Catholics Blast Mooner; Pope Still A Queen


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.

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3 Responses to “Catholics Blast Mooner; Pope Still A Queen”

  1. squatlo says:

    I’ve gotten a Catholic Bashing comment or two myself, Mooner. Seems my story about the incense-addled altar boy got some Papal Disciples hooked on my site, but later posts proved me to be a cynical critic of the Church or something. I don’t know why, but surviving years as an unwilling participant in strange religious ceremonies while wearing a little dress, ringing bells, swinging smoldering incense burners, and mumbling in a dead language seems to have left a negative mark on my psyche… not to mention the whole pedophilia thing that REALLY pisses me off, mainly because I was innocent, naive, virginal, and completely disregarded by legions of priests, nuns, and church elders who could have put me on the lawsuit gravy train if only they’d found my young ass a little more appealing at the time. Now I have to feign outrage over the systemic molestations of tens of thousands of women and kids worldwide, when in reality I’m only mad because I wasn’t one of them.
    So I write critical things about the Pope and the Church as often as I feel necessary to keep my bowels clear of debris… and some of my readers take offense. Most of them are related to me and still think the Church has a redeeming social value hidden behind all the glitz, but a few are total strangers who are genuinely offended by my remarks. Thing is, I’m not just a Recovering Catholic (almost better, thanks) but a guy who has no use for ANY organized religion known to man. So I’m an equal opportunity bigot when it comes to the religious and pious. They can all line up and kiss my hairy ass for all I care. Only now I’m not so eager to have my bare ass exposed to them as I might have been when I was innocent and naive. Hell, I’m not sure I can cash in on the molested victim gravy train at the age of 56 if the molestations start the same year as the complaint. I think there has to be some kind of mental damage to make the claim valid… not just a raw ass and a feeling of guilt about the whole thing.
    Bash away, Mooner. If they can’t take it, fuck ’em. Here’s a link to the incensed altar boy story (Squalto’s first blog tale of mystery and intrigue)

  2. admin says:

    Squatlo. After reading your latest here, and at your site as well, I called a meeting with Mother and my Gram. I’m certain we are twins separated at birth– you raised Catholic in a hidden location, me raised Baptist and in clear site of a Baptist Boy Scout leader.

    But Gram convinced me that I’m but a single and you a smarter, yet similar, thinker. All the Johnson men are infected by the ADHD, and you are sane. Ipso fact– we ain’t brothers and I have a heavy heart for you. Your missing Catholic Butt Magic With The Alter Boys Night is a childhood loss and a lifetime gain.

    Thanks for tuning in. And excuse me when I steal your stuff.

  3. squatlo says:

    Steal away, guy… half of what I own or claim is pilfered, too. I figure it’s like this: if folks don’t want us to borrow and display their stuff they should keep it in a safer place than the internet.

    Rather than twins separated at birth we might just be from the same clone batch the government implanted across the country back in the 50’s and 60’s. My dad worked for Union Carbide at a gaseous diffusion plant in Oak Ridge, Tn when they were making the bombs for the cold war, and I’m pretty sure those of us who weren’t contaminated with plutonium, berillium, and other heavy metals got enough from our mercury laced drinking water to qualify as mentally impaired. Our town’s water supply was about ten miles downstream from the weapons plants in Oak Ridge, and they didn’t waste a lot of time or money properly disposing of their mistakes in those days. We consider ourselves lab rats in an on-going experiment.
    The Catholic thing was my mom’s effort to bring some kind of theology into our house, since my dad’s consisted of Falstaff beer and Camel cigarettes. So until I outweighed her ass she drug me to Mass every Sunday, signed me up for altar boy duties, and because of that I spent a lot of my formative youth gaining a well-thought-out loathing of religions and all the ceremonial bullshit they bring to the party. You might notice a bit of an edge to my stuff when the god crowd is in the news…

    I’m the only kid in the history of The Blessed Sacrament Church in Harriman Tennessee to have been A) hit in the chest with a Bible thrown by a furious nun, or B) kicked out of Catechism (sp?) for inciting a disturbance at the ripe old age of 14… All I did in both cases was get a terminal case of the giggles in an inappropriate setting, and you’d have thought I was caught whacking off to the Virgin Mary’s statue in the vestibule from the way they flipped out! (heavy sigh…)

    One of my older sisters tried to drag me back to a midnight Mass a few Xmas’s ago, but I convinced her I shouldn’t go along because I was concerned my head would either revolve like Linda Blair’s in The Exorcist, or I would pitch a fit at the door like Damien in The Omen. I’d had a few brews at the time, so she knew better than to insist…
    Haven’t been back, and hope I don’t outlive my siblings so that I can keep saying that until I kick… I’m afraid they’ll insist on having their own funerals in the Church, and I’d hate to miss that because of my curmudgeony opinions… probably get me on the family shit-list big time.
    Pretty sure I can medicate myself through one or two ceremonies, if need be…

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