition, when whiskey smugglers became ever more sophisticated by the day, the Mexican cartels are always two steps ahead of government’s clumsy efforts to stop them. When a drug cartel can afford to arm their soldiers with surface-to-air missiles, while we still have trouble providing protective armor for our troops overseas, the government will be behind by at least two steps.

And just like with Prohibition, government efforts fail because the American people don’t respect those efforts. When will religious zealots learn that you cannot legislate morality? You fuckballs can’t even control the morality of your own preachers, for shit sakes. Your leaders stand in their bully pulpits every Sunday telling me to not commit the same sins they committed last night. And last Thursday morning in room 216 over to the La Quinta Inn there to IH 35.

Who are you fucking kidding?

During Prohibition, religious leaders thought they could keep people from drinking by outlawing drink, therefore making drinkers criminals. All they needed was more patrol boats, more tommy guns and more officers to patrol our borders and root-out local moonshiners.

But those massive efforts failed to stop the American people from drinking because Americans want to drink, and don’t think it is criminal to do so. After a few years, Prohibition was stopped and happy days were here again.

Yet here we are, one more once, attempting to impose religious morals on the American people in a situation that is identical in almost every way to Prohibition. A large percentage of our population wants to decriminalize pot, and feels no obligation to obey those laws. Like moonshine, pot is easy and cheap to produce, and the growing problem is moving inside our borders. A $1 million bundle of pot is smaller than five-hundred-dollars worth of beer, so it is simple to hide and smuggle.

The profits generated from pot smuggling are more significant than the the taxes available to fund border security and other anti-pot operations. I’m not an economist, but I will bet you that you couldn’t stop Americans from smoking pot if you allocated 25% of every tax dollar from every taxing jurisdiction in the country to stopping it. The more pressure you put on large production operations, the smaller those operations will become. Next thing you know, we’ll have 35 million home-grow pot operations to bust. It’s a weed for shitsakes- anybody can grow it.

And then we’ll need 35 million new jail cells to house those hardened criminals. Prove me wrong.

You cannot legislate morality when your morals are unsound. You will not mold me to your views if I do not wish it. Anne Rice got it dead-on straight: right-wing Christianity has lost Christ.

And speaking of getting somebody to do something they don’t want to do. Hell, I can’t even get Vivo to carry Carta Blanca beer and you want everybody to stop smoking pot. Plus, I have real economic reasons for them to do so. I would go to Vivo more often, and spend more money there, and tip wait staffers named Caitlin, or Katelyn or even Katelin an even bigger percentage, if they would honor me with even a small selection of icy cold bottles of Carta Blanca.

I know they have reasons for not offering me my favorite cerveza, but they don’t make the moral attempt to stop me from drinking Carta Blanca somewhere else. That’s because they have a logical reason to deny me total satisfaction, not a religious one. I hope it’s a logical reason and they aren’t simply trying to keep me away.

And get this- my Vivo there to RR 620 has three wait staffers named Caitlin! Different spellings, but you catch my drifting. Thank God they don’t look the same or I’d be in deep shit. I’d be calling Caitlin Katelyn, and getting everybody all pissed off for nor reason. Last Friday, we met Caitlin for the first time, but Katelyn stopped by to say, “Hello.”

Caitlin told us, “I’ve never before met another person with my name in my life, then I come here and meet two. What’s up with that?”

Indeed, what is up with that? This Caitlin is a pretty brunette, not blond, and is a grad student studying political science, and moved here from Tulane, where she was an economics major. Those facts make her smart in my eyes. But when I asked her about working the nifty patio at Vivo in the stifling summer heat, she said, “I love it.”

I love a steam room too, but for maybe fifteen minutes at a whack. Our Caitlin, however, was working like crazy in that heat and didn’t show the first sign of it. Me, I’d been there to the patio for three minutes and my balls are calling for a life raft. I endure the heat since SAC Ellen also loves it there to the patio.

Anyway, we drank our tasty East Side Margaritas and had the California Nachos with smoky grilled chicken. Those are the SACster’s favorites, the ones with the tiny sprouts on them. And our appetizer was queso and Vivo’s fantastic chips and salsa.

Yummy!!! You can check Vivo out at www.vivo-austin.com.

Manana, y’all.

Leonard Pitts, Ruben Navarrette Confirm Mooner’s Positions

Friday, August 6th, 2010

 

So. I want to first invite you to go to the Opinion Page of the August 5th Austin American Statesman and read the article by Leonard Pitts, Jr., page A11. If I was a professional writer with years of experience, I might have made such eloquent arguments as Leonard.

After reading that one, go immediately below and read Ruben Navarrette, Jr., and he will provide you with a full-scale example of the lunacies that Leonard expressed.

If you like what you read, tell them. Leonard is at: lpitts@miamihearald.com and Ruben can be contacted at : www.rubennavarrette.com .

I was reading these articles while in my first sitz bath of the day, as I soaked my healing bottom in tepid water. I was running the water for this bath, maybe the hundredth such bath I have run for a sitz, when something hit me. What I do is this- I start filling the tub, then grab reading materials, check my e-mail, get something to drink, grab my cell phone, and then I undress.

For the first sitz of the day, I had the paper to read, checked the computer and had three e-mails, topped-off my coffee cup for beverage, and slipped out of my tee shirt, undies and shorts. My preparations took maybe four minutes as the water ran at full-blast for my bath.

When I stepped into the tub and sat down, there was still not enough water to rise to the level needed to soak, so I sat as water continued to fill. When I finally turned off the tap and set my timer for twenty minutes, I surveyed how much water I was using for a single, twenty-minute ass soaking.

“Holy shit!” I barked at myself. “I could irrigate a football field with this tub of water.”

I started calculating how much water I had used for all of my sitz baths, and blushed in my embarrassment.

“Holy shit!” I said again, and this time loud enough to draw a crowd.

“What tha hell issa matter in here?” were Gram’s first words as she raced into the bathroom from wherever it was she had lurked. “You need a rescue-tation Mooner? I jist got my Red Crossie card rejuvenated over to the Church last week.”

She surveyed me as I lay contorted in the tub to keep water on my hurt part without putting pressure on my ass.

Then she yelled, “Git in here Mother an help me git Mooner outta tha tub. I need ta give him tha kiss a death.”

Don’t you just hate it when people jump to conclusions?

Mother has arrived by now and said, “It’s the Kiss of Life, Gram, not the Kiss of Death.”

Gram looked me dead in the eye and said to me, she says, “Who gives a shit Mother. I got it right, cause iffn he scares the shit outta me one more time- it’s curfews fer Mooner!”

I started laughing about then, so she punched me in the shoulder.

“Yer a disrupto-latin little shit Mooner. Always was an I reckin that’s the way of it.”

Then she started sniffing the air and said, “Do I smell ostrich sweat?”

Oopsie!

“No, Gram, that’s just the lingering aroma coming off my butt problem.”

She sniffed some more. “An I’m a catchin a wiffer a pig snot too. It’s makin my eyes twitch.”

Sensing the pending doom from Gram’s thoughts, Mother stepped in. “Mooner’s still not right yet, Gram. Dr. Ashworth said that it could be a few more weeks before everything heals over.”

Thank you Mother.

Gram gave me the dirty eyeball one more time, then said, “Awright. You finish yer shits bath an come find me. I got a potion I brewed up back ta when yer Grandpa got popped by them skunks. Maybe iffn we both dose up I won’t smell ya.”

Dear God. Thank you for the blessing me with the mess I call Gram. Amen.

Anyway, so what I have decided to do is take the remainder of my sitz baths in a mop bucket. I’ll just squat my irritated cut bottom in that. I can’t stand to waste water. Even though we recycle every drop of wastewater from our daily lives here to the ranch, we still pump too much from the ground to be wasting it on my sore ass like that.

After my bath, I beelined it to my closet for a talk with Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry.

I threw the door open and started on them. “All right you two. Did I tell you to clean yourselves before bedding down at night, or didn’t I? How can I protect you from Gram when you smell like a barnyard?”

All I got in response from the ball of pig fat and black feathers cowering in the corner of the closet was whimpers. The two of them looked like Jack and Mrs. Spratt having sweaty, athletic sex.

“Oh for shitsakes you two. Stop crying like babies and get out of my closet. I’m sick of this.”

This threat only made the whimpering more urgent.

“Just stop, you two, stop it now. Go take a shower and get some exercise. As soon as you hear Gram’s Ferrari leaving, you get out of this closet and get some fresh air.”

Anyway, I’m taking SAC Ellen back to Vivo’s over to RR 620 for dinner. She really likes the place. I keep pushing them to get Carta Blanca beer, but I have not managed to sell them on the concept. So, I’ll just have an Eastside Margarita while there, and catch my frosty cold CB’s to the ranch.

Manana, y’all.

Rush Limbaugh, Rick Perry and John Kelso

Tuesday, August 3rd, 2010

 

So. I’m sitting on the porch out to the ranch this morning with Gram and Aunt Hilda, reading the paper. I like to finish the paper with John Kelso’s column, the one there to the Metro Section of the Austin American Statesman. John was dishing on Texas Governor Rick Perry, and since dishing the Rickster is one of my favorite pastimes, I mightily enjoyed today’s writing.

I even sent John an E-mail thanking him for his good words. Why don’t you check him out and thank him as well? Click to jkelso@statesman.com and tell him what you think. All good writers like feedback, and John is a good writer.

Anyway, the three of us were drinking coffee and reading the paper. As I finished John’s column and put the paper down, I noticed that Aunt Hilda was in a whisper quiet, but mightily animated conversation with Woodrow, her shrunken-head-in-a-mahogany-box. Woodie is also Aunt Hilda’s closest confidant and constant companion.

I can’t tell you the whole story, more book fodder, but she and Gram were Baptist Missionary volunteers, and assigned to Africa as young girls. While there, there were under threat of kidnapping, but survived through the kind efforts of some tribesmen. Woodie was an adornment woven into the rug that Aunt Hilda was wrapped into for the five-day canoe trip down the Congo River, and escape.

Aunt Hilda and Gram were rolled into tribal rugs like Baptist Missionary girl burritos, and stowed in the bottom of a dugout canoe.

I can’t tell you more, but let me say that first, Aunt Hilda has never been the same, and second, she and Woodrow have been inseparable since.

What I overheard from the two of them going at it this morning, was something about cannibals. That started my mind to thinking about stuff, and my synapses landed on the thought of the old saying, “You are what you eat.”

Logic? If you eat people as a routine, you are a cannibal.

Then I thought about the old saying, “The clothes make the man.” While I couldn’t derive the same precision here as in the eat dealie, I get the premise. Maybe dressing up as a pretend hooker for Halloween won’t necessarily make you a hooker, but you will feel like a hooker.

Which thinkings then moved me to a thought all my own. That thought is, “You become what you write.”

Since I have been writing a witty and fact-filled bloggie for a few months now, I am starting to feel like an accomplished author. See what I mean? I’m not saying that I am accomplished, but I feel I am.

And since the New Age guys say, “You are what you think you are,” then I guess that I really am an accomplished author.

I think, therefore, I am.

But like my Gram always says, she’ll say, “Who gives a shit Mooner?”

Which reminds me. Rush Limbaugh the pig sneaked out of the closet just long enough to raid Gram’s potion pantry again. He and the ostrich Rick Perry got all snockered-up on a new batch of Gram’s Got Eyes Fer College Boys. While this latest hallucinogenic tonic was designed to put sexy thoughts into the minds of any UT student my Gram manages to snag when she trolls The Drag in her Ferrari, it has proven to be an effective aphrodisiac for the great American domesticated pig.

And the African ostrich as well.

After Gram chased them out of her potion pantry, they holed up back in the closet. I will admit that I have not seen Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry having any actual sex, but those two boys have a definite affinity for each other.

I asked Dixie to translate some of what they were saying for me, but after listening for maybe a minute she said, “Mooner, you don’t want to know.”

Then she said, “Would you fix me a drink, please?”

Dixie doesn’t drink often so I know it was bad. I fixed her a triple-shot Hornitos Margarita and drank a few Carta Blanca beers with her.

And to show you how my mind works, here’s my latest thought. If a bunch of us think that Rush Limbaugh the pig and the ostrich Rick Perry are gay for each other, does that make them gay?

I don’t really think so. But like Gram said when I asked her. She said, “Who gives a shit Mooner. Iffn I git my hands on em, I’m gonna gut the both of em.”

Maybe Rush and Ricky are safer in the closet.

Manana, y’all.

Re-edit, Relived, Relieved

Tuesday, August 3rd, 2010

 

So. I’m doing another edit on my book and I am unsure if I can take any more. This edit, while I agree with most everything I was asked to do, is hitting me the hardest of any of my many edits.

Look, I’m not stupid. I’m dumb and inappropriate and, “A crazy redneck fuckwad,” to quote my publisher, but I am not stupid. OK, maybe I’m a little stupid, but not your garden variety brain dead stupid.

I’m not a Republican.

I don’t know why I’m taking this so hard except to say that I thought I was finished writing the book after the last edit. What I have to do to make everyone happy is to take out some pop culture references and “fourth wall” interplay. Pop culture, it seems, is fleeting and temporary. Like Willi Manilli or coonskin caps, you know, things that grow out of fashion and out of a reader’s mind.

My nature is to argue about this because when I wrote the book, it was a real-time dialog. Just like the stuff here to the bloggie. So, if I’m pissed at Rick Perry and I have a point to make, I tell you. But I’m told that in my book, and I’ll quote Pulled Pork Publishing, LLC, “You need, Mr. Johnson, to be pissed at the Republican Party as a universe, not the fleeting, caricature that is Governor Perry. And you can talk about Elvis or Liberace, because they are enduring entertainers whose legacy will stand the test of time. But leave out all that talk about the Beatles.”

I think they are full of shit, but they do have a point about topical issues with short expiration dates. But, I will talk about the Beatles anytime I think about them.

As for the fourth wall interplay business, that is a theatrical term for when the author takes the audience aside and tells a story, or provides insight, that is not a direct part of the story line. Again to quote Pulled Pork Publishing, LLC, “Fourth wall interplay is the lazy man’s prose, Mr. Johnson. Stop cheating your reader and be creative.”

Fuckball publishers.

That’s how my brain works for shit sakes. If I am talking to you and I need to go to the bathroom, I’m not always going to take you with me, so I would throw in a little story I had printed somewhere else to keep my readers entertained, and informed, while I was away.

Then they went on because fuckballs always feel compelled to go on. “You should also attempt to provide better tracking in your storyline. Your digressions are distracting.”

Well fucking duh!

Are you kidding me? My digressions are distracting? Did you not read the part about the ADHD? Give me a break because I’m not going to do anything about the digressions. If I change that, my entire real-time dialog concept is ruined, and all you will get from me is dumb chatter.

But I do want to give you the best product I can, so I am rewriting my book, again.

However, what I really want to talk about today is my friend Lloyd. Lloyd is the college buddy who is the man I most admire. (See bloggie posting of April 20, 2010) Lloyd has started blogging, and if you will go there, you will understand just what I mean. Lloyd makes me cry and feel crummy about myself every time I think about the kind of man he is.

Crummy in that good sort of way where you end up feeling good about yourself just because someone like Lloyd calls you, “Friend.”

Please go to his website at www.lifeslessonslearnedlate.com and read what he has written. It’s OK to cry and feel crummy if you want. Just understand that what you see is precisely what Lloyd is.

Next, let’s talk about my butt. It is getting back to normal and I have been cleared for sexual athletics. Except for for no stun gun foreplay. SAC Ellen is trying to hide it, but disappointment is written all over her face.

“How do we warm up without a dose of Direct Current Mooner?”

We have never had sex without a jump-start from a stun gun. That all began when she and I first met. SAC Ellen headed the multi-jurisdictional task force that was investigating me, and I have to stop talking about this since it’s in my book.

Anyway. Grab a cold Carta Blanca beer and go check out what Lloyd has to say. Me, as a fourth wall indiscretion, am going to take a sitz bath and get prepared for some serious sexolating.

Manana, y’all.

This Picture Is Worth An “Oh My!”

Sunday, August 1st, 2010

 

So. Did you read about the United Airlines pilot who got himself arrested down to Brazil for mooning airport security. True story.

When Michael Slynn, 49, was asked to remove his belt and shoes at Sao Paulo airport, with a laugh and a smile, he dropped his drawers to his ankles and gave security a peeky-poo.

He was briefly detained, but released after promising to visit the judge when he returns to Brazil. Like United Airlines is going to schedule Mikey back to Brazil anytime soon.

Besides, they asked him to remove his belt, right? They didn’t say, “Sir, will you please unbuckle your belt at its clasp and pull it out of your pants’ belt loops, and be sure that you keep your pants fully in their upright, and locked, position?”

Nope. I’ve been to Brazil and I know their drill. It goes like this, “Por favor, Senor, por favor. Remover tu cinto, Senor………… I said take off belt, Sir.”

Then it’s, “Senor, Senor!- only the belt, por favor……….. Is that an iguana on your ass Senor?”

I was required to visit the Judge before I left Brazil.

That was when I was married to Ingrid, my waxologist and owner of Ingrid’s Hot Wax Emporium. She got me out of trouble with the Judge when she explained how she was able to create such sharp images when plucking and dying my ass hair in the shape of a lizard. She’s a true hot wax artist, my Ingrid. Haven’t been back to Brazil, but I do want to return someday.

I’ve had to cancel plans for my Labor Day butt show due to the state of ill repair back there. Dr. Ashworth advised that my bottom needed rest and relaxation, not attention. Streaker Jones and I were planning to go down to Houston and provide some entertainment to an Astros game. Not sure what we’ll do for the holiday now.

Another unanticipated side effect of my butt problems is the deal I worked with Dana, my Arbonne Cosmetics buddy. She gave me this big thing of RE9 Post-Shave Balm to try. She handed over the large bottle to try because she knows I will write about it here. I keep trying to tell her that I don’t know if I’m a good source of access to her potential market, but she is OK with the risk.

I also told her that I might not like the product, and that I definitely had access to the market to make problems for her if I gave a bad review. Again, she felt the risk level was acceptable.

Actually, she says to me, she said, “Look Mooner. You’ll like it. Just please don’t use curse words to describe your experience. I’ll want to quote you as a third-party source.”

I think she really wants me to curse, so I’m not going to. But here’s the deal. I haven’t been shaving my face every day for several years, plus, with this butt problem I have not been shaving and plucking my ass either.

But I do have this to say. First, I have used this shave balm product each time I have shaved my face since I got it, and that is maybe a good dozen shaves. This shave balm has a good feel and non-greasy texture, a scent that is amazingly pleasant, and my skin was left soft and chafe free. The scent is this mild, citrus-tinted spice island rum, with a hint of menthol.

I like it and will buy some as soon as I use up the free bottle.

Second, I want to talk about my newly-discovered secondary use for this product. My week-plus of living with a Kotex stuffed up the crack of my ass has left me with chaffed and sore “brown skin”. Brown skin is that special skin that covers your entire taint region.

Brown skin is different than the rest of our skin. It’s soft as a chamois and just as tough. But brown skin needs to be constantly treated to an oil bath by your anal gland jobbies. My anal gland jobbies are out of order, so my feminine products are chaffing me.

Careful to avoid application to the scalpel wounds, since Monday I have had SAC Ellen apply a thin coating of Arbonne shave balm to my brown skin after my sitz bath. SAC Ellen is very cute in her hospital scrubs, rubber gloves and gas mask.

I think I might be a genius with this one.

The results are remarkable- no more chafe, Dr. Ashburn thinks I’m taking excellent care back there, and the previously-mentioned balm scent blends perfectly with my developing natural musk. I believe Arbonne needs a new label to address this important application.

Why isn’t a woman buddy called your buddie?

Anyway, SAC Ellen applies my shave balm because I can’t see what’s going on back there. In fact when she came to install my after-lunch application this afternoon, I asked the SACster to take a photograph of my surgical site so I could see what I’ve been dealing with.

“Bad idea, Mooner. Really bad idea.”

“Oh come on sweetie, I want to see what it looks like.” This I said forcefully.

“You sound like a little boy whining for ice cream,” her reply. “No. It’s a really bad idea.”

“Oh, please,” I started. “It’s just a little cut for shitsakes, and I wanna see it.”

“Mooner, you don’t have the stomach for this. Trust me. And I don’t have the time to babysit you today.”

“Fine, I’ll just do it myself.”

SAC Ellen gave me that look that always makes me feel stupid, and shamed. What in my past makes me respond to this look in that way? I think the origins are from the look Leticia Browningwell gave me back to Junior High School. She was our teacher and the wife of Pastor Browningwell from over to Gram and Mother’s Baptist church.

Dr. Sam I. Am is on this big kick about shame right now. I think she’s trying to tell me something in therapy without telling me the something. She says that’s the best way to teach in psycho therapy. I think that’s just how she takes a twenty-dollar lesson and turns it into a three-thousand-dollars worth of therapy sessions.

“All right, but be sure to look at the pictures while lying on your bed,” SAC Ellen advised. “Your brain can’t handle another drop on your head.”

We kissed goodbye, and I got my camera. I propped my ass up on a pillow and spent like the next hour attempting to get a photo of my sore spot where I could see the incision. I then tried every position I could, including standing on my head. Finally, while I sat like a doggy, I wedged my camera behind my scrotum and snapped off the winning photo.

I rolled over onto my back and shuffled through the shots to find the new one. I missed what I was looking for during my first fifteen seconds of viewing the money shot. Then I got the zoom focused correctly, and said to myself, I said, “Oh my! This was a really bad idea.”

I woke up a while later, still dizzy and nauseous. I couldn’t keep anything down but cold Carta Blanca beer for several hours. But I did eat some chicken broth just before I started writing this and it remains parked in my stomach.

And I’m so tired I could sleep standing up. But I’m afraid to go to sleep, afraid I’ll see that picture if I close my eyes.

I don’t know why the sight of that cut got to me like that; I’m usually pretty good with that kind of thing. Squirt has been laying in bed with me, singing this Swahili lullaby. She is so fucking cute.

I talked Dr. Sam I. Am into coming over to the ranch to pick up the Squirtster and give us a little therapy. We’re going to do a group session with Rush Limbaugh the pig and the ostrich Rick Perry. We’re going to work on their self confidence issues and how to overcome their fear of Gram. Maybe we’ll have time for a few of my problems.

Rush and little Ricky have got to come out of the closet. I need my closet back.

Anyway, it’s Friday, but not a date night because SAC Ellen has a meeting, so I’m going to grill up something for diner. If I can figure how to do it, I’ll post the picture of my surgery site here to the webber.

Dr. Sam I. Am keeps telling me me to be more open- to give more of myself. This photo might shut her up.

Manana, ya’ll.