Archive for November, 2010

Does Pope Justify Roman Polanski’s Child Rape?

Tuesday, November 30th, 2010

 

So. Who would think that the comments I made yesterday about the Pope and Roman Polanski would trigger such a shit storm. All I said is that the Vatican must have hired a new ad agency or a new marketing crew, and that they were going to hire Roman Polanski’s guys next.

The Catholics getting all pissed with me is understandable. Stupid, but understandable. When you have been indoctrinated from birth to believe that an aging queen in flowing gowns speaks for God on a direct line, then…

Well, allow me to simply say that you Catholics can be somewhat excused of many silly positions you may take.

But this Roman Polanski business is an entirely different dealie. This one guy with a Saudi Arabian I-tag commented to me, he says, “…why you must patronize Mr. Polanski when the girl obviously wanted his affections to further her career?…”

I’m thinking this Saudi fellow is suggesting that when a thirteen-year-old OK’s the sex, it’s OK to fuck them. I hope that was what he meant.

Now, I’ll just speak for myself here, but unless the two parties are both thirteen, then I can find zero justification for raping an adolescent. Especially I can’t justify it when you say the teen agreed to it. You can get a thirteen-year-old to agree to anything after you dose them with a couple Quaalude and a belly full of champagne.

Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, my psycho therapist, thinks that maybe I have a hardened heart on this issue. She says to me, “Mooner, I think that you might have a hardened heart on this issue because you were molested as a thirteen-year-old.”

Well fucking duh!!!

She thinks that maybe I might have a touch of prejudice towards a child rapist because I was a victim. “Brilliant deduction, Watson,” I told her. “Maybe next you can determine the connection between heat and fire.”

I remember wishing I’d had a better example to throw in her face, but that was the best I could do in the moment. She got the point,

“Look, Mooner. I’m not saying you aren’t justified. I’m simply saying that you need to examine the source of your prejudice.”

“When I ever choose to examine the source of my prejudice, it will be through the gun sight of my 30-30 if I can ever locate that Baptist Boy Scout Leader child raping mother fucker.”

That’s when we started my therapy lessons on forgiveness. In the twenty years since, I have made major inroads towards forgiving the man who raped me. I no longer wish to kill him with my bare hands, or shoot him, or dismember him. Or ram a hot poker up his ass, or remove his heart with a tweezers, or castrate him with a toe nail clipper.

I’m actually at the point where I want to forgive him. I just can’t yet. I’ve stopped looking for him, but I haven’t forgiven.

But this Roman Polanski business is curious to me. How can anyone excuse his actions? Unless, of course you’re a Catholic and you accept that a man occasionally has needs that can only be met by an underage rape victim.

Been working for the Holy Roman Catholic Church for millennium. How do you say multiple millennium? Millenniumusses? The Catholics have justified their child rapes for 2,000 years and still justify them to this day.

Child rape will not end until we stop raping children. And until we end all justifications, child rapists will have a sense of privilege– they will continue to use those justifications to break down any barriers in their mind.

When there is no justification, the only child rapists left will be seen as very bad people. An interesting concept, no?

Manana, y’all.

Pope Finds Better Marketing- Consults Roman Polanski

Monday, November 29th, 2010

 

So. Question– how many Popes does it take to make a compassionate edict, or an intelligent ruling on a modern issue? Answer– we may never know.

I feel somewhat hypocritical when I blast the leaders of the Holy Roman Catholic Church because I was raised Baptist. Baptists think Catholics are not real Christians and that Catholics face a fiery future in a hellish afterlife. In Baptist thinking, Catholics, Muslims and Buddhists will all spend their eternities standing neck deep in the molten fires of hell.

It’s been so long since I attended a Baptist church for anything save my father’s funeral, I can’t remember their position on Jews. For some reason I think Jews have a unique status with the Baptists, since Jesus was a Jew. But that’s plain silly of me to think, as the Baptists believe the only road to heaven is their specific route.

Anyway, I’ll fight through my sense of hypocrisy to bitch about that silly man, the Pope. Having been emboldened by the spike in Q-Rating he got with his recent edicts that child rapists and women priests are on equally bad footing with the Catholic Church, and that condoms are OK to protect a priest from getting AIDS from his paid lovers, plus his recent visit to see his twin Sister and fellow Queen, Elizabeth– the Pope has come out with another dilly of an edict.

The Popester wants us all to know that an embryo, any embryo, is a “nascent being” and that as such, it demands all of the respects and considerations of any other nascent being.

Now me, I had to go to Google and type in, “Define nascent,” to be certain I could grasp the full width and breadth of His Malignancy’s latest pronouncement. I had an idea this was all about abortion and a woman’s right to choose, but I had to look to discover that what the Pope has said is the act of becoming an embryo is the event of birth. As soon as sperm enters egg, presto/chango– a human is born!

That’s right, the act of conception is the event of a birth. Fucking brilliant marketing ploy! I keep telling these Christian lunatics to get better marketing men and it looks like maybe Benedict’s paying some attention. They finally found a way to shove this load of shit down our throats in a way that is difficult to argue against.

This is sort of like that, “When did you stop beating your wife,” dealie. See, I went back to Google to define “birth” so I could get a good fix on the logic that might be twisted into this bullshit. What I found is that one of the definitions for birth is, “… a time when something begins…”

What the Boys’ Club has done here, is they found a way to make abortion a murder by actual definition. Incredible marketing. These fuckballs have found a method to use actual definitions to sanctify and verify their silly actions.

I tip my hat to you, Your Royal Popeness, and if I had a uterus I’d tip that too. Well done sir, well done indeed.

I guess what comes next is the Pope will hire Roman Polanski’s career management team to redefine the words “rape” and “molest”.

I need a Carta Blanca beer. Manana, y’all.

Dance Out Of This One Tiny Tom DeLay; HPPY THXGVN

Thursday, November 25th, 2010

 

So. Just when I thought there would be no “Thanks” in my Thanksgiving, a jury right here in Austin, Texas gave me the gift of Joy.

“Tiny” Tom DeLay, corrupt Texas politician and the stiff-legged right wing male twin to current Dancing With The Stars two-left-footer Bristol Palin, was convicted of money laundering, and conspiracy to money launder, by a Travis County jury late yesterday.

As I watched the little of Tiny Tom’s DWTS performances I took time to view, I knew in my heart that his appearance there was to humanize his image in advance of his trial. In hopes to sway potential jurors, the little man danced his heart out.

The boy’s problem is that he lacks a soul, and we all know that great dancers must have soul.

I want to now express my thanks to what I am thankful for on this glorious day. My family and friends, of course, and all of my many dedicated employees; the publishing industry professionals who love written words; crazy people, without whom the world would be a sharply duller place; and the great American System of Justice, Travis County branch.

Thank you, Travis County Jury, for showing Tiny Tom DeLay what a good fucking feels like.

Now let’s drink our Carta Blanca beer but don’t drive, and enjoy this terrific day. Manana, y’all.

PS– I can’t wait to hear how Rush Limbaugh and the rest of those right-wing religious fuckballs try to spin this one. Hoooooo-yaaaa!

Pope Still A Queen; Tries To Ruin THKSGVNG

Wednesday, November 24th, 2010

 

So. I’m not feeling very much of the Thanksgiving spirit. With the bad economy, all but one of our business enterprises is in a down year for sales. The only thing that’s up is Dixie Johnson Limited, L.L.C. That’s the umbrella company that handles my dog’s career. Dixie won a European Grammy award for an album she made to help rice farmers improve their crop performance last year, and the boost record sales got from the award boosted profits for us.

But everything else is down, business wise. I know that work stuff isn’t the most important thing in life, but for us, the work stuff is more than just work. Lower sales means lower profits and that means lower bonus pools for employees. As a staunch believer that employees are any business’ most valuable asset, this stinking economy has punished my employees in a very unwarranted way.

Then there is the hidden downside of a bad economy. Like many businesses, Johnson Family Enterprises, and all of our affiliated companies, donate a percentage of our gross profits to various charities and research groups. In bad times like these, the less fortunate suffer even more misfortune. It’s heartbreaking.

And the Pope. Let me see if I can get this straight. It might be OK for a male prostitute to use a condom to prevent the spread of AIDS, but it’s still not OK to use condoms for birth control. Did I get that right?

That silly bastard is more concerned about protecting priests from getting infected by their boyfriends than he is for the masses of followers who blindly obey his silly edicts.

And the debate surrounding this potentially life-changing announcement is comical. One side says, “This is a monumental shift in policy that will have far-reaching benefits to Catholics everywhere.”

The other side says, “This is a cataclysmic shift in policy that will bring the Apocalypse.”

Personally, I think the Public Relations Department over there to the Vatican has been working overtime to think of something to help mitigate damage on the priest rapist issue. In an effort to avoid taking full responsibility for the raping of their followers, they throw a bone in sheep’s clothing into the public arena.

OK, maybe that metaphor was a bit remote to be effective. A reference to a stiff pecker cloaked in a sheep intestine condom used as a Trojan horse might require a brain as fucked-up as mine to follow.

Anyway, fuck the Pope, and fuck anyone who thinks the Pope is special.

I do like his dresses though. Both his and the other Queen, Elizabeth. Those two kids don’t know what a smock even looks like. I still remain convinced that they are twins that were secretly separated at birth. From the look of things, their tailors were twins as well.

Anyway, I’ve got to get my head straight before morning because I’m cooking for the fifty, or so, that always manage to wander their way to our Thanksgiving dinner. This year I’m doing the Cajun deep fried poultry thing, featuring turkey, but frying ducks and a goose as well. We always start festivities early in the morning, when I fire up the grill and smoke sausages and quail and venison outside, and Mother and Gram make pancakes in the kitchen.

This year will be special because SAC Ellen is making her family secret recipe French Toast. When Streaker Jone heard about the toast, he flew up to Vermont and brought back a barrel of fresh maple syrup.

“I like tha one what comes from trees livin onna Canadian border, Mooner. Got better balance.”

I think Streaker Jones is right about that since he’s always right about everything. I used it to make a maple syrup basting glaze for the smoked meats that is, as Gram likes to say, “Worth killin fer.”

When I told her the expression is, “To die for,” she told me, and not too kindly, “Oh who gives a shit, Mooner? Iffn you don’t skedaddle from my kitchen I’m gonna kick yer scrawny butt.”

Which brings on another holiday puzzler. What am I going to do about Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry? How can I make room at the table for my pig and ostrich yet hide them from Gram?

I need a Carta Blanca beer. Manana, y’all.

Pooch Screwed; Mooner Too

Monday, November 22nd, 2010

 

So. My annual display of appreciation for the women in my life dinner was last Friday night. I should say it was scheduled for last Friday because it didn’t happen. One-by-one, my appreciated ladies canceled on me until it was just Squirt, SAC Ellen and me for dinner.

Anyway, Squirt had chosen Vivo as the site of the dinner, and since Vivo doesn’t serve Carta Blanca beer, the two of us decided to get our Carta Blanca on before departing for Vivo. We were drinking our second beer when the calls to cancel started coming in. First was Gram, calling from College Station, to tell me that she was not going to make it.

“Got myself detailed, Mooner, with a Aggie cadet. Found him down to the dirty bookstore on South Lamar, cut him out a tha herd, and took im back ta his dorm.” Then she added, “Sorry I’m missin yer presheatin dealie, Mooner, but I’m kinda tied up here.”

“Don’t you mean you got derailed and you won’t make it to dinner, Gram?”

I had to ask.

“Nope, grandson, meant detailed. This boy’s got him one a them clean fet-shitsies, er whateverthafuck, an I’m so clean I’m a whistling.”

“Well don’t hurt him, Gram. And have a good time.”

Next to cancel were Sister and Anna the Amazon. “Got invited to a dinner party at you-know-who’s house, big brother. Sorry to bomb out last minute, but you know we’ve been angling for this dinner a long time.”

“Yea, I know. You two have a good time.” The unnamed person throwing the dinner is a big lesbian mover and shaker here in Austin, and the two lesbians in my life have wanted this invitation for a long time.

So, one-by-one, cancellations. I set my newly-opened third beer on the counter and went to the bathroom. When I got there, I saw that Gnat had placed my new Oprah Magazine on the rack. So I sat and started reading, and forgot about the Squirt.

When I finished reading and returned to the kitchen, Dr. Sam I. Am’s little puppy was on the counter– sitting in a pool of spilled beer, lapping and belching.

“Oh, fuck me running, Squirt. We’ve screwed the pooch this time. Let’s clean this mess and get you into the shower.”

I put her in the shower with the cold water running in a full spray, cleaned the beer off the counter and started a pot of coffee. When the coffee was ready, I filled a bowl, added sugar and extra cream like Squirt likes it, and got her out of the bath.

“Osh min Gott, Meeshhh shure Mooner. Mine brain ish broke.”

She was wobbly on her feet as I dried her with a soft terrycloth towel. “Your brain isn’t broken, pumpkin. You’re drunk. I’ve got the broken brain for leaving my beer unattended.”

So, now it’s down to SAC Ellen and me at Vivo. I put Squirt to bed and we drove to the cafe. But after we sat down we were surprised when Delores and her husband showed, and later her sister joined us. Our waitress was Kristen, another of Vivo’s quality staff, and we enjoyed our meal as always. When she brought the roses to the three ladies after dinner– ladies always get an after-dinner rose, I asked Kristen, I said, “What about me?”

For you,” she said with a dangerous look in her too-pretty eyes, “I’ve got something special.”

Now me, a man in a monogamous relationship, I’m both enjoying the mystery of the promise and the fear of danger. Kristen’s eyes were bewitching, but death by angry federal agent would be a bitch. I was saved when the ladies at my table took a bathroom break, passing Kristen as she came back to the table.

I caught her eyes as she approached. Her hand was behind her back and the look on her face was pure, evil delight. I’m thinking to my self, I thought, “I have totally fucked this deal eight ways from Sunday. Kristen thinks the SACster is my daughter and I’ve got a problem.”

Kristen saddled up beside me and gave me that sexy, teasing look that sexy women perfect. Now I’m sweating, wondering what my big surprise might be, thinking of how I might have cake and eat it too, and trying to sort things out.

“Close your eyes and hold out you hand, Mr. Johnson.”

Maybe it won’t hurt so bad if I don’t see what I can’t have. I shut my eyes tight and extended my hand palm up. At the same time she places a book in my hand Kristen’s warm breath whispers in my ear, “I can separate that bill if you want, sir, but you always pick up the tab.”

Another Catch-22, dilemma kind of dealie. I hate when I’m glad that I’m disappointed.

Manana, y’all.

Squirt Sets Mooner Straight; Train Later Derails

Saturday, November 20th, 2010

 

So. I had plans to take all of the women in my close circle of life to dinner. Each Friday before Thanksgiving, I try to make a display of my appreciation for a years-worth their patience and support. This Friday-before-turkey-day event has become a special occasion that I look forward to with keen anticipation.

The whole thing started as an offshoot of my psycho therapy sessions a few years ago. “Mooner, you crazy fuckball, you have got to learn how to demonstrate your appreciation to a woman in some way other than to marry her.” Then Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, my first ex-wife and psycho therapist, said to me, “And that drunken speech at the dinner table last Thanksgiving is not what I mean.”

Anyway, it seemed fitting that were I to pick the Friday before, I could sap some energy from the sentiments of Thanksgiving and shore-up any weaknesses in my program. It has turned into a huge success. I get to shake my Etch-A-Sketch to a clean slate just before the holidays, leaving lots of room for me to scratch my trail of accidental indiscretions.

I was planning where to take the girls this year when Squirt and I were hanging basil plants in the root cellar. We have a separate section for hanging herbs as opposed to the area for other things. We dry our herbs without roots to keep the dirt from contaminating the drying leaves. It’s almost impossible to wash dried herb leaves. Not that I haven’t tried.

Anyway, I asked Squirt, “Where would you like to go to dinner Miss Squirt? This will be your first Mooner Appreciates Women dinner. You want to choose?”

Just asking the question gets me all the display of appreciation I need from Squirt. She’s running in little figure eights, wagging her tail maniacally. She looks like a wind-up toy with an over-tight spring.

“Oh, Mien Gott, Bwana Mooner. Que me dijo choose le cafe?”

“Of course you can choose. That’s a way I can show you how much I appreciate you.” Might as well start early, right?

When Squirt does her serious thinking, the thinking you’d call contemplation, she sits with her head cocked sideways and closes her eyes. Her breathing slows and becomes a series of deep sighs. Like what you do when you go to sleep. Her one untethered ear flaps and flops like the damaged wing of a spastic bird. She is a seriously cute little shit.

I did finally get bored with watching all of the cute thinking and went back to work. I was checking the status of the dried, smoked jalapeño peppers when Squirt came out of her trance.

“I got it. Auf gehts zur Vivo. Everyone likes their margaritas.”

“I know,” I told her. “But still no Carta Blanca beer.”

She gives me her best stern look and tells me it’s not about me. She’s right.

“You are correcta-mundo, my little mixed-breed bundle of wonderment. Let’s drink our Carta Blanca now.”

We did, and that would be when everything started to unravel. Manana, y’all.

Why Won’t Rick Perry And Rush Limbaugh Admit/Embrace Gay Lifestyle? Pig and Ostrich Remain In Closet

Friday, November 19th, 2010

 

So. I got all of my basil harvested and the sugar-water soaked stems have recovered nicely. Saturday morning, I’ll hang half of them for dried leaves and the other sixty plants will have other uses. Sister and Anna the Amazon are making a big batch of pesto and the remaining are going into Gram’s canned tomatoes. Canning starts Monday, and she puts big stems of fat basil leaves into each jar of tomatoes before she vacuums the lids shut.

As for Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry, they’re banished to the guest room closet over to Gnat’s place. I managed to clean the mess they made in Gram’s potion pantry yesterday, but she’ll catch it when she does inventory at the end of the month. She going to be a few bottles short of her Christmas aphrodisiac potion she calls Put down that bag Santa an show Momma yer chimney. That potion has a strong pour of honeysuckle nectar to balance the smoky bite of psychedelic mushroom juice.

Rush Limbaugh the pig has a thing for honeysuckle nectar, and the ostrich Rick Perry has a thing for Rush Limbaugh. Gnat called over here after dinner last night so Rush could talk to the Squirt. Seems the boys don’t have much hankering for the country music Gnat plays, and they asked Squirt to have me bring their boom box and some of their favorite CDs.

I agreed, and after the first couple requests I realized I didn’t need pen and paper for their choices. I said to Squirt, “Oh for shitsakes. Tell them I’ll bring all of their Streisand, Bette Midler and Cher, any of the Celine Deon not in Aunt Hilda’s room and any of the Broadway show stuff I can round up without Gram catching me.”

If Gram sees me looking for the two Man From La Mancha CDs, she’ll know what I’m up to. We have the old tried-and-true Robert Goulet version, which is Rush’s favorite and then the little known Raul Julia version. I think that Robert Goulet was a touch too prissy and prefer the Julia cuts. The ostrich and I agree that Raul’s Hispanic blood gives him an edge in historical perspective.

And let me say one more time that I am not being judgmental, nor am I saying that if it were to be true would it make any difference to me. But boys. You hide in the closet together, sleep like lovers in positions that embarrass even me, act like an old married couple, and have musical tastes that even my friend Lloyd thinks are a little sissy. And Lloyd loves him some Barbara Streisand.

But let’s face it. You boys are gay. We’re already a gay family– what with Sister and Anna you’ll have a built-in family clique. Embrace it and move on. Besides, the two of you are the only ones who think you aren’t gay. Come out of the closet and liberate your spirits. Celebrate life!

Anyway, the two of them have skulls as thick as their namesakes, reminding everyone of just how well-named they are. The other day Gram says, “Ya know what, Mooner? I think tha Governor must be gittin his advice from that fuckin bird a yers. That man ain’t got tha sense God give a toadie stool.”

Then she gave me a solid dose of the stinky eye and said to me, she says, “Iffn I catch you usin tha Squirt to do any tranportatin fer that fuckin Governor Rick Perry, I’ll take my twelve banger to tha bunch a ya.”

For you new readers, Gram said that if Squirt translates any ostrich talk from my bird for Texas Governor Perry, she’ll shoot us with her shotgun. Not a problem though. The Rickster and I have been at odds for several years and if he ever contacts me it will be because he reversed his lobotomy and had a heart implant.

My ADHD is knocking on my frontal lobe and saying, “Beer time, Mooner. Let’s crack a cold Carta Blanca and think about where to take the girls for dinner.”

Manana, y’all.

Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry Screw Pooch; Basil Wilted

Thursday, November 18th, 2010

 

So. I wasn’t paying any attention to the weather and a 40-degree overnight chill wilted most of my basil plants. Roughly ninety of the hundred-plus plants are droopier than a king-size sheet on a baby’s bed. Every year at harvest time, we cut basil to hang and dry in the root cellar and for canning tomatoes.

Gram and Aunt Hilda headed to town early this morning to get their holiday pedicures at Ingrid’s Hot Wax Emporium. Ingrid is one of my ex-wives, number seven to be precise, and she owns the best personal grooming facility in town. Ingrid plucks and dyes my butt and pubic regions for my ass shows, and all of the family use her shop’s services.

The Johnson family matrons get their toenails decorated for most every holiday, and Thanksgiving is one of Gram’s favorites. She has each toe decorated with a different of her favorite foods served at the festivities. Last night at dinner, as she and Aunt Hilda planned their trip, Gram says, “Cain’t decide iffn tha turkey goes onna big toe er iffn I’m gonna paint a picture a Rush Limbaugh on the one, an Ricky Perry onna other.”

Then she casts a steely stare in my direction to continue, “If I figger where n hell you got em hid, Mooner, it’s cattails fer em both.”

I’m certain she was talking about Rush Limbaugh the pig and the ostrich Rick Perry. I think she meant that it will be curtains for the two of them if she finds their closeted carcasses. My giant hog and now 350-pound bird are hidden from my grandmother in my bedroom closet, have been for months.

“Oh stop your pissing and moaning, Gram. They haven’t made any trouble for you for at least a week,” I informed her.

Now Gram’s steely-eyed look turns into what we call the “stink-eye” stare. “Who gives a shit iffn it’s a week er a day. I git my hands on em, we’re havin us a bacon wrapped arst-rich stuffed wi ground pork brains.”

She took a bite of her cannelloni with wild mushrooms and bison, chewing slowly while maintaining stinky-eye contact with me. Her stinky eyes never left mine as she chewed, swallowed twice, and guzzled half a bottle of Carta Blanca beer.

“Mooner, yer a inappropriated little shit, and them animals a yers is a maniacal. I’m gonna be packin my 12-gage round tha house an it’s loaded with hog shot.” She held the stinky-eyed stare for another minute and went back to her meal.

To tell you how crazy I am, I actually thought about correcting her to say that she meant the boys are a “menace”, and there’s no such thing as “hog shot” for a shotgun.

Anyway, the two old Johnson broads went to town early and were expected to be out for a few hours. That gave me plenty of time to get Rush and Rick out of my closet and get some air for all three. My clothes are starting to stink of ostrich sweat, an altogether unpleasant odor.

Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson had dropped the Squirt off when she went to work, so the four of us went for a walk to check the garden. That’s when I found the damage to my basil.

“Fuckballs, guys. We need to harvest all of these basil plants and get them in a tub of sugar water.” If you can catch this kind of damage soon enough, place the cut stems of the full plant in a mild sugar water. You can expect at least partial recovery.

I sent Squirt to supervise the boys and gather the tools and wagon we use for harvesting. I got busy checking for rabbit damage on the cool weather garden that is now going bonkers. I was starting to wonder why the guys weren’t back when I heard Squirt barking, and yelling at me from the distance towards the barn.

Squirt runs faster, inch-for-inch, than any animal I have ever seen. Her little legs are only three inches long, but she’s a streak. I see her headed down the road towards me leaving a cloud of dust in her wake. She’s barking and yelling unintelligibly every step. She reaches me and skids to a stop in a spray of gravel, and sits up like a bunny to speak.

“A-huh, a-huh, a-huh,” at first all she can get out are dog pants.

“Take you time, Squirt. What’s the problem?”

“Sacre escrementi, Bwana Mooner. A-huh, a-huh, a-huh. Tu pig and big es en la pantry de los potions con Gram.”

“Oh for shitsakes, Squirt.” And with that the two of us are running to the barn.

I managed to get there before they did too much damage, but the damage was done. I’ll have hell to pay when Gram gets back. I moved Rick and Rush over to Gnat’s place where they’re hiding in the guest room closet.

Me, I’m headed to get a Carta Blanca beer. I need fortification before tackling all that basil.

Manana, y’all.

Unintended Serialization; Dilemma’s Double Indemnity- Part Two

Wednesday, November 17th, 2010

 

So. Don’t you hate when someone tells you all of the joke except for the punchline? I know it pisses me off to the max. Same thing when someone serializes a simple story, dragging-out the payoff by separating it into several unsatisfying chunks.

Like what I did to you yesterday.

I didn’t fuck with you on purpose. I swear to god it was an accident, and caused by my ever vigilant ADHD. If I could focus with the same intensity as my ADHD, I’d be king.

I had every intention to provide closure to my dichotomous dilemma story, but I let my randy grandmother’s sex needs get in the way. Hell, if I could focus with the same intensity as Gram gives sex, I’d at least be the Prince. Or Baron or maybe Viceroy.

Speaking of the Prince, can you believe that Princess Diana’s little boy is getting married? When I look at his father, I am truly surprised that either of those boys could learn to tie their own shoes. Must be they got their mother’s brains and her good looks too. Imagine if they had both looks and the brain of their dad. Oooo-gaa!

Anyway, my point yesterday about the postings here to the bloggie having multiple typographical mistakes and just plain sloppy prose was to be this– I am incapable of posting my best work topically and voluminously, simultaneously.

Add to that my need to write down as many thoughts as I can, and you can see the compounding effects I suffer. I receive benefit from spilling my thoughts from my brain into the computer. Ridding my mind of this trash takes the pressure off my frontal lobe, allowing me better reasoned thoughts and decisions. But I simply can’t sacrifice quality for quantity and get rid of enough from my scrambled brain.

I’m not that good. I admit it. I am not a highly-skilled, trained writer. What I am is a crazy, opinionated, left-leaning sufferer of the ADHD, who has enough thoughts in his head at any given time to plot a dozen novels.

That said, I understand that some are turned off by my errors and won’t follow me. If I could fix it, I would. But, to perspecterate this dealie and give you a differing view to study, think about this. On the tenth rewrite of my book, I found a mistake on the first line of the first page of text. The error was that the word “I” should have been “I’m”.

And understand that I proofread each sitting’s writings maybe a dozen times before hitting the “SAVE” button. That means that I missed that mistake at least twenty-five times.

That’s how bad I am at details and focusing. In order to shear most of the mistakes from my postings, I’d be printing today’s written words in maybe July 2012. When it would finally be best-done, or wellest done, it would still likely have a boo-boo, or two. Maybe that should be most weller-done.

But, before I brain fritz and forget the punchline again, here’s the deal. I will reward your grammar-fication of my postings by giving a free book to the person who first calls attention to my mistakes. I’m not talking about any words that you might think I made up, I mean grammatical errors, bad punctuating or sentences not making sense because I left a word out. Silly shit like that.

When you catch me, be the first to post a comment to the bloggie, and email me so I’ll have your contact info. Soon as the book is out, I’ll get one to you.

I told Dr. Sam I. Am about my plan in this morning’s psycho therapy session. She said to me, she says, “Mooner, you dumbass. You’ll spend all of your book’s profits on free books and shipping charges.”

She thought that would discourage me, but that was the first time she had admitted that I might make any profits from my book, so I see that as progress. “Fuck you, Sammie,”I told her. “You’re just jealous that my book will be in print before yours.”

“Did I tell you that I’m raising your session rates to $200.00 per hour?” she asked with a little heat and ire-rosed cheeks.

“Oh, who gives a shit, Sammy?” I responded. “My book’s gonna make me rich.”

Squirt was waiting for me in the reception room, and we’re going out to El Azeteca, there to East 7th Street. We’re meeting Streaker Jones and Dixie are meeting us for some cabrito, menudo and cold Carta Blanca beers.

Manana, y’all. 

So. Don’t you hate when someone tells you all of the joke except for the punchline? I know it pisses me off to the max. Same thing when someone serializes a simple story, dragging-out the payoff by separating it into several unsatisfying chunks.

Like what I did to you yesterday.

I didn’t fuck with you on purpose. I swear to god it was an accident, and caused by my ever vigilant ADHD. If I could focus with the same intensity as my ADHD, I’d be king.

I had every intention to provide closure to my dichotomous dilemma story, but I let my randy grandmother’s sex needs get in the way. Hell, if I could focus with the same intensity as Gram gives sex, I’d at least be the Prince. Or Baron or maybe Viceroy.

Speaking of the Prince, can you believe that Princess Diana’s little boy is getting married? When I look at his father, I am truly surprised that either of those boys could learn to tie their own shoes. Must be they got their mother’s brains and her good looks too. Imagine if they had both looks and the brain of their dad. Oooo-gaa!

Anyway, my point yesterday about the postings here to the bloggie having multiple typographical mistakes and just plain sloppy prose was to be this– I am incapable of posting my best work topically and voluminously, simultaneously.

Add to that my need to write down as many thoughts as I can, and you can see the compounding effects I suffer. I receive benefit from spilling my thoughts from my brain into the computer. Ridding my mind of this trash takes the pressure off my frontal lobe, allowing me better reasoned thoughts and decisions. But I simply can’t sacrifice quality for quantity and get rid of enough from my scrambled brain.

I’m not that good. I admit it. I am not a highly-skilled, trained writer. What I am is a crazy, opinionated, left-leaning sufferer of the ADHD, who has enough thoughts in his head at any given time to plot a dozen novels.

That said, I understand that some are turned off by my errors and won’t follow me. If I could fix it, I would. But, to perspecterate this dealie and give you a differing view to study, think about this. On the tenth rewrite of my book, I found a mistake on the first line of the first page of text. The error was that the word “I” should have been “I’m”.

And understand that I proofread each sitting’s writings maybe a dozen times before hitting the “SAVE” button. That means that I missed that mistake at least twenty-five times.

That’s how bad I am at details and focusing. In order to shear most of the mistakes from my postings, I’d be printing today’s written words in maybe July 2012. When it would finally be best-done, or wellest done, it would still likely have a boo-boo, or two. Maybe that should be most weller-done.

But, before I brain fritz and forget the punchline again, here’s the deal. I will reward your grammar-fication of my postings by giving a free book to the person who first calls attention to my mistakes. I’m not talking about any words that you might think I made up, I mean grammatical errors, bad punctuating or sentences not making sense because I left a word out. Silly shit like that.

When you catch me, be the first to post a comment to the bloggie, and email me so I’ll have your contact info. Soon as the book is out, I’ll get one to you.

I told Dr. Sam I. Am about my plan in this morning’s psycho therapy session. She said to me, she says, “Mooner, you dumbass. You’ll spend all of your book’s profits on free books and shipping charges.”

She thought that would discourage me, but that was the first time she had admitted that I might make any profits from my book, so I see that as progress. “Fuck you, Sammie,”I told her. “You’re just jealous that my book will be in print before yours.”

“Did I tell you that I’m raising your session rates to $200.00 per hour?” she asked with a little heat and ire-rosed cheeks.

“Oh, who gives a shit, Sammy?” I responded. “My book’s gonna make me rich.”

Squirt was waiting for me in the reception room, and we’re going out to El Azeteca, there to East 7th Street. We’re meeting Streaker Jones and Dixie are meeting us for some cabrito, menudo and cold Carta Blanca beers.

Manana, y’all.

ADHd & Typographicle Errs; Writer’s Dichotomous Dilemma Creates Conundrum

Tuesday, November 16th, 2010

 

So. As a now lightly-seasoned writer, I have gained an understanding of the importance in good editing. Having worked with one good editor and one not so, I have experienced the value of quality editing.

I say that I am lightly-seasoned rather than seasoned because I have never thought that simple experience or repetition provide insight. My having written more than 650,000 words in the last twelve months does not season me any more as a writer than spending eight years in the White House made George W. Bush a seasoned diplomat.

My mild seasoning has come from my use of said editors, having been printed in several news and trade publications, and my research and observation of writer’s things. In my experience, I have learned one important edict: don’t publish an unedited work.

Don’t print anything not proofed by another’s eyes, don’t trust the translation from one computer operating system to another. Don’t publish an article with typographical errors.

I know how important it is to obey this edict and I understand why. Readers want your best, finished work. Sloppy proofing turns people off. In fact, typos can cause some anal-retentive grammar snobs to stop reading, regardless of content. Poor editing can ruin a good writer.

Knowing this creates a dilemma for me here to my bloggie. Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, the evil ADHD, provides the devil’s own dichotomous influence on good proof reading. More influential than the moon on Mother Earth’s tides, ADHD can flood the writings of its sufferer with devastating typographical errors.

My dilemma is that my goal is to make meaningful postings to my bloggie six days each week. In order to do so, I don’t have time to get each posting reviewed by an editor, and that leaves the proof reading up to me. A person with significant ADHD.

I can read a one sentence paragraph a dozen times and nto catch the misspelling of the word “not”. Then, after the sentence is published, I can catch the error without reading the sentence. I’ll look at the page and spot the mistake like it was a giant nose pimple.

“Where is the dichotomy, Mooner, I see the dilemma but where is the dichotomy?” you might be asking.

OK, here it is. It is my ADHD that makes my writing both prolific, and interesting. As my Gram puts it, “Mooner honey, iffn you weren’t so fucking crazy you wouldn’t have no friends.”

I get that. My ADHD-addled brain spews content at amazing rates while simultaneously getting me into interesting predicaments. The mess that I am is the only reason people even talk to me. I get that too.

But this dichotomous dilemma has put me smack dab in the middle of a conundrum. If my bloggie exists for the main purpose of gathering market for the purchase of my upcoming book, and I must have voluminous content to get any attention from readers and the publishing industry alike, but the only way for me to have voluminous bloggie content published is to do so with a few typographical errors, and the ADHD controls both the value of the content and the content’s typos- then…..”

Fuckballs.

I tried to discuss this important issue with my circle of friends and family. When I asked my dog her thoughts, Dixie said, “Couldn’t care less, Mooner. Until you let me out of my ridiculous personal services contract- I’m not giving you any help.”

Streaker Jones told me, he says, “You’ll figger it, Mooner.” Brilliant answer as always, but way beyond my distracted abilities comprehend.

As a last resort, I tried to talk to Gram. “Oh who gives a shit, Mooner,” my grandmother scolded. “Quit yer crybaby act an cook dinner. P-Cubed an me is takin tha Ferrarie down to tha Drag an we need ta git there afore dark.”

Fine. My writing career is in shambles and all she can think about is trolling for college boys in her Italian hot rod.

I need a Carta Blanca beer. Manana, y’all.

James Frey Uses Hitler Logic?

Monday, November 15th, 2010

 

So. It appears that this James Frey is a total fuckwad for the methods he uses to gain personal advancement, taking advantage of the creative efforts of others. I have been wanting to discuss my thoughts on Frey but didn’t have the chance until yesterday. SAC Ellen and I went to a party last night, and I finally brought the situation to the attention of a cliquish group of strangers.

This bunch, three women and two men, were sitting on the large entertainment grouping of sofa, love seat and side chairs. They had spaced themselves to where the five of them were dominating seating arrangements for nine people. Thirteen if everyone likes each other, and nobody plays down lineman for UT football.

I had been watching as others, in ones and twos, attempted to sit and join. Each had been ignored, or received chastened responses with that “eat shit and die, lowlife” look that cliquish people cast at outsiders. The five seating obfuscaters had grown bolder with each outsider’s attempt at sitting, and they had degenerated to stretching arms and legs and sitting sideways to hide areas not covered by an ass.

I watched this for maybe thirty minutes while listening to SAC Ellen talk to her Federal Agent cronies as they discussed the things Federal Agents discuss when off duty. Since many Federal Agents are consumed with Federal Agent’ing, much of the conversation was job specific. I won’t say the discussion was boring, but I was getting pissed at the action over to the seating area.

When the clique refused seating to a man with his pregnant wife, I’d had enough. I grabbed a hand-full of Carta Blanca beers, which is four, picked up a big bowl of chips and cradled it between by arm and my chest, and walked over.

I stood and looked at each clique member to await any form of acknowledgment. Receiving none, I pushed between a man lounging on a love seat and the woman to his left who was taking up three seats on the sofa.

“Oops,” I apologized as I stepped on the man’s foot as it lay positioned to block entry to the seating area.

“Oh, shit,” to the woman, as I dumped some BBQ potato chips in her lap.

I barged through like an asshole at a movie theater with my two arms full of refreshments. “Sorry about that, Darlin’. Can I sit here?” And with that I sat on her hand. She didn’t move the hand- she left it so I would get up.

“Oops, again. Are you hurt or are you just glad to see me?” That got the hand moved with great alacrity.

“Hi, everyone, I’m Mooner Johnson.” I placed my beers on the table and grabbed the previously sat upon hand with my drippy wet one for a shake. Her hand was soft and gave mine that “ooo, you are so icky!” part shake, part brush-off act.

I released her hand and half stood to shake the man’s hand, dumped more chips on the woman in process, and pushed the woman’s legs from the side, pinning them against the end of the sofa.

“Sweet Jesus am I a klutz,” I said as I air shook the man’s hand. “What are y’all discussing?”

When nobody responded I said, “Oh, this is one of those groups where the new guy gets to change the topic.”

I scratched my head like I was thinking of what was important enough to not waste their time. This was an act because I had been wanting to discuss this Jimmy Frey bullshit ever since Colleen Lindsey brought it to my attention last week.

“So. What do you guys think about this whole James Frey business?” When I got blank looks and sour faces in response, I told them what I know. Admittedly, what I know is little, but that never stops me from expounding on any topic.

When I finally stopped talking, this one guy, the one I had pegged as the clique’s leader, says to me, he said, “From what you say, my impression is that Mr. Frey has a sound business plan,” and then they all chuckled.

I asked him to expand and he did. The basics were that, in a free capitalistic economy experiencing tough economic times, new markets filled with desperate consumers pop up to be abused by forward-thinking businessmen.

“We have a responsibility to fill a market void,” he told the group, almost as an aside.

When he reached for a chip from my bowl, I slapped his hand away. “So, let me get this straight. You are telling us that it doesn’t make any difference that you are taking advantage of the consumer, or that you are providing shabby products, as long as the consumer buys what you are selling and you profit from it?”

“That’s right,” he says, and he reaches for my chip bowl again.

This time I pinched the skin on the back of his hand. “OK, this is sinking in.”

I ate a double fist-full of chips, chewed and swallowed, slugged some beer and said, “Then you think Hitler was a smart businessman and approve his tactics.”

Now see, this is another of those times when I get into trouble without justification. The man grabs angrily at my chip bowl, and I flick the end of his nose with my middle finger. Hard. I can bloody your nose when I place my middle finger under my thumb and flick. Streaker Jones taught it to me as a non-lethal defense technique back to grade school, and I have practiced ever since.

The man stands straight up in obvious shock, and big tears well in his eyes. Those big tears drain from the inside corners of his eyes, and race down his cheeks to join the little dribble of blood at his upper lip.

“He hit me!” He swiped his sleeve at his face and looked at the tear-diluted bloodstain on his shirt. “He drew blood. You all saw him hit me!”

Me, I’m starting to enjoy myself as this silly fucker has finally made an intelligent statement. But that’s when, from behind me, I heard the quiet electronic sound a Tazer gun makes when it’s handler primes it for use. It’s similar to the sound a camera makes when it primes the flash.

It’s also the sound that stimulates a primal voice in my psyche that screams, “Duck Mooner!!!!”

I ducked, spilling beer and the remains from my chip bowl. The free market businessman, who obviously lacked the psychic history required to get my advance notice, took a pleasant little charge of Direct Current. One cute metal-spiked wire stuck in his neck, the second in his chin, where tears and nose blood had started to drain.

Since, when standing upright this guy was maybe seven inches shorter than me, I surmised that the Tazer shooter was the SACster, and that she was aiming at my lower-left shoulder. She hits me at heart level whenever she’s desirous of the serious sex we enjoy after I’ve been mildly electrocuted.

I didn’t get arrested because the guy didn’t want to press charges, and I gave a short class on nose thumping to some of the women before we left.

On the way home, SAC Ellen quizzed me on the origins of the fight as she drove us in her Special Agent car. I told her it wasn’t really a fight and how I had compared the actions of James Frey to Adolf Hitler. “You know that ‘the ends justify the means’ dealie.”

She thought about it for a second and then went all misty eyed. “Do we need any beer?” I shook my head, then she asked, “Can you stay the night?”

I said, “Yes,” and tilted my seat back.

When I heard the little electronic charging sound, I shut my eyes, adjusted my undies to accommodate the redirected blood flow, and smiled.

Manana, y’all.

@ColleenLindsey Alerts; James Frey Is Major Shitball? A Dinner Story

Saturday, November 13th, 2010

 

So. The Squirt and I, SAC Ellen, Gram, Sister and Anna the Amazon, Mother and Aunt Hilda, and Squirt’s mom- Doctor Sam I. Am-Johnson, had dinner last night out to the ranch. Everyone was responsible for one dish except for me. I was responsible for my own dish plus one for Squirt. Even though Sam was there, I’m a better cook so I always prepare her, and my, dog’s dishes.

I’m usually OK with cooking for the dogs because they typically have less refined and simpler tastes. But the Squirt and I have been spending considerable time together, and it seems that her palate has moved from grade school to entering college freshman rapidly.

We always draw cards to see who prepares what, so when I drew a “Starch” card for myself and Squirt plucked one titled, “Main Course”, I was unconcerned. “Alrighty now, Miss Squirt. Tell me what we’re gonna make for the main dish and I’ll make a complimentary starch side.”

She cocked her head sideways, which makes her one renegade ear flap out like a bird’s broken wing, and looked me square in the eye. “Mi gusta osso bucco con barany, Monsieur Mooner.”

“Huh,” my best response. “Osso bucco with brains?”

“No, no, no,” she laughed. “Kein dummer mann, mitt lammen. You know borrego, kondo,” and then she laughed some more.

“Oooh, with lamb. Barany must be a Slavic language, right? Hungarian?”

“Si, Bwana Mooner.” Now she’s looking at me with a face showing something like pride.

“Yea, I’m starting to understand you better. I think that might mean my sanity is slipping.”

This comment by me brought a hush to the kitchen, and got six women’s heads bobbing “Yes”.

This also gets me more puppy guffaws, and then Squirt gets into her “sit pretty” pose. “Cerveza Carta Blanca, por favor.”

My god but she’s a cute little shit. I popped a cap and served her a thimble-full of amber gold from my palm. She stuck her tongue into the little pool of beer and just let it sit. The beer fused most of its carbonation into orbs that latched to her taste buds like soap bubbles on a plastic blow ring.

She shut her eyes and made a noise that sounded like, “Mmmmm,” and slurped the beer in the single lap, then giggled. “Mas cerveza, Senor.” More a demand than request.

“Unh uh, little lady. Just because you have slowed down to savor the master brewer’s efforts does not mean you get to over-drink. But I’m proud of you for listening.” I’ve been teaching Squirt how to better enjoy life as we spend time together. I feel like the father of a young daughter- steering her towards life’s pleasures. Teaching her to live with gusto and to not compromise her beliefs.

I gulped a big slug of our beer and asked, “Since you used Hungarian on me, I guess you want me to use that smoky paprika we got from Whole Foods the other day.” Getting excited tail wagging and dancing, I knew I was on target.

“And los tartufi, OK?”

When I didn’t answer her immediately she said, “Please, please please. I adore truffes.”

“Alright, for shitsakes, but you owe me one for this. How about I grade some truffle onto the platter before service. Will that do it?”

It did, and that made me think that maybe Squirt was already a culinary upperclassman. But if she starts asking for French pressed duck- then I carve a line on the cutting board. I’m not very squeamish about stuff, but the sound of those baby duck bones crushing in a sterling silver press is unsettling.

Anyway, I made a risotto with eggplant and sage from the garden, and Parmi-Reg and some heavy cream to match the richness of Squirt’s lamb dish. Everyone else fixed simple veggie dishes that lightened and balanced the meal.

I talked Sam into leaving Squirt with SAC Ellen and me so she can go fishing with us this morning. Squirt loves to go fishing.

Anyway, I need to ice the Carta Blanca and dig some worms from the garden.

Manana, y’all.

Oh, and Ps. @ColleenLindsey has alerted me to this James Frey asshole. Is all of this for real?

Rick Perry and Sarah Palin Combine Intellect; Failed Effort To Make Half A Brain.

Thursday, November 11th, 2010

 

So. I thought I was done with abortion-influenced bloggie postings for awhile, but once again my thoughts aren’t worth a shit. Actually, had I known that Heroic Media was having another confab, this one up to Dallas, I might have avoided my latest ant-anti-abortion arrest here in town.

The asshole known as Texas Governor Rick Perry and his main string puller, Sarah “Just Call Me Lobotomized” Palin, were again speakers at a Heroic Media rally. Before I go any further, or farther either one, let me say this”

“Fuck Rick Perry and Sarah Palin too!”

Heroic Media are the fine Christian right-wing religious Republican fuckballs who bring us those sweet commercials about how all pregnant girls/women are better off with adoption than abortion. Sweet sentiments and OK with me if they would simply stop when they plaster their message in the media.

However, since they are fuckballs, they have determined that womens’ abortion rights are Heroic Media’s to take away. These gatherings are one of their methods to contribute to the politicians evil enough to support them. Like little Ricky and Sarah Poo. Pay big speaker fees and avoid all of that Tom Delay aggravation.

I’m warning you guys again. Rick and Sarah are running for the oval office and I’m sick about it. Together, these two have a combined IQ of maybe fifty, so together they are almost as smart as GW Bush.

Which reminds me. Colleen Lindsey Tweeted that Bushie needs to do something for our returning Vets. My suggestion, OK my latest suggestion, is for GW to donate all of the proceeds from his book sales to our proud Veterans.

Anyway, my ADHD is on the fritz and I can’t stay focused on anything. I forgot that Squirt was grounded until Friday at midnight, so I stopped by and picked her up for lunch. We were sitting outside Guerros Taco Bar down on South Congress having some queso and chips and salsa, and secretly sharing a Carta Blanca beer.

And don’t go getting pissy on me about feeding beer to the ten-pound language trainee. She gets maybe a half-thimble full from each bottle and I swill the rest. She simply refuses to eat Mexican food without Carta Blanca, and I’m with her on that. “Me gusta cerveza Carta Blanca con mi comida especiale de Mexicana, Senor Mooner.”

I was wondering why she didn’t tell me that in half a dozen languages, when these two nice ladies approached our outside table and remarked about my cute little poochie, and asked to take a picture of us together. In spite of the fact that I hate the word “poochie”, Squirt and I struck a pose with our fresh beer.

The ladies took a couple cell phone photos, and started laughing as they walked away. Five minutes later I’m still wondering what was so funny when my cell starts ringing. “Hello.” I answered.

“You sonofabitch. Do you even know what day it is?”

“Oh, Hi Sammie,” I answered. “It’s a beautiful Thursday afternoon, and the Squirt and I are having a blast.”

“Jesus, Mooner, but you are hopeless. Did you forget that she’s grounded?”

Oopsie.

“One of my patients sent me a photo of the two of you drinking beer together in the middle of the day. For shit sakes, Mooner, do you ever think before you fuck up?”

I could tell my ex-wife and psycho therapist was pretty pissed that I took her dog on this outing, so I was careful with my answer. “I think I do.”

This gets me the sound of deep breathing and deeper sighs. “Oh fuck it. Have her home before ten tonight,” and she slammed the phone in my ear.

“Good news, Squirt, we’re free for the day. How about we go by and try to apologize to the Catholic Abortion Protest Lady. I’ve got my bull horn in the car, so we can talk to her from down the block.”

Restraining Order says we have to keep 250 feet away from her person, but we can make this work. Manana, y’all.

@KOrtizzle Straws Mooner’s Camel

Wednesday, November 10th, 2010

 

So. I want to thank Kathleen Ortiz for providing the straw, that last straw of my straw-filled day. I spent the entire morning playing referee and marriage counselor to Rick Perry and Rush Limbaugh, and all I got from my efforts was frustration and a thick coating of pig snot and ostrich tears.

My pet pig blubbers like a two year old and blows these big snot bubbles from his snout. Whenever they pop, it’s like this explosion of yesterday’s tapioca pudding. Any of you guys who have lived with a pig know what I’m talking about.

The worse, however, are Rick Perry’s tears. With eyes the size of billiard balls, and a cavernous empty skull to manufacture tears, my ostrich can soak a Willie Nelson tee shirt and a pair of cargo shorts with just a half-dozen weepy blinks.

I captured a tear last time he went on a crying jag and I collected a quarter-cup of yellowish and stinky liquid. Ostrich tears are oily, leave a brown stain like gourd juice, and smell like dogs’ feet.

Anyway, so my morning was taken with me trying to broker a modicum of happiness between the two alleged gay lovers. Of course the entire morning was spent in the closet where my two favorite barnyard pets reside.

Then I had my Hearing to plead-out on my recent arrest charges, from the Catholic Abortion Protest Lady incident, and that was a total cluster fuck. My scheduled judge got food poisoning at lunch and Hangman Hooper was his replacement. Judge Hooper is the guy Streaker Jones blackmailed to get me out of jail awhile back. Caught him eating Jello shots out of Agnes Caterwaul’s bellybutton.

Agnes is secretary, not wife, and that entire story lies hidden in my soon-to-be-published book. A copy of the CreateSpace writer’s info package was with me, and I worked on it while I was waiting for the Judge to arrive. He kept me waiting for two hours, stepped to his bench, called my case to order, said, “Thirty years in Huntsville, you inappropriate asshole,” pounded his gavel, grinned down at me and left.

Jeff, he’s my lawyer, started laughing and when I asked at what, he says to me, he said, “I’m gonna have a great Christmas bonus this year.”

Then I got home and opened Twitter to read some tweets. I follow @KOrtizzle because I think Kathleen Ortiz might be smart. She says smart things, interesting things. But her post yesterday informed me that Tim Tebow just signed a big book deal. Reading that post was the capper to my crappy day.

If I had to guess, there would be maybe a thousand well-written books, books deserving publication because of content and style, which will go unpublished. Each book authored by a new and struggling writer who will be ignored by the industry because he lacks celebrity or contacts.

But Tim Tebow, because he is a fine Christian boy and a star athlete, signs a publishing deal to write an “inspirational” book.

Fuck me running.

OK, I admit that I hate Florida and most of the rest of the Southeastern Conference sports teams. I admit that Timmy is a fine young man who has done well for himself. But examine the underlying facts first.

If I was 6’3” and 245 pounds of pure muscle, could run like a fullback and pass a football with reasonable accuracy, then I could be inspired by any number of things to be a successful player. So could you. Come to think of it, I almost fit that mold as a kid, but my motivations were money and getting laid.

In the last few years, I’ll bet there have been maybe fifty college-aged athletes with similar athletic characteristics who have been inspired to succeed like Tim Tebow. And done so with the same level of success and human grace.

What pisses me off about this dealie is the why of choosing Tim from among the others to write a book. Quite simply, the why is his Christianity.

Publishers know that every charismatic Christian, each right-wing Christian religious fuckwad, and even some nice Christians will buy the book. And brag on it no matter how well written it may be. It’s all about having a market, which the book will have in spades, and I’m unhappy about it.

He’ll be on Oprah, and Today and GMA and Fox and even make a visit to that fuckball Jay Leno’s show. He’ll be billed as , “And now bestselling author,” Tim Tebow, causing me to mute the fucking TV whenever I catch the slightest glimpse of his All-American boy-face.

Thanks Kathleen Ortiz. You owe me a Carta Blanca beer. Or six.

Manana, y’all.

Rick Perry and Rush Limbaugh in Lover’s Spat; Mooner’s Pig and Ostrich Stay in Closet

Tuesday, November 9th, 2010

 

So. It’s Tuesday,  I can’t see Squirt in person until Saturday, and I’ve got a problem. Squirt is grounded through Friday night for her part in getting us arrested over to the anti-anti-abortion protest. I had the cashier’s check delivered to Catholic Abortion Protest Lady’s lawyer earlier this morning, and I’ve got a hearing this afternoon to get my name cleared on this round of charges.

My problem is this. Since Squirt is grounded, she can’t come out to the ranch to translate for me, and Dixie isn’t talking to me. Well, she isn’t talking except to chew my ass out.

“Oh for shit sakes, Mooner,” she started the phone conversation last night. “I can’t leave you alone with that poor little puppy for one minute without you getting her in trouble.”

I was trying to think of something witty to say to the verbal assault I knew was coming, when Dixie added, “I don’t want to hear a single smart-ass comment from you, buster, so listen up. First, I trusted you to watch out for Squirt. She’s young and impressionable and for some insane reason she looks up to you.”

Deep dog sigh, then, “Second, I can’t keep taking care of your messes and do anything for myself. In my therapy, Dr. Sam I. Am is attempting to show me how to enjoy my senior years without the stress of being your dog. I can’t relax if I worry about Squirt.”

Deep sigh from me before I say, “It wasn’t my fault, Dixie. The Squirt thought I meant, ‘Kill the Catholic Abortion Protest Lady,’ when what I meant was, “Give the nice lady a little nip.’”

Now I get the deep rumble of a growl from my matronly Golden Retriever. “Mooner, you crazy, inappropriate asshole. Do you ever think before opening your mouth?”

Me, I’m thinking this question is rhetorical in nature, so I’m waiting for the punchline.

“Answer me. Do you?”

OK, not rhetorical. “Well, let me think for a minute.”

“Damn you, Mooner.” Then all I had was dead phone air.

Anyway, here’s my problem. I understand just enough of the domesticated American porcine language to order ribs and a BLT sandwich, and I comprehend even less of the ostrich. Why this is a problem is because I’m having problems with Rush Limbaugh the pig, and the ostrich Rick Perry.

For months on end now, the two of them have been hiding from Gram in the closet in my master bedroom. Gram has promised to make dinner, fine leather accessories and an assortment of luggage from their mangy carcasses if she can catch them.

I agreed to let them stay in my closet as long as it takes for Gram to simmer down. And for as long as they behave themselves.

They aren’t behaving. They keep denying it, but I think they are homosexual and in love with each other. While I’ve never caught them having actual sex, they snuggle like lovers when they sleep and the noises coming from behind the closet door can be quite disturbing.

I’ve been OK with all of this, but now they are fighting like a pair of grumpy old queens. Rush, the apparent “bear” of the pair, and Ricky, a very feminine bird, have turned my closet into the set of The Birdcage. Rush’s Robin Williams is mostly sensitive to Rick’s Nathan Lane, but I haven’t seen so many tears, or so much disgusted pig grunting in my life.

I’ve tried several times to get the boys on the Skype machine for a conference with Squirt. But the two of them are just too unhappy to discuss their problems on camera.

My attempts at helping them get through this lover’s spat are worthless. After ten failed marriages, I still can’t mitigate the disputes that occur between a man and a woman. I can’t even understand the differences between my closeted, apparently gay pets.

“Your sister is gay,” Rush Limbaugh oinked at me when he sought my help over the weekend. “Haven’t you learned anything?”

“But you say you aren’t gay, Rushie. What difference does Sister’s lesbianism have to do with your spat with Rick Perry?” All I got in return was a disgruntled grunt from his wrinkled snout.

Life would so much simpler if Rick Perry and Rush Limbaugh would just come out of the closet. I need a Carta Blanca beer.

Manana, y’all.

Anti-Anti-Abortion Dibacle; Punishment Fits Crime?

Monday, November 8th, 2010

 

So. I just finished my first psycho therapy session of the week and I’m feeling pretty good about myself. I convinced Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson to let me attend therapy sessions twice daily rather than have her commit me to the Shoal Creek Loonie Bin for a month’s stay.

Why I feel good about myself I don’t know. I just do. I want to say my good feelings stem from my psycho therapist’s understanding of my recent actions, but that’s not it. Sam said the only reason I escaped commitment and confinement was because she feels that Squirt is just as guilty as me, and they didn’t have room for both me and the dog at the mental hospital.

Maybe I’m just feeling good about being free.

I’m required to do some homework for therapy that includes restarting a journal. This I am unhappy about. A journal is like a diary except more manly. I’m required to write down each time I sense that I’m getting ready to do something stupid.

“Define ‘stupid’ if you can,” I asked my ex-wife and therapist.

After giving me another strong exposure to the angry psycho therapist glare, she says to me, she said, “Stupid, Mooner Johnson, is what you are when you think you’re being smart.”

“Oh for shit sakes, Sammy. I always try to think smart.”

“Sounds like you’ll be making a lot of journal entries.”

It took me a moment to grasp her meaning. “Bitch.” I really need to come up with a better response for moments like this.

“Ooooo, listen to Mooner’s intelligent repartee.” Then she added, “Suck it up big boy. I’m keeping a room reserved over at Shoal Creek Mental. You screw up one more time before Squirt is off her grounding….”

“Why’d you have to punish the Squirt, Sammy? She was just doing what she misunderstood me to tell her.”

“Don’t you question my parenting skills, Mooner. And don’t you dare go near her for the rest of the week.” Then she added, “That nice Catholic woman let you guys off the hook pretty easily. You’re lucky her church needs a new roof.”

“I think she’s planning to use the hundred grand to buy bingo cards. She plays with Gram and Mother at that bingo place down on Research near North Lamar.”

“Don’t you worry about any of that, buster. You just keep your distance from my dog.”

I got to thinking that maybe my ADHD was interfering with my life and decided that the actual blame for the abortion debacle was an ADHD dealie. I know Squirt takes things in their most literal sense, so I bet my ADHD distracted me and interrupted clear thoughts.

“Mooner, dammit!” Sam yelled at me. “You pay attention to me! I said to stay away from Squirt until Saturday.”

“Fine. But she’s doing some interpolating for me that needs to be done this week.”

Sam gives me the evil eye. “Alright, Mooner, but you do it on Skype. Do not go to my house.”

“I said fine.” Bitch, I thought to myself.

“And you have got to learn to do better than ‘Bitch’.”

Maybe I’m saying things out loud when I think I’m saying the to myself. [Journal entry: Am I saying things to myself out loud? Is that why I keep getting into trouble? Is it the ADHD?]

But I’m in too good a mood to be bothered. I’m ready for a Carta Blanca beer and some Skype time with the Squirt.

Manana, y’all.

Pretty Weather; Petty Problems. Jailed Again, Grumble, Grumble.

Saturday, November 6th, 2010

 

So. I’m trying to get my mind off of the election results and start thinking about everything I love about the fall months in Austin, Texas. These months are the best- warm days and cool nights, UT football, and fewer hours needed in the garden.

But this year, UT football is in shambles. I’m OK with that, because we are always so good that we need a year like this to help keep us centered. Having an off year gives perspective and makes you willing to work harder to get better. Life just works that way- some good, some bad.

Knowing that doesn’t brighten my mood any more than admitting that I put myself in dubious situations makes me feel better as I sit in jail. As I sit in jail, waiting for somebody to bail me out after another unjust arrest. Like last night, as a perfect example.

See, there is a clinic where abortions are performed near Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson’s house, and there are always protesters standing in the drainage ditch in front of the building. Among the usual protesters is this one particular Catholic lady, and this lady and I have a history. The two of us have tangled swords with cross words many times.

Maybe we crossed swords in a tangle of words, but I think you catch my drift.

Her Catholic brainwashing is so complete, and her anger at anything contrary so vehement, that she lacks any ability to engage in polite discourse with a naysayer. The attitudes and platitudes emit from this woman in waves.

Attracting me like a bee to a lavender field.

I was on my way to Sammy’s to collect the Squirt, and the two of us had plans to go fishing before going to dinner with SAC Ellen. As I passed, I saw Catholic Abortion Protest Lady standing with her anti-abortion sign in front of the clinic. I slowed my car to a crawl, honked and waved.

Since honking usually demonstrates support for the protest, she waved enthusiastically and with a huge grin on her face.

Then it registered that she had just been nice to me, and she shook her fist, angrily, and then did the unthinkable. She flipped me the bird.

“Hoo-ya!” I said out loud to myself. “Somebody’s having a very bad day.”

When I got to the house, Sam and Squirt met me at door. “Come in for a minute, Mooner,” my ex-wife/psycho therapist/fun killer said. “The weather has gotten nice, and you need to be reminded that this great weather brings out the worst in you.”

Huh?

“Don’t look at me with that childish bewilderment on your face, Mooner Johnson. I showed you the historical arrest statistics last October.”

“Oh, for shitsakes, Sammy,” I responded. “I’m having a great day and I don’t need you to ruin it for me.”

She gives me the psycho therapist evil eye and looks down at Squirt. “And you, young lady, you listen up as well. I let you go with Mooner because I expect you to help keep him out of trouble, not to spur him on.”

Now, she gives us each the psycho therapist evil eye- looking from Squirt to me with this reptilian glare. It reminded me of this one time I was in the swamp over to Louisiana.

“You look like a crocodile staring down his lunch, Sammy. Verrrry sexy.”

“Get out of here you two. And remember what I said.”

“Vas es los?” Squirt asked me as we walked to the car.

“I think she means stay out of trouble.”

Anyway, I just happened to have my anti-anti-abortion posters in my trunk, and the Squirt does love to anti-anti protest. So when I asked if she wanted to stop by to visit Catholic Abortion Protest Lady for a few minutes, she wagged and wriggled almost out of her seatbelt.

“Si, Monsieur Mooner. Mi would like that muy mucho.”

I had these sandwich board signs made for Squirt and myself for when we anti-anti protest together. For yesterday’s festivities, I chose for myself the one that says, “The Catholic Church is an abortion,” on the one side, and “Fuck the Pope,” on the other. Both sides of this sign accurate expressions of my thoughts.

Squirt’s sign says the same thing on both sides, “Bet you wish he was aborted!”, and then there’s a caricature drawing of my face.

Clever, no?

Squirt looks totally fucking adorable in her sandwich sign, running to keep up with my steady pace as we walk the protest grounds.

As usual, Catholic Abortion Protest Lady kept bumping into me with purpose, an act of petty violence that makes my efforts worthwhile. But then she starts crowding Squirt, bumping and knocking her over.

“Bite the bitch if she does that again,” I instructed Squirt. “She has no right to pick on you.”

Have I ever told you about Squirt’s teeth- how sharp they are and how powerful her miniature jaws are?

They placed us in the same cell after our arrest, and we spent most of the time settling on our story for when Dr. Sam I. Am arrived to bail us out. But we also tried to decide precisely which of our actions actually led to the arrest.

Squirt thought it was because I didn’t distinguish between biting to scare the Catholic lady, and biting to kill the Catholic lady.

Me, I’m thinking if I took the signs out of my car trunk and store them in the barn, then I wouldn’t do any anti-anti protesting without aforethought.

But look. I was charged with, “Inciting a viscous dog attack.” There was blood and screaming and shredded clothing and shit, but nobody lost a leg, or anything. It wasn’t like Squirt killed anyone. I admit it appeared she tried, but her actions were not a direct reflection of my intent.

Anyway, we’re out. But Squirt is grounded for a week, and I am going to start the community service I just know is coming my way when Jeff pleads me out of this mess.

Drink Carta Blanca beer. Manana, y’all.

#NPRBOOKS On Pretty Boy Rick Perry: Freedom Takes A Hit

Friday, November 5th, 2010

 

So. I had been feeling better about the results of Tuesday’s elections. I was getting over the fact that in Texas, more voting adults think that religious dogma is a more important political policy factor than is freedom. Or common sense, or fairness, or even simple human kindness.

I was getting over the feeling that maybe I need to sell everything I own and move to Oregon, when I saw a Tweet by NPR that caught my eye. “Texas governor Rick Perry fed up!” it said. Since I have such a hard on for Pretty Boy Ricky, I couldn’t resist clicking to http://n.pr/cFkeJl -a huge mistake.

I made the mistake of reading the posted article about Perry’s new book and his feelings about freedom. Now me, the word freedom has but one true definition, and that definition is that an individual has the right to choose for himself. But Ricky has a different idea.

See, Texas Governor Rick Perry wants the freedom to choose for us Texans. He wants to choose to apply the religious dogma that he, and his his right wing Christian supporters, consider to be more important than actual freedom.

Rick Perry wants the freedom to deny homosexuals the same rights that good Christian folks get to enjoy. He wants to keep Texans from playing Texas Hold’Em poker. He wants to persecute the unwashed mass of immigrant workers that fuel the Texas job growth he so proudly advertises.

This braindead fuckball wants to provide our school children with an education taken straight from the Southern Baptist Convention’s Vacation Bible School Workbook. “Darwin?” they say. “Nope, it’s six days’ work and a day of rest!”

Rick Perry is more concerned about promoting the fantasy aspects of the Christian religion than he is about actual freedom.

Mark my words folks. Rick Perry will soon be standing side-by-side with that other mental giant of the Religious Right, Sarah Palin. They are clones of each other and sadly, hold a combined IQ that might break 100 quotient points.

But they are pretty, and they are willing to take any stand that moves them ahead. The one thing they are smart enough to do is memorize platitudes. Like idiot savants, these two pretty faces can spew that silly crap faster than a goose can shit bacon grease.

Ugh.

I’m sad for my state and I’m really sad for America. Texas just voted Rick Perry to another term, and America voted just enough support for Palin’s insanity to give it legs.

Ugh, again..

I say” “Fuck Rick Perry and Sarah Palin too!”

It’s 4 o’clock in the morning and already I need a cold Carta Blanca beer.

Manana, y’all.

Send Sandra A New Name; F*** Rick Perry!

Thursday, November 4th, 2010

 

So. Our Rename Sandra Contest is losing steam. Likely that means either one of two things- you are not a very creative bunch, or I haven’t given you a good enough reason to participate.

My initial instinct was to offer two of my books as the prize instead of just the one. That felt good for maybe a minute, when I realized that giving a second book might be like offering a second helping of turkey and Brussels sprout casserole.

One of my ex-wives was a terrible cook. I won’t name her here, but she cooks like I think. Everything she cooked was a casserole, and each casserole was prepared by: placing all of the raw ingredients in the baking dish; covering with cheese, or not; baking in a 350-degree oven covered for two hours; raising oven temp to 400 degrees and baking uncovered for ten minutes.

No spices, no sauces, no oil or butter, no cream of mushroom soup- nothing but the raw food. The results were exactly what you are thinking, except worse.

At first I figured this was her elaborate method to get me to cook or take her out to eat. But hers were honest efforts of creativity, and her feelings were always hurt when you didn’t eat seconds. The worst thing I have ever put in my mouth was her turkey and Brussels sprout casserole.

And trust me, I have had some nasty shit in my mouth. Hell, just from getting dosed by my Gram’s hallucinogenic potions, I’ve ingested by mouth: skunk venom, billy goat piss, opossum blood, bumpy toad sweat, a bat’s ear wax and more.

Then there would be all of the things I’ve eaten on a dare. I would do almost anything on a dare. There was this one time when little Suzy Ashburn, she’s Dr. Ashburn’s only daughter, dared me to eat a box of Crayolas. I shit rainbows for a week.

Anyway, please send more names for Sandra because I think her feelings are hurt.

I feel better today about the elections. I figure the bright side is that neither side controls both sides of Congress on the federal stage, so maybe they won’t screw things up too badly. And on the local scene, I still get to say, “Fuck Rick Perry,” and have anyone give a shit.

So:

FUCK RICK PERRY!!!!!

Now lets all drink a cold Carta Blanca beer and feel better. Manana, y’all.

A Sad Day For America; A Really Sad Day For Texas

Wednesday, November 3rd, 2010

 

So. This is a very sad day for our country. The Short-Attention-Span-Theater that is America’s voting registered voters has once again turned its brain-dead ears to the rhetoric of the religious right.

Biased, prejudiced and untruthful rhetoric is the cornerstone, and bedrock, of religious fanatics of any kind. Today’s political spin doctors from all parties twist and stretch information in clever ways to influence people. My opinion is that the reason spin doctors are so successful is because your basic American is too lazy to study issues for themselves.

It’s far easier to get the facts from Rush Limbaugh than it is to read the New York Times. It’s far easier to take the words of the talking head pundits at Fox News than it is to talk to people actually involved in an issue, and listen to their words.

My opinion is that the spin doctor’s fabrications are ripping the fabric of American freedom.

Freedom is a thought-based institution. Acquiring freedom requires reasoning, unselfish motivations and struggle. Keeping freedom requires factual knowledge, communication and limitations on self-serving interest groups.

Spin doctoring is not a new phenomenon. Most Americans were not alive when the first modern era, mass-media spin doctor grabbed control of an otherwise intelligent people. That man, Adolph Hitler, was a master manipulator using bias, prejudice and untruthful rhetoric to gain control of a free nation.

The Germany of the 1930’s was in a depression- many Germans were without jobs, business was stagnant and the economy was in a terrible state with Government debt and taxes at all-time highs. Racial tensions were high, Christian religious leaders castigated all non-Christians and called their beliefs evil. Homosexuality was outlawed and homosexuals were punished.

Adolf Hitler, spin doctor, shredded the rich fabric of German culture and rewove the tattered remains into his mighty Reich. Hitler turned German against German, and brother against brother, by twisting truth as justified through the filter of right wing Christian dogma.

Adolf Hitler stole freedom from the German people one speech, one election at a time. His inflammatory rhetoric pushed honest, kind people to do unspeakable things. Using fear tactics and twisted logic, Hitler stole the German peoples’ freedom in the name of Christianity.

Today’s America has many similarities to 1930’s Germany. Many Americans are out of work, business is stagnant and our economy is a mess with Government debt and taxes at an all-time high. Racial tensions persist in spite of the gains made, Christian leaders proclaim that American needs to be ruled by Christian belief systems and claim that Muslims are evil.

Homosexuals are denied the basic rights that every free American citizen should have, and punished for not being the expected norm.

And here we stand America, the day after. The day after Sarah Palin influenced the structure of our Congress. The day after the angry religious right pushed their candidates into office. The day after Texas Governor Rick Perry was reelected.

The day after my State School Board District elected a person who declared that her Christian dogma would rule her choices in the defeat of a woman who declared that her choices would be made to the educational benefits of our State’s children’s education.

It’s a sad, sad day for America. And a terribly sad day for Texas.

Fuck Rick Perry.