Archive for December, 2010

Wonderella Problem Continues; Mooner Still Clueless

Thursday, December 30th, 2010

 

So. This Wonderella business is getting out of hand. I just finished my sixth emergency Wonderella psycho therapy session with Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, and I fear I’m worse off than before my daily session frequency was augmented. I was already on a five-days-a-week schedule for my routine issues so this double-up dealie should be showing some progress by now.

It’s not. In fact I think I’m getting worse. I can’t even begin to discuss with you the results of today’s session because I’m still lost from Wednesday. Yesterday I posted about the problem here to the bloggie, and SAC Ellen read it from her I-phone as she was stuck in traffic. She called to apologize, and told me that she might have jumped the stun gun when she got so pissed about the Wonderella Christmas gift.

“Come over to my place after you guys finish fishing. But drop Squirt off at her mom’s house first,” SAC Ellen told me. “I wouldn’t want her to be traumatized at the sight of what I have planned for you.”

I started to tell her that after spending a few nights listening to Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry oinking and snuffling in my closet, Squirt won’t be effected in the least with our stun gun sex-capades. My pig and ostrich are noisy lovers.

What I said instead was, “Oh boy, sex!”

We discussed what I should grab from the store for dinner– it was decided that a bison ribeye, baked potato and grilled asparagus would do the trick. Then she phone sexed me for a few minutes. That meant that she was still tied up in traffic.

As we were signing off the phone, I told her, “Don’t shave your legs.”

“Huh,” she said. “Why not?”

“Well,” I started, “if you’ve got a couple days of leg and crotchie beard, your whiskers will tug and pull at the stretchy material on the Wonderella suit. I love undressing you with all of that friction on imitation Lycra.”

Things got so quiet in my phone ear I thought she had hung up. I waited a minute, then said, “Are you rubbing one off? I know it’s been a few days.”

All I got in response for several minutes was dead air. “Hello– earth to SAC Ellen. Mooner to SAC Ellen, do you read me.”

“Read this!” she snapped at me. Then I heard the disconnect and got a dial tone.

I turned to Squirt, who was sitting beside me on the pier as we fished. We had three baited lines and the rods were in holders. I let Squirt watch the bobbers for bites, a task she performs with great relish.

“You going to call her back, Senor Mooner?” Squirt asked me.

“I’ll give her a minute to cool down and then I find out what I did this time. For the life of me I’ll never figure what goes on in a woman’s head.”

After waiting a few minutes, my cell phone rang. It was the witch music from the movie The Wizard of Oz. That’s my psycho therapist and ex-wife, Dr. Sam I. Am’s personal ring tone.

“What’s happening, Sammy babe?” I answered.

“What’s happening is that I’m completing a pre-admission form for Shoal Creek Mental Hospital in your name. SAC Ellen just called to tell me what you did.”

“Huh?” my best response.

“Mooner, you inappropriate asshole, have you not learned anything in your special sessions?”

Now me, I’ve many times gotten myself all tangled up by answering one of those kinds of questions without careful thought. Questions that start with, “Have you not,” or, “When you stopped,” are traps. The “have you not” dealie is the worst of all those trick question starters. It’s got the implied double negative and the tricky trap part all in one bundle. These kinds of questions require careful thinking.

I thought carefully.

“Well, I have learned something. Yes, is the answer to your question,” I told her.

More dead phone air.

“OK, smart ass, tell me what you have learned.”

See, I told you it was a trap.

“Weeeeellllllllll. I learned that a woman needs her man to be sensitive, he needs to listen and he needs to be patient.” As soon as the words were out of my mouth I realized that those were the concepts from my regular therapy session, not the special session.

“Asshole,” she called me. “You are a crazy redneck fuckball, Mooner. Now call Ellen and tell her you’re sorry?”

Have you ever noticed how easily some women are to anger?

“OK, but what am I sorry for?”

This time the silence in my phone ear was preceded by the sound of a phone receiver getting slammed into its cradle on the other end.

“Well Squirt, my fuzzy little buddy. Looks like it’s you and me for another night alone. Let’s have one more Carta Blanca and then head home.”

“Por favor, Bwana Mooner. Me gusta tacos con pesca por supper.”

She’s a seriously cute puppy and a good companion. Manana, y’all.

PS– the link to Wonderella is: http://nonadventures.com

#wonderella Makes Trouble For Mooner; Mooner Is Clueless

Wednesday, December 29th, 2010

 

So. I have a new problem. This one confuses the ever-loving shit right out of me. I can usually figure out why something is wrong if you give me enough time. But I’ve been working on this dealie for several days and I still can’t find a logical reason why I’m in trouble.

Heres the deal. Go to http://nonadventures.com and log-on to The Non-Adventures of Wonderella website. Go right now– I’ll wait for you. Spend an hour or so, and then come back here to see me.

Are you back yet? OK.

So. I started following on Twitter at #wonderella maybe a few months ago and logged-on myself. After I read everything published on the website, I started catching each new strip as it comes out. Then, one day I bought the book from the website.

I really like this comic and the tweets by #wonderella. I like them a lot. I converse about the entire Wonderella empire and tell most everyone I meet to tune in. I haven’t said anything here until now because I have been dealing with a Wonderella-related problem, and I’m quite honestly stumped by it.

To boil this problem down to its essence, about a month ago, I had a Wonderella costume made for SAC Ellen by the guys out to our hemp clothing factory. The boys at If You Can’t Smoke It, Wear It! did a great job. They used the new imitation Lycra fabric we just had patented, and it’s a near duplicate to the one Wonderella wears.

I gave it to SAC Ellen for Christmas. Wrapped in the same box was a bottle of her favorite body lotion, new batteries for her little non-lethal stun gun, and a brown tincture bottle of Gram’s newest potion she calls, Ya Won’t Wunder Where Yer Fella Is Iffn Ya Dose Him With This Right Here.

Squirt and I collaborated with Gram on this one. I wanted something special to give the SACster, and the Squirt wants to spend some extra time with my Gram to make an attempt to understand her.

When I told Gram of my plans and what Squirt desired, Gram said to me, she said, “Who gives a shit, Mooner. Squirt’s a cute little shit and I gotta make the P-cubed a potion fer her rumblanoid moritus anyway. Poor Penelope cain’t lift her arm over her head an it’s hurtin her sexin’.”

P-cubed is Gram’s lifelong best buddy, Penelope Paxton-Parades. My best guess is that the P-cubed is suffering a flare-up of her arthritis, and the lack of flexibility is limiting her conjugal gymnastics.

Anyway, when SAC Ellen opened her present, she asked me, “What the hell is this?”

I told her.

Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson was present at our Christmas this year and she scheduled me for an extra daily emergency psycho therapy session. We started Christmas day. Just so you know, an “emergency” session is where the good doctor charges me double my regular rate.

I’ve been incurring double-rate sessions often recently, but this one has causes that I’m not quite grasping. It’s not like the SACster and I haven’t role played in the bedroom before.

In today’s emergency therapy session I thought I had a breakthrough. “Oh, I get it,” I said. “SAC Ellen thought I wanted her to take Gram’s potion.”

Perfect logic in my mind. As a Special Agent in Charge for the US Department of Homeland Security, my lover can’t partake of my grandmother’s hallucinogenic concoctions. Makes perfect sense.

“Mooner,” Dr. Sam I. Am responded, “you are clueless. That will be $400.00, your time is up.”

That was an hour ago. Squirt was waiting for me in reception, so I grabbed her and we headed to the lake for a little fishing. Squirt loves to go fishing. She also loves Carta Blanca beer and almost as much as I do. I was just reading her one of the old Spenser novels by Robert Parker while we sat and waited for a bite. It was the book where Spenser meets Paul, the young man Spenser takes to train in how to be a man.

The two of them went to a Mexican place for dinner and Spenser drank a few cold Carta Blanca beers. Just like the Squirt and me.

I can’t get this problem off my mind. If any of you guys can figure it out, let me know. Manana, y’all.

Pope Delivers Stirring Speech; Old Queen Blesses Poor

Tuesday, December 28th, 2010

 

So. I hope everyone had a happy and a merry. We did and it was great. Too much food, too many gifts and too much Gram. Way much too much Gram. My entire weekend was, “Oh who gives a shit, Mooner…..,” and then you fill in the blanks.

“…Fix us another drink…; …you got any more a them snail biscuits…; …I’m gonna shoot yer fucking pig iffn he gits near me…” And my personal favorite,”…Tell yer Aunt Hilda ta go with us. Come on Hilda, whyn’t cha go with me an tha P-cubed to tha Spoke. We’ll git ya a cowboy an knock tha crust off.”

Of course, Gram yins all of the yangs when she tells SAC Ellen, “Come here SAC lady an lemme tell ya sumthin. You hang onta Mooner real tight, cause he’s wurth it.”

Naturally that heart-warming yin came with, “A course tha case a tha ADHD tha boy’s got is enuf ta chap tha Pope’s ass.”

Which reminds me of the fucking Pope. Here’s what happened in Popeville this holiday:

The scene takes place in the Pope’s quarters in the Vatican a few afternoons ago. It’s a bone-chilling day in Vatican City as an unusual cold front moves in to frost southern Italy. Italian Republicans go on local TV shows and declare that the freak weather bears no connection to global warming.

It’s Christmastime, right, Christdom’s holiest of all holy days– the celebration of the birthday of baby Jesus. Pope Benedict knocks back a couple of stiff martinis to steel himself against the cold as he rehearses the annual “Peace and Good Will” speech Popes are required to deliver each year at this time. Catholics worldwide await the old queen’s divinely-inspired speech as if God Himself had placed the words in the Popester’s mouth.

At the five minutes to go mark, one of his handlers helps Benedict to his feet, assists him to the royal Pope dressing area and props him up in front of the big mirrors. “It’s very cold outside, your Eminence. You’ll need a warm wrap– do you have a preference?”

The look on the Pope’s face would confuse most outsiders. Me, I think he looks like he’s ready to pinch off a yule log and he’s eaten too much holiday cheese and salami the last several days. Other outsiders might think he was sucking on a lemon, but the assistant knows the look well.

“I understand it’s a difficult choice, Sir, but we need to hurry,” the young man says.

The assistant walks to the closet and points to a long wall on the right. There, arranged on thickly-padded hangars, sit half-a-hundred elegant outer-garments. “These are the traditional robes for this speech, sir. Might I suggest this little number?”

The man smiles as he wraps his arm around the waist of a garment and pulls it out for the Pope to view. “This one will highlight the rosy blush on your cheeks and won’t clash with your choice of Christmas gown.”

The Pope nods his approval and offers his shoulders to accept the long-trained cape. “Stunning,” the assistant almost sings. “Absolutely stunning, sir. Would you like a last sip of tonic before you perform?”

He did, and the assistant walks him to the big patio doors and then hands him the fine crystal goblet only half-filled with dry martini. When the Pope cast a sideways glance at the assistant, the young man said, “I’ll make another batch when you finish. You don’t want to be chilled.”

There was a knock at the door and a half dozen or so Cardinals enter, each dressed in the red finery that marks their position. One of these men looks to be the obvious leader, as he heads the pack into the room and is the only one who speaks directly to the Pope. “What is the message tonight, Your Eminence?”

“Provide for the weak, hungry and homeless.” The Pope attempts to stand taller as if practicing the speech.

The Cardinal is impressed with the Pope’s special ability to boil things down to their essence. He is also envious of the Pope’s attire. “You look especially grand, sir.”

Now all the lesser Cardinals remark in animated fashion, each attempting to make a more flattering comment than the last. The Pope loves flattery, but his nerves overwhelm his ego. “Quiet so I can think.” He says this with a flip of his wrist.

The Pope shuts his eyes, murmers a prayer and then crosses himself. Suffering an old man’s clumsiness, he bangs his elbow on the golden staff at his side and punches his nose with a huge ruby ring as he does. His eyes water from the punch.

“It’s time.” And with that, the assistant opened the big double doors. Led by the Cardinals, the Pope follows to his perch.

It was a beautiful speech, full of compassionate pleas for the nations of the world to dig deep into their pockets and provide support for the poor and starving impoverished. Halfway through, the wind starts whipping– cold and harsh as it knifes its way over the collar of his tunic and across his shoulders beneath.

The Pope shrugs against the incessant wind and reaches back to pull the lush ermine collar of his cape over his chilled neck. He pauses the speech and holds his head in a Popely regal pose– humility and grace in one gesture. The desired effect is to hush any talkers in the crowd to add impact to his final line conclusion.

 He delivers the last words and the applause and shouting start. He hugs the fur-lined robe tightly around himself, the robe like icing on his royal cake.

No Pope has ever been as well-dressed as I, he thought to himself. I must reward my assistant. He has a good sense of things.

That’s right. The most high muck-a-much of the Holy Roman Catholic Church stood on his patio and asked the citizens of the world to pay for support of the impoverished while dressed in rare furs and custom finery laced with silver and gold threads.

Sporting rings and bracelets and necklaces of fine gold and precious gems that were plundered from native peoples around the globe by the Pope’s predecessors, Pope Benedict, Queen of all Catholics, told us all that we need to dig deeper into our pockets to help the poor.

I have a Catholic friend who was raised a staunchly Catholic as a boy can be raised. I phoned him after the Pope’s speech and he answered with, “Don’t even start on me Mooner Johnson. The ermine cape was not a smart choice.”

What my Catholic buddy can’t see is that the Pope dressed in his best choice. The Pope did what Popes do. He made the most decadent impression he could.

It’s what Popes do for shitsakes. Just like with the other Queen, Elizabeth the Second of England, Queen Benedict’s loyal followers expect all that finery. Demand it even.

Me, I laugh at their ignorance and cry for the poor. If that old gasbag had a shred of pure human decency, he’d work at feeding the poor by returning the trillions-of-dollars stolen from the weak and unarmed over the centuries by the mighty Holy Roman Catholic Church.

But rest easy Catholics. The Pope is as delusional about world hunger as he is about pedophilia.

Squirt and I are headed to the Food Bank with a trailer of lettuce we just cut from the garden. After that we’re stopping to stock up on Carta Blanca beer and headed to see Streaker Jones and Dixie. They have a new mushroom strain that Streaker Jones says might make a natural substitute for the Haldol used in Loony Bins worldwide.

As I have experience with Haldol, I’m the Guinea pig.

Manana, y’all.

Squirt OK’s Human Use Of Pee-Mail; Won’t Trademark Word

Friday, December 24th, 2010

 

So. I’ve never been much impressed by brand new technologies upon my initial exposures to them. When I first saw an Atari machine for sale, I poo-poo’d all over it. “That’s the stupidest thing I ever saw,” I remember remarking. “Nobody is going to sit in front of a TV screen and play pretend games by pushing buttons on a remote control box.”

I felt the same way about fuel injection systems for cars. The earliest were terrible maintenance problems, so my early prediction was true for a few years. “Only rich fuckers with their own mechanics and a personal tow truck will buy a fuel injected car. Give me a duel Holly 350 setup and I’m set for life.”

Now it’s me with the mechanical problems with the duel Holly 350 setup on my old GTO. If I don’t drive it often enough, it gets all screwed up. Difficult starts and flooded stalls are common now.

And computers. I’m still not sure that computers are here to stay or if they’re a good idea in the first place. Ever since the movie 2001: A Space Odyssey, I have doubted the intelligence of letting machines think for us. Artificial intelligence will come into practical use long before artificial souls even make a debut.

Brilliance without a soul is Society’s most potent threat.

In spite of my reluctance to embrace new technologies, I am a huge supporter of renewable or recycled products, and I’m especially enamored with new uses for stuff that we take for granted.

Since it’s Christmas Eve, I promised myself that I would get to my point with minimum digressions today, so here’s the deal. Several bloggie readers contacted me to tell me how clever I am. “You are so clever,” this one told me. “You invented a new word and a social convention as well. That “pee-mail” story you wrote was so very clever and creative.”

“Thanks,” I responded, “but I was playing the role of simple reporter in that story. Squirt made up the moniker “pee-mail”, which she tells me was her dressing-up of the dog word for “urine-based communication system”.

That intrigues me, so I quizzed the Squirt about this system. I’m not going to attempt to quote her here because she’s pissed at me for not giving her any of the bacon I fried for my lunch BLT. Her pissiness resulted in a the most disjointed conversation I’ve ever had. I made her sit at the computer with me while I had Google translator on the screen. She was speaking in all the romance languages plus Greek, Lithuanian, Swahili (my personal favorite), Hindi, and others.

Basically, here’s the deal. Dogs have always had a sophisticated system of smells that they use to communicate with each other. We humans have long misinterpreted their squats and leg hikes as simply the stupid dog marking his or her territory.

They’ve been laughing at us for years.

In one of her more understandable sentences, Squirt told me, “Sie sind Menshen so dumm, Bwana Mooner. Los perros han estado comunicado por los postales orinas durante anos.”

“OK,” I responded, “humans are dumb and dogs have been pee-mailing each other for forever.”

“Ya, we have. Gimme some jamon.” Now she’s sitting like a little beggar.

“No bacon for you, dumpling. You’re a pound overweight and that’s ten-percent too much. I’ll give you a carrot and a green bean, but no pork products.” I wish I could exert this much control over my own eating habits.

Anyway, I mightily impressed with dogs and I was already mightily impressed with dogs. This pee-mail dealie existed since before we people had any sort of speech other than grunts and threats. I asked Squirt if she wanted to trademark the name.

“Nope,” she answered. “Feliz Navidad, humanos estupidos. Just remember where you got it.”

And please remember what this holiday is all about. Family, good friends, good food and cold Carta Blanca beer.

Merry manana, y’all.

Kate Middleton Joins Moonettes; Sarah Palin Camel Toe Wins

Wednesday, December 22nd, 2010

 

So. Prince Willie is getting himself a mooner. That’s right, Kate Middleton is a certified, documented mooner.

Cheerio, Prince William. Cheer-i-o!

I’ve long been concerned that any offspring of Prince Chuck would be too dumb to shuck the stogy ways and antiquated social graces of England’s royalty, and actually display some human traits. Too dumb, or maybe too scared to stand up to the Queen and have a real life.

Speaking of the Queen, I was planning to bitch about the other Queen today but Kate Middleton stole my heart away. I was winding up to take another swing at His Royal Highness Pope Benedict, Queen of all Catholics. The Popester and his brain-dead advisors have managed to shit in the manger right here at Christmastime and I’m mad as hell about it.

But let’s be serious for a minute. The future Queen of England is a mooner for shitsakes. Kate likes to flash her ass in public! Or would she like to flash her ass in private? The English confuse the ever-loving-shit right out of me with their Public Schools being private, and their Private Schools being public. The origins of that confusion must lie in the whole royalty business. When you add the extra layer of Your Highnesses on top of a near-democratic government, weird shit is bound to happen.

Like Prince Charles.

In case you missed the story, as university students, young Katie and her mates would routinely poke their naked bottoms out the dorm windows in proud display. Said displays were made for the entertainment of both themselves and the boy student observers. Contests were held by the viewers to determine which bared arse matched which comely coed.

As an expert on the subject, I can confidently say that I would score high grades on those tests. I didn’t see any reporting about the observers and their observations, or their scores, and that makes me wonder about the voracity of the initial reports. I wondered if it really happened.

When I questioned whether the reports of Kate’s mooning were accurate at breakfast this morning, Gram says to me, she said, “Who gives a shit, Mooner? Prince Walter’s gittin hisself a fine little lady. An she’s got good teeth.”

Gram’s right. I think Kate Middleton would have made a good fit for me at about my ex number four, or maybe number six. Those was my skinny, model-type ex-wife periods, and Katie would have made a fine match. She might also have been richer than me and be paying me alimony and buying my house.

But I’m starting to digress. What I wanted to tell you is about the dream I had last night after hearing this story. The dream hit me after I was awakened by Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry at 2:30 am. My pig and ostrich have been in this nasty lovers’ spat about Christmas gifts. Rick Perry told Rush that he felt they should be fiscally responsible adult Texans and not buy expensive, unneeded gifts for each other this Christmas.

Rushie reluctantly agreed, and had me return the cashmere cardigan– with its matching beret and scarf, a nice bottle of wine, and a pair of velvet-lined leg shackles he had purchased as his gifts for the Rick. Personally, I think the giant bird would look splendid dressed in the high quality wool garments. I had envisioned the two of them coming out of the closet as a couple this Christmas. Those two dressed in their finest, we would toast them with glasses of the tasty wine Rush bought Rick

I was unsettled, however, thinking about the shackles.

Anyway, nobody bothered to tell Squirt that the boys were having a no gifts Xmas, and when Rush Limbaugh asked her where she and I were going yesterday afternoon, she told him.

“Senor Mooner e moi es going to la biblioteca primavera, and then to le Body Oil Store,” the Squirt told him.

Well, that was all it took to start a war because the Body Oil Store is Rush’s favorite and he figured out that Ricky was cheating on him with a gift. I was startled awake at 2:30 last night as the two of them fought it out in my closet. Rush was quite pissed and accused his lover of being a Republican go-back-on-his-word liar like his namesake.

I try to stay neutral with them, but Rush Limbaugh was spot on with this assessment. I got them separated and settled back down, and I managed to get to sleep. That’s when I had this dream. I was up to New York to be in this big Broadway production called, “Mooner and the Moonettes Present: Camel Toes and Moon Shows, a Christmas Extravaganza.”

Other than myself, the cast consisted of all my regular dream girls– Kath Griffin, Sarah Palin, Chelsea Handler, Oprah Winfrey, Sandra Bullock, Hilary Clinton and Renee Zelwigger. Kate Middleton and a dozen of her classmates filled out the cast, and they were the Moonettes.

We had one skit where there was a set that was just like the window set dealie on the old TV show, Laugh In. You remember, the Rowan and Martin show that had Goldie Hawn, and Henry Gibson and the rest. I saw a picture of Goldie a few weeks back where she was splashing her camel toe and I must say, Goldie’s holding her own.

Instead of having cast members open their window and tell a joke, we would either flash a moon as we open the window flaps, or display a tastefully-decorated camel toe. There were elves with those air cannon dealies firing tee shirts to audience members making correct guesses as to who’s toe or butt was poking out the window.

In telling you this dream story I just got a terrible feeling deep in the pit of my stomach. I had my choice of one each camel toe owner and butt flasher to take home with me after the show. I chose Kate Middleton, of course, since this was a KM dream.

But my choice of camel toe owners disturbs me. So I wouldn’t hurt any of my regulars’ feelings, I played that eeenie-meanie-minie-moe game to choose my camel toe girl. I kept going with that “My mother told me to…” business until I landed on Sarah Palin.

I actually selected Sarah Palin over my other ladies.

That makes me a sick fucker. A really sick fucker. I would have sex with Sarah Palin if I weren’t in a committed relationship, and I could tape her mouth shut. Then again, I’d bet she’s got a randy mouth on her when she’s all sexed up. She and Kate Middleton would make a hell of a bed full of women. I’d dress Kate as a reindeer and Sarah as a hunter.

My god would you listen to me. I need a special therapy session and a Carta Blanca beer.

Manana, y’all.

Squirt Leaves Penny A Pee-mail; Mooner Hires An Editor

Tuesday, December 21st, 2010

 

So. I hired my editor from the short list culled from the many applicants I got from the EFA listing I placed last week. It was a difficult choice because I had so many great applicants and because I am such a pain in the ass.

True. See, I wanted a non-Texan editor this time so I can insure things don’t get another layer of redneck bias through the editing process. Then, several of my finalist choices were Southerners but not Texans. When we spoke, they seemed to understand most everything I said and much of that without having to question me. This I also felt was problematic.

Follow my logic tree on this– I think I might be suffering from a brain fritz when my sense is that I’m clear-thinking, so I need some help. OK. I am a crazy redneck fuckball who suffers with the ADHD and, as diagnosed by Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson when she told me,“Mooner, you are the only person I have ever treated who seems to have no ability to filter your thoughts.”

When I asked her, “What the fuck are you talking about?”, she answered, “You are the most inappropriate man I know.”

Well fucking duh.

So I’m thinking that maybe a Southerner as editor might be problematic. If they can understand me so easily then they might be Baptist, or a redneck. Most Baptists are Southern Baptist and many Southerners are Baptists, and even though I attempted to vet-out Baptists with the wording of my EFA listing- I was concerned that picking a Southerner was a mistake.

Plus, a non-Southerner will be required to ask more questions to gain any kind of understanding from my ramblings, and that will provide me with more opportunities to influence them.

Anyway, I found an editor and I am very pleased with my choice. She’s a New Yorker by birth, Boston educated, has high cheekbones and that chic figure that just screams, “New York City.” If I wasn’t already in a committed relationship I’d leave her alone anyway. I met her boyfriend and liked him immediately.

We talked for a few minutes when I paid my bill. He’s from Milwaukee and the two of them are headed that way for the holidays. If my fee hadn’t already been charged to my credit card, that little bit of information might have caused me to rethink my choice. I’ve been to Milwaukee in the winter, and no sane person chooses to go there in the winter. The cold up there is different– it invades you.

It’s this insidious cold that assaults you through your skin and as you take each breath. Like breathing crushed ice while sitting in Antartica.

Which reminds me. I went by Dr. Sam I. Am’s place yesterday afternoon to grab the Squirt so we can finish her shopping before it gets too late. Squirt met me at the door with a mouthful of ice. I was greeted with, “Hife, Moofer. Fuft’s uff?”

“Oh for shit sakes, Squirt. Swallow that ice before talking. You sound like you just got a Botox injection in your tongue.” I did that once, but only had it injected into half, so part of my tongue worked and the other half was paralyzed. One of the ex-wives wanted injections in her forhead but was afraid, so I went first. Weird couple of months until it wore off.

Squirt swallowed. “I’m all Packed, Monsieur Mooner, but I need to see Penny before I leave.”

“Wow!” I told her. “Fourteen words of English and only one French. Have you been practicing?”

“Nope. Tongue’s still cold and English is easiest.”

Anyway, we walked the four doors down to the Penster’s house, but Penny was nowhere in sight. “What do you want to do?” I asked her. “We can go to my car and get some paper for a note.”

“No problemo, Bwana Mooner. I’ll leave her a pee-mail.” And with that, she squatted in the grass at Penny’s house and dribbled and squirted for a few seconds.

“What did you say to her?”

“I told her that I’m with you through the weekend but we can come get her for Christmas day if her mom OK’s it. I told her about the big leg bone you got me and Dixie, and she was pretty excited. I told her to go leave a pee-mail at my mom’s house if she can make it. Dixie can sniff that message when Streaker Jones and her come to get Mom to come to your place for dinner.”

“OK, first Wow, again. That’s mostly great English. Except it’s Dixie and me, and Streaker Jones and she.”

When she looked at me sideways, I added, “I think.”

She smiled at me and shook her head, rattling the jingle bells collar she’s wearing.

I patted her precious little head. “Come on you little shitbird, let’s get home to the ranch and crack a cold Carta Blanca beer. Gram’s making pizza and I made the sausage– Italian pork, and spicy hot!”

She started dancing at my feet.

Manana, y’all.

Editorial Freelancers Association; What A Great Resource!

Friday, December 17th, 2010

 

So. If you want to get a measure of the condition of the publishing industry, place a job listing on the Editorial Freelancers Association website. If I’m doing this link correctly, they are at www.the-efa.org. If I screwed it up, try to Google “freelance editors” and the EFA will pop up.

I clicked on their website yesterday and placed an ad to find someone to help me do a final prep on my book to get it ready for publishing. Again, unless I’m really wrong, mine is a relatively small job and my ad was simpler than that. The ad hit the EFA site at about 9:30 Central time.

At 12:33 precisely, I was answering the fourteenth phone call from the listing. At 1:15 I started answering the sizty-five Emails I’d received, and an hour-and-a half-later– I had over one hundred still unanswered. Since then, I have spoken to maybe forty amazing people, each an editor and most have been recently released from corporate, or semi-corporate, employment.

I have had very limited exposure to professional publishing people, and personal experience with but two. One of those persons I now consider to be a friend. The other… Well, the other I will write about here to my bloggie when I have doubled my readership.

If you decide to fuck somebody in return of their having fucked you– fuck them back good. Maybe I’ll wait until I triple my readership.

Anyway, I have gotten over 200 responses to my listing, and I tried to filter as many as possible with disclaimers. I think I have replied to each and every one, but maybe I missed some. If I did, I apologize.

I attempted to weed and filter the applicants in advance. I told them in the listing, “You must have a sense of humor; you cannot be easily offended; and you should not be a conservative religious person.”

Here in Texas, if they read and followed that advice, the population of editors would be narrowed by maybe 96.773% of the total editor population. Even assuming that editors in other states are less generally right-wing religious fuckballish than the Texas varieties as a group, and even presuming that editors are less likely to be fuckballs in the first place– I got a large number of responses.

Now. My therapy is focusing lately on me fully disclosing my motives to the people about which I care. It seems I have a tendency to barge through my life, stepping on the toes and hearts of others. Therefore, in an effort to provide full disclosure I want you to know that I chose to place my request for services yesterday for specific reasons. I’m thinking that it’s the big holiday season, so maybe I’ll find someone willing to give me an extra measure of service for my dollar, plus I can help them with a little unexpected holiday cash.

Win/win, right? Of course not. As all the dust is settling, I have more than one editor I want to hire but only one job. Hell, I’ll bet you that of all the people contacting me at least half would do a great job for me, and enjoy working on my crappy writing.

As usual, my attempt to snooker the unsuspecting has snookered me. I tried to gain extra value during this holiday season and I feel guilty. How can I turn anyone away at this time of year? Sounds like a psycho therapy session to me.

But I have a point and here it is. How can the universe continue to produce the same volume of printed words and maintain quality if so many editors have no jobs? What is happening with the printed word without strong editorial influence?

This blog for one thing. Look at the mess that is my work if you can’t envision an edit-free world.

How can you publish a book without strong editing? I know I can’t. I can write this nonsense, but I need considerable assistance to make it a quality product and worth the price. Hell, If I were to charge you to read this shit here to my bloggie, I’d feel responsible to hire an editor for here. Actually, I’d need two if I didn’t do self edit. I read and rewrite this crap twenty-to-thirty times to make it more understandable before I hit the “publish” button on Word Press.

If I had some help, the 250,000 words contained in these blog postings since March, would swell like a finger pinched in a car door and likely exceed a million words. And I’m a hunt-n-pecker typist. Imagine if I took a typing course and hired editors! We’d need a bigger Internet.

The American economy is a total mess. The publishment industry might be messier. Which reminds me to tell you about this one editor who contacted me.

This nice lady was advised by me to look at the website and the bloggie here so that she could get a good feel for what’s what. I got the nicest reply from her. “I’m very sorry Mr. Johnson, but your writing is so dense and convoluted that I doubt I can help you. I don’t feel that I can do a good job for you as your editor. However, my cousin is a psychiatrist in the Austin area, and he specializes in assisting crazy people as they transition from productive lifestyles into high-intensity clinical environments.”

Where did she get the idea I’m productive?

Then there was the other lady who called and told me she was well qualified to be my editor. She says to me, she says, “I have a wonderful sense of humor, I am un-offendable, and my religious convictions will not be a problem.”

That’s precisely what she said.

During our phone conversation, I was getting some reads and tells and other vibes that the nice lady was not quite sincere with me. I tell her, “Why don’t you go check onto my website and read my recent comments about the Pope. Call me back after.”

I didn’t get the call but I did get a nasty-assed Email that, among other things, carefully explained to me that I am a, “Godless heretic and a blight on the American literary landscape.”

I might be a heretic, but I’m a handsome sort and practice immaculate personal hygiene. So fuck her.

Anyway, I want to publicly thank everyone who applied with me and I want to encourage the authors and writers who read this trash of mine to hire editors. Now, I need a Carta Blanca beer or I’ll get all morose and shit and hire all three of my finalists, and send gift baskets to the rest. Manana, y’all.

#ADDA: Mooner For President

Saturday, December 11th, 2010

 

So. I have recently become aware of the group known as #ADDA, which is short for Attention Deficit Disorder Association. Their motto is, “Helping adults with AD/HD lead better lives.”

At least I think you’d call it a motto. Maybe it’s important enough to be their creed. Of course, it might also be unimportant in the greater scheme of things and simply be a saying.

Anyway, I went to their website and blog and found E-stuff that shows a high degree of organization and professionalism. You could see the attention to detail, how they stayed with their style and the lack of typographical errors.

My antennas started twitching instantaneously.

For starters, the hyphen they place between the AD and the HD is the telltale sign of a mental health professional. I could recognize their tracks if I was blindfolded and had my hands tied behind my back. Like when you find bear shit in the woods you can be reasonably certain that a bear was there. It is possible that some silly fuckball moved a pile of bear shit just to screw with people, but I find that highly unlikely.

I mean really– will you find enough people who can distinguish between a pile of bear shit, and say a load dropped by a guy looking for bear shit to pick up and move to fake people out, to have a large enough census to make it worth the effort? Not many piles of fake bear shit.

As for calling the ADHD “AD/HD”, we chronic sufferers will never separate our deficits from our disorder. Won’t do it. Hell, I can’t do it.

Mental health professionals, on the other hand, have no trouble with attempting to break the bonds that bind us up. People like Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, my ex-wife and psycho therapist. She absolutely hates it when I separate her psychos from their therapy, my favorite joke, but she gains a certain relish from hyphenating my malady.

Bitch.

I asked Sammy about ADDA in my Saturday emergency session this morning. “They are quite well respected in my community, Mooner. They can, and have, helped thousands of AD/HD sufferers lead better lives.” Then she added, “That’s their motto.”

I guessed that one right. “But it’s not run by ADHDites, it’s a bunch of mental health professionals. They need to feature stuff from crazy people so they can better relate to us.”

“Look, Mooner,” she started, “don’t get revved up over this. It’s not your fight.”

When I looked away, she showed some awareness on her face– the look I get when she’s caught me up to something. “Mooner, what are you planning?”

“Nothing,” I said. “I’m just thinking of who all I need to get holiday presents for. What with all of the Christians and Jews and Muslims and Buddhists in my life, I don’t feel right calling it Christmas any more.”

Now I get the stern look that says, “You are fucking with me, Mooner.”

“Are you fucking with me, Mooner?” she asks.

“You’re right,” I tell her. “I should have said I was thinking of all the persons for whom I need to get presents.”

“Mooner, I’m warning you.”

I look away and don’t answer again.

“Mooner, do I need to lock you up to keep you out of trouble until Christmas?”

When I don’t answer this time she says to me, she says, “You know Shoal Creek Mental Hospital s number 2 on my speed dial.” To underscore her point, she picks up her handset and points a prettily-manicured finger at the 2 on her dial.

I have always liked her hands. She’s small-boned anyway, but her hands have always been delicate– long and sexy. Today she’s got Santa Claus red nail polish tipping each nail. She’s never lost a fingernail so she can get them very sharp. I still have daydreams about when we were married and she would scratch my back.

“Mooner!!! Answer me!!!” With this, she touches the magic 2 on her dial.

“Fine,” I say. “I was just thinking about a hostile takeover of the ADDA.”

Now what I’ve got looking at me are twin laser beams tracking from normally beautiful hazel eyes. “Oh for crap sakes. Leave them alone, Mooner. Promise me you will leave them alone.”

“Fine,” I say again. “But I’m going to run for office of something.”

“No, you are not. In fact don’t you even join the ADDA except under my direct supervision.”

“Bitch,” I say to myself.

“I may be a bitch, but you’ll be in a bitch of a mess if you screw with the ADDA.”

“Fine,” I say one more time. “But I’m not making any more promises.”

“And that’s fine with me. Now, let’s talk about your problems,” my therapist says.

“Well, how about I start with the obnoxious bitch that I pay to assist me with my mental health issues. The over-priced, pushy bitch one.” I am a seriously funny guy.

“Oops, sorry Mooner. Your time is up.”

Actually, I’m releived because I have a busy day. I rise from my chair and she adds, “Oh, by the way. Did I tell you that I’m now charging $480 per hour for Saturday emergency sessions?”

“Bitch.” It was all I had in me.

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

Big Girls Don’t Snore; Big Girls Don’t Snore; Big Girls Don’t Snore

Thursday, December 9th, 2010

 

So. The women in my life snore, as do the two barnyard animals hiding in my closet. Last night, SAC Ellen slept over to the ranch, and since the Squirt was translating a news release from English into Swahili, she stayed over as well.

I grilled some bison for dinner and we had that with new potatoes that the SACster made, cool weather lettuce from the winter garden, and a butternut squash soup that Streaker Jones brought. It was the first time I have seen Streaker Jones and my dog, Dixie, for a few days. As Dixie says, “I’m simply too old to spend all day with you, Mooner. I’m old, I’m tired and I’m sick of your shit.”

That doesn’t bother me at all. First off, I can handle rejection better than gasoline salesman in Hell. Second, Dixie doesn’t mean any of that nonsense. She has simply fallen in love with all things spore. She’s assisting Streaker Jones with his spore research.

What does kind of piss me off is that I know she has started talking to Streaker Jones directly, you know– not using me as an interpreter. They both deny it but it has to be true. I spent the last fifteen years trying to get her to speak to someone besides me and she refuses. Now that she does, I’m pissed.

Go figure. I justify my anger with the fact that they both deny it. Sounds like a psycho therapy subject to me.

Anyway, dinner was a spot-on success all the way around. Have you ever eaten bison? Try it.

We played some poker after dinner for nickel-dime-quarter and I won about thirty bucks. I bet SAC Ellen a back rub of choice on this one hand and won that too. So, when we get ready for bed, I tell the Squirt that she needs to find something to occupy herself with for an hour or so.

“Porque?, Senor Mooner. What’s up?”

“None of your beeswax, Squirt,” I told her. “I’ll call you when it’s bedtime.”

SAC Ellen says, “You stay right where you are little girl. Mooner’s getting a back rub and nothing else.”

“But I won the rub of my choice,” I started.

“You’ve lost your mind if you press me on this, buster. I’m tired and have an early day.”

Squirt always sleeps with me when she stays over. I love having her little soft and furry carcass in the bed. She burrows herself deep under the covers and goes to my feet, where she starts scratching the sheet like she’s digging to China. She’ll lie down against my feet when she first goes to sleep and then she works her way up my side throughout the night.

At precisely 4:20 am, she’s laying on my arm, or in the crux of my arm if I’m on my side, in a classic spooning pose. At precisely 5 am, she turns over and starts staring at me from maybe two inches away. You can see her thinking, “It’s time for the dog to eat. Please feed me!!!”

Sometimes I think I can hear her telepathically, and the conversation always escalates to her speaking out loud. Cutest shit you ever saw.

Anyway, I guess the entire household of tenants and guests alike have got the cedar fever. Cedar fever is like the flu except it’s a pollen-based malady. Plugs up you nose and makes breathing difficult, which encourages snoring. At 3:30 I’m still awake, tossing and turning in an effort to block out the noise. Squirt snores just like a human except quietly, and cutely. She really is adorable.

Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry are loud and obnoxious snorers, but I have gotten accustomed to the racket my pig and ostrich make as they spoon in my closet. It really is sweet how they snuggle together, and I don’t have the heart to break them up.

SAC Ellen is my real problem. She snores like a Sumo wrestler, has the reflexes of a cat, and she sleeps with a loaded Glock 9mm lightweight under her pillow. The one time I decided to awaken her so I could catch a short break from her snoring was one time too many.

My new technique is to pull the covers off her a little at a time– gentle tugs at the top of the sheet or comforter. After a while, enough of her creamy skin gets exposed that she turns over and tugs back possession of her covers. This has worked until last night.

So. I’m laying there at 3:30 am wearing the armor of frustration that can only be worn by spending five hours trying to sleep with a roomful of snores. SAC Ellen’s cacophony of racket was the straw on my camel– the extra decibels she added to Squirt and the boys in the closet was too much for me. It was like Tchaikovsky’s big, booming Overture in full stereo.

I was starting to think I was going crazy. Instead of gently tugging the down comforter a few inches my direction, to uncover another small patch of luscious breast– I yanked and rolled away from her to my side and uncovered her to the waist.

The snoring stopped. “Dear God,” my prayer of thanks started. “Thank you for…”

Have you ever heard the “snick” noise made by a well-oiled Glock handgun as its operator prepares it to fire?

“Snick,” is what I heard. Then I felt first a tickle of warm breath on my ear that make my privates tingle, followed by the shock of cold metal on my ribs that took all tingle away.

“Why do you keep stealing my covers, Mooner? I told you I’m too tired for sex tonight.”

SAC Ellen had told me she was too tired for sex, but again, I handle rejection like a pro.

“That wasn’t for sex, sweetie, you were snoring and I wanted you to roll over and stop.”

If I ever say that I’m smart or that I have something figured out ever again, would somebody please slap me. After ten failed marriages you would think I’d catch a clue about women. But I did manage to catch some sleep before the Squirt woke me up for her breakfast. I moved into the warm spot SAC Ellen left in the bed and breathed the smells she left behind. I was out in ten seconds.

I’ve already ordered flowers and made an appointment with Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson for a psycho therapy special session. I’ve been needing more special sessions than Congress.

Manana, y’all.

Psychotherapy Lies Part 2

Monday, December 6th, 2010

 

So. Psycho therapists will lie to you. Go figure. The sad thing is that I think that most of them believe their bullshit. Like Dr. Sam I. Am.

When she tells me that how I react to getting raped as a child is more important than my having been raped is, I’m choosing to not think of it as a lie. I’m choosing to call it “fuzzy logic of the over educated who mean well”. Let’s call it FLZOEWMW, for short. OK, let’s call it FLMW for shorter still.

Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, MD/PHD and Board Certified head shrinker is a wonderful woman– a woman who managed to stay married to me for twenty years before giving up all hope. She’s loving and caring, and thoughtful and smart, and dedicated to helping all of her patients get better.

She scored in the top ten-percentile in all of her education, and all of her graduate degrees came with highest honors. She’s been voted Best Psychotherapist In Austin by readers of the Austin Chronicle too many times to bother counting, is well respected by her peers and all of that other blah, blah and blah.

But sometimes, she simply doesn’t get the basic structure of a problem. Sometimes she focuses on the curative aspects of a problem and misses the import of the cause and effect parts. This child rape business is a perfect case in point.

My position is simple. If my Boy Scout leader, a respected Deacon of the Baptist church that sponsored my Troop, hadn’t decided to be inappropriate and play house with me on a camping trip, then I would not have spent the rest of my life acting inappropriately in response. Again, a simple concept as I conceptualize.

By the way, I was a member of Troop 69, and that is the absolute God’s truth. I had no idea about any of the 69 sexual references at the time, but I now envision my asshole Scout Leader reveling in that special joy as he relived his escapades.

I’m digressing from my point, again. Point is, no rape– no reaction to rape.

OK, I get the response. I get that if I had found a way to accept the fact that the asshole stuck his dick in my face and then, and in an act of brave humanity forgiven him, I would not act inappropriately because of that event. My inappropriate behavior could be linked to some other causal issue. Like my ADHD. I get all that.

However, I must say, “FLMW!” It’s OK to try to help me feel better and give me a path to healing. But don’t lie to me. It’s just like that other psycho therapist lie. “Your therapy is most effective when it is somewhat painful to pay for the session.”

Who are they kidding with that one? It seems to be tied to the old adage that something is worth what you pay for it, and I know that to be true to a point. But I can tell you this with absolute certainty. The only things I get extra from my new rate of $175/hour as compared to my old $150 rate is heartburn and aggravation. And the desire to break $1,695 crockery. I just picked up the replacement I broke Friday and the price has gone up on that as well.

Potter says to me, he said, “Look Mooner. Maybe you won’t break it if I keep raising the price. These pots are my babies, for shitsakes.”

In my eyes, that’s a dealie wherein the price effects how I feel about the endeavor. This is a case of the reaction having more import than the cause.

Here’s another lie. “You will feel better as soon as you accept yourself.”

Are you fucking kidding me? I accept myself just fine. It’s all those Baptist right-wing Republican shitwads that don’t accept me that gives me the squirts. If those fuckballs would go away, or accept me for who I am, my life would be great.

Or how about this one? “Electro-shock therapy doesn’t hurt.”

Fine, OK, I’m with you. How about we do a quick demo on your shaved torso just to calibrate the equipment. Huh, whadda ya say?

Or this one. “Your lobotomy will be a temporary condition Mr. Bush. It will only last eight years.”

I’m running out of steam. Why don’t you guys tell me your psycho therapy lies and I can get pissed about them. Or maybe if I drink more cold Carta Blanca beers I’ll find a way to accept myself and forgive my transgressor. Manana, y’all.

Psycho Therapy Sucks; I Need Carta Blanca Beer

Sunday, December 5th, 2010

 

So. I was required to undergo a Saturday morning psycho therapy session with Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, the punishment phase resulting from my near arrest in the Great Leaf Caper. Squirt and I were unfairly accused, and punished, for returning leaves to the neighbor’s yard after the neighbor’s landscape service crew blew them into Dr. Sam’s yard.

The landscape crew’s actions were in retaliation to a little incident that occurred last May, or June, that involved one of the crewman’s balls and the tiny, sharp teeth that reside in the small, yet amazingly strong jaws of the Squirt.

Anyway, I have felt that my ADHD has been mostly in regression, as my digressions have been fewer and farther between. In fact, the last digression I remember even having was when SAC Ellen and I were in bed one night last week starting sex. I’m unsure what the problem was, but I was deep into foreplay one minute, and sitting in my car at the stoplight there to RR2222 and Balcones the next. I was wondering why I was alone and feeling sexually frustrated.

I punched speed dial for SAC Ellen’s apartment to find out, but all I got was the recorded message. When I got home, I tried again but still no answer, which made me worry. So, I drove back over there to check on her. When I got there, I walked to her front door and there was a note pinned by the doorbell.

Since a situation just like this has happened before, I pulled the note from the door and held it up to the porch light so I could read her message. “Not tonight, you inappropriate shitball. No more sex until you apologize.”

It wasn’t addressed to anyone in particular, but I’m reasonably certain the note was addressing me. When I was back the second time in my car– stopped at the light there to RR2222 and Balcones, my cell phone rang. “Hello,” I answered.

I have always liked “Hello” as a phone greeting. All of that other bullshit is stupid when you answer a personal phone, if you ask me. Why say your name when you answer your own fucking phone?

Anyway, SAC Ellen spent the time it took for me to drive back to the ranch describing precisely what it was I would not be doing with her because I am such an inappropriate shitball.

Which brings me back to my Saturday morning therapy session.

Since I have not been ADHD brain fritzing and doing stupid shit because I digress or fail to pay attention, when Dr. Sam asked me why I fucked up with the entire leaf thingie– I had no readily available answer.

“Would you like a little nudge with this one, Mooner?” she asked me.

Now me, a psycho therapy participant in thousands of sessions held over decades, both in and out of confined mental health facilities, I am always hesitant to respond to a question such as the one now posed.

“Maybe,” I answered.

Of course, Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, my therapist and ex-wife for all of the mentioned decades, feels no need to hesitate the enforcement of a nudge without permission. “Mooner, you are spending so much time talking about the Pope and his silly positions regarding priests’ molesting children. I have been reading that blog business of yours, and I have to tell you that you are acting as if you are consumed with it.”

“Bullshit,” my typical clever retort.

“OK, mister, how many times have you blogged about child molestation?”

I had to think. “Maybe thirty since May,” my best guess.

“I see,” she says– chin in hand, leaning forward with her top crossed leg tapping its foot in the air in a little staccato.

“You don’t see shit,” I told her. “I’m over all of that. I just want to spread the word and maybe help fix the problem.”

“Mooner, how can you be so clueless after all of these years. You won’t ever get over your own molestation until you can fully forgive your molester.”

I just sat there staring into space, burning holes in her wall with what I’m told is my hot-eyed look. She gets this frustrated expression that frequents her face in my sessions, and she says to me, she says, “Look in my eyes Mooner.”

I looked into her eyes. “Like this?” I asked.

“No, silly, like you are going to pay attention and listen to what I say.”

I adjusted my ass in my seat and re-looked into her eyes. “That’s better,” she told me. “Now listen to me. It isn’t the fact that you were raped as a child that has fucked you up so badly. It is how you react to getting raped that fucks things up.”

Huh? I’m sure that I must have heard this before since having been raped as a child is a recurring theme in my therapy. I can’t trace thought to memory. “That’s a lie,” I said.

I stood up from my chair and this time I shouted. “That’s a fucking lie. No bomb, no godammed explosion. So fuck you!”

As I stormed out of her office, I grabbed a vase from its pedestal and crashed it on the floor. This action will cost me another $1,575.00 plus tax tacked on to my $175.00 session bill. I know the precise cost of the vase because I buy them often. I’m on a first-name basis with the potter.

I’ve been thinking about the lie my psycho therapist told me and I’m now thinking that she lies often. I’ll drink a few Carta Blanca beers and write down some more therapist lies.

Manana, y’all.

Not A Pope Story; But He’s Still A Queen

Friday, December 3rd, 2010

 

So. Yesterday I got a call from Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, and she asked if I would come over to her house and mulch her leaves. She’s got a nifty assortment of native trees and the recent freeze has sent most of their leaves to the ground.

I like mulching leaves so they’ll compost and improve soil health and I needed to go over there anyway to pick up the Squirt. The two of us were going fishing this afternoon after we completed a few chores, and she loves to help me with yard work.

I told Squirt that we would mulch her mother’s leaves before we headed out and she said to me, she says, “Ich lie be es cotar al cesped, Heir Mooner.”

When I told her that mulching the leaves was technically not mowing the grass, she got snippy. “Que le importar una mierda? Ich meine, wer wirklich gibt eine Scheibe?”

“Who gives a shit? Well for sure Dr. Sam I. Am if she hears you cussing so much. You need to not spend so much time alone with Gram, little lady.” Then I added, “Mulching the leaves is the same thing as mowing the grass except the grass doesn’t need to be mowed, and we use the mower to mulch the leaves.”

She starts to ask me who gives a shit again, but I hold my hand– palm facing her in a “Stop!” signal. This signal was part of her basic training in puppy school. She obeyed, but started this vibrating thing she does when she’s pissed.

“Oh stop your hissy fit, and now. Let’s go mow the grass.”

That calmed her and we started mulching the leaves. I noticed that nobody else on her block had done anything about their leaves, and that Sammie’s house would stand out when we finished. Have you ever noticed how all of the leaves from your trees stay in your own yard, but the neighbor’s leaves manage to work their way onto your property? I have always wondered that when I mulch at Sam’s house.

We finished the job and decided to have an early lunch and went inside. We made some chicken salad and ate that with homemade pickles and cold Carta Blanca beer. As we sat down, the sound of a gas-powered leaf blower barged in on our conversation, and Squirt started vibrating.

“Don’t worry sweetie, I made them get their engines fixed.”

This last summer Squirt and I had a run-in with the workers for the landscape company that take care of many homes in the neighborhood. The Squirt had displayed her unhappiness with one surly employee by clenching his balls in her sharp-toothed mouth. The initial dispute was over the outrageous volume of smoky pollution emitted from his leaf blower.

We finished lunch, cleaned our dishes and headed out to finish with our errands. The landscape crew had just finished work on the neighbor’s yard and were loaded into their truck. They whistled and waved, and shot us the bird, so Squirt started barking angrily and chased after them. She quit chasing when she got to the curb and stood there to angrily bark some extra at the quickly disappearing truck.

That’s when I noticed that the neighbor’s yard was free of leaves, and that we had a fresh-laid load covering half of what we had just cleared.

Squirt stopped barking and came to stand at my side. “Mother fuckers,” she said.

“You have got to stop cussing so much young lady. But you are right. Dirty rotten mother fuckers.”

So. I got out the big plastic leaf rake and wheel barrow, donned my leather work gloves and went at it. We were just finishing spreading the last load of leaves back on the neighbor’s yard when the wife drove up and parked.

“Mooner Johnson, what in the hell do you think you are doing?” And then a moment and, “I’m calling the police.” And next, “You inappropriate son-of-a-bitch!”

Needless to say that we missed our fishing trip, what with the two leaf mulchings and two leaf movings and the lengthy conversation with the police, we ran out of time. And also with the grounding Squirt got when Dr. Sam I. Am had to leave work to come home and extricate us from the jaws of justice.

At least I didn’t get arrested, and I have Sammy to thank for that one. I do have to wash all of the neighbor’s windows and paint their house, which brings up a recurring question about my life.

Why am I always the one that gets in trouble? Manana, y’all.

Catholics Blast Mooner; Pope Still A Queen

Thursday, December 2nd, 2010

 

So. I’ve been pretty busy working out some legal entanglements, those not blog related, and I hadn’t checked my Email since Tuesday. When I logged on, I discovered that I seem to have a rather large, and verbose, club of Catholic readers.

I call them a club because most of the correspondence contained identical content, and much of it was actually identical. Form letters sent to me from a broad range of addresses. According to these writings, I am accused of:

  1. Being anti-gay;
  2. Being a heretic;
  3. Having chromosomes from the devil’s seed– “You are the devil’s spawn, Mr. Johnson,” is the actual quote;
  4. Lacking native intelligence;
  5. Being a bad writer;
  6. Needing to go back to sixth grade grammar class;
  7. Lacking good taste;
  8. Being the most inappropriate man in the universe;
  9. Lying about Dixie and Squirt– again the actual quote goes, “…and you lie about your dogs. Everybody knows that dogs can’t talk…”.

There are, of course, many more accusations and even a few threats thrown in for good measure. My guess is that the writer of the original letter, if you’ll allow me the freedom to call an Email a letter, was written by a person well versed with the Queen’s proper English. An observation that leads me to the first accusation– that I am anti-gay.

Since I call the Pope an aging queen, they say I hate gays. Let me get this straight. I call an elderly man a queen– a man who has never married, who entered the priesthood at a time when the Rectory provided safe haven for gay men, who thinks it’s OK for male prostitutes to wear condoms to protect his customers but the same condom cannot be used to protect a woman, and a man who wears designer gowns with fussy little hats in public.

The Pope wears so many slips and lacy under garments beneath his dresses, I bet he could fart under there and a room full of bloodhounds would never get a whiff. Then, once he gets all dressed up, he parades around with more pomp and circumstance that a drag show on Sunset Strip.

But look people, he’s not a bear. Older gay men who play dress-up, and act regally in a feminine way, are called queens. It’s what they call themselves for shitsakes. How about this. As soon as the Popster condemns child rapists in the priesthood, kicks them directly out of the Church, and then fully cooperates with civil authorities to prosecute them, I’ll stop calling the old fart a queen.

As for me being a heretic– well fucking duh! And the devil’s spawn dealie is likely true. Have you met my grandmother? And do you capitalize devil, or not? Maybe when you say, “the Devil,” you use a big D, like calling him Mr. Devil. I asked Gram and she said to me, she says, “Who gives a shit, Mooner. Yer tha devil of a pain in my ass. Now stop messin around an git yer bony butt inna kitchen an fix supper.”

Items 4., 5. and 6. can be addressed easily. I have ADHD and ADD, a serious case of both, and I caught it at birth. Gram says I was infected in the womb because Daddy read Playboy Magazine during my last months in the womb. I don’t know about all of that, but I do know that my writing is terrible and my grammar is terribler than that. As for my native intelligence, that’s hard to measure.

Every time I have taken an IQ test, my evaluations state a broad possible range of quotient. The last one, taken on the Internet, said my score was somewhere between 36 and 185. But like Gram says, I’m neither that smart, nor that dumb. But the ADHD masks any smarts I might have and it makes me do dumb things.

As for items 7. and 8., they are the same thing to me, and again, I say well fucking duh! But I do like the promotion from most inappropriate in the world to mastering the entire universe, and somebody had the good taste to move me up. I admit I lack both the filters and good sense to use them if available.

Which brings me to the final point, that I lie about my dog, Dixie, and Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson’s puppy, Squirt. They talk, Dixie sings, and that is that. I don’t care if you believe me, not even a little bit. I am not a liar by nature and I don’t ever lie to gain advantage.

The only part of any of this that bothers me is the anti-gay stuff. Even my gay sister was offended by that bullshit. But I told her to consider the source.

Anyway, I’m going to take the high road– drink a Carta Blanca beer and salute his Queenster the Pope, and talk some heretical trash with the dogs. Then we’ll need to force Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry out of the closet and take them for a walk. My giant bird and massive pig are spending way too much time spooning in the closet where they hide from Gram.

The two of them, and my closet as well, need some fresh air.

Manana, y’all.