Archive for January, 2011

Pooch Screwed Again; Mooner Screwed, But Not Screwed

Monday, January 31st, 2011


So. Another day, another waffle-tread boot sole caked with dog shit. I’ve much to discuss so I organized an outline on Postie Notes. I somehow managed to use an entire pad– purple ones this time, because purple is the color that best fits my mood.

I love Postie Notes. Since the first day the 3-M Company rolled them out, I’ve been stuck on the little rubber cement-edged marvels. And don’t start on me about the rubber cement dealie. I know it’s not rubber cement anymore and I also know that whatever glue they use is likely more toxic than than Glen Beck’s spittle.

I simply don’t give a shit. Posties are the only thing that can keep me organized. Without them, my writings would be nothing more than randomly-sequenced ramblings.

Take this weekend, for example. I started the weekend on a high note. My comment dealie here to my bloggie was repaired, I was making progress in psycho therapy in my regular sessions, and I had managed to pretty much lick my Wonderella bad habits.

Then at Saturday breakfast, I got tangled up with my Gram and her muddled logic. Of course there was also the young Swiss boy that she hadn’t kidnapped from the student union down to Texas A&M. We never did find the young foreign exchange student’s clothes, of course.

He was too small for any of my stuff, so Mother went out to the barn and rummaged through the closet full of Daddy’s old clothes she still hordes. My father has been dead for thirteen years and Mother still keeps his stuff. Now most of you are thinking, “Oh, how sentimental, how sweet.”

You couldn’t be more wrong. Nope, my sweet, martyred mother is saving them in the hope that I might find some additional wear from Daddy’s old moth-eaten stuff. Somehow my 46-XX sizing will shrink down to Daddy’s 38-Short.

When she came back from the barn with an armload of things for the boy, Gram took him back to her room to get him dressed. When they finally came out night for dinner, he was wearing a red and gray flannel shirt, Daddy’s Sunday best cowboy boots and a pair of purple paint-splattered coveralls that I remember from 1971. Gram wanted her cast iron bedposts painted purple and Grandaddy refused to do it. My father did the painting to shut her up, and maybe that’s why my mood is purple.

When asked to show his new duds to the table full of Johnsons gathered for supper, the little guy blushed thermometer red. But he did a little pirouette and a bow before sitting down.

“See,” Mother said to all of us. “I told you those things still had some use in them.”

Me, being a businessman and all, I attempted to calculate how lucky I am to live on property that has almost unlimited storage space. If you start in 1998, when you could rent a garage-sized dry-storage unit for about $45/month, adjust for the present value of a dollar and add capitalizations costs, the Swiss kid’s new suit of used clothing costs about $8,000.

Another Johnson Family lesson in higher finance.

But like my Gram says, she’ll say, “Who gives a shit, Mooner?” And she’d be right. If it makes Mother happy to think she saves money by storing a dead man’s worn-out work clothes for a possible future need…

Anyway, don’t you think my ADHD is better? I’ve barely been digressing or disturbing lately. Which is a miracle in its own rights after what Squatlo has done to me. Go to and check out the video he has of Michele Bachmann’s tea bagger response to President Obama’s State of the Union speech.

I was scheduled for a dinner date with SAC Ellen last night, the first in awhile. She was finally convinced that I was cured of my unnatural fascinations with Wonderella and was letting me back in her graces. We were sitting at our table at Fonda San Miguel and waiting for appetizers, and I had been bragging about being cured of Wonderella.

I guess I’d been doing that “me thinks mayhaps me-lady doth protest too much-eth” dealie when the SACster said, “Let’s check out your blog, big boy, and see if that’s true.”

She opened her I-phone and logged onto my site. She giggled at my latest posting a few times, and when she got to the end, she said, “Wow, eight comments already!” and she punches the button to read the comments.

“Oh look, Mooner, your comment poster must be messed up again. The only one shown is from that nice man Squatlo. He’s smart, isn’t he?” and she reads Squat’s comment.

Now me, I’d been too fucking busy prepping for my date and a hearty round of taser gun sex to check up on my bloggie. But what should I have to worry about when the only additional content not written by me, was written by my buddy Squat?

“What fake Michele Bachmann video?” SAC Ellen asked.

The words brought an instant chill to my spine. My freshly plucked and polished neder-regions deflated and wrinkled like a dried goat’s bladder. I had gone to see Ingrid to wax and pluck me for my planned night of sexing.

I thought quickly, my mind a jumbled mess of ADHD-addled misfiring synapses.

“Oh, well, that’s just a little joke between me and the Squatster. It’s nothing.”

Now I can tell that she’s linking to Squat’s bloggie site. She’s reading and scrolling and giggling and saying, “Yep, the boy’s a sharpie.”

“Ah, here it is,” she says, and she starts the video on Squatlo’s site. She laughs out loud at the hilarious skit, and when it stops she says, “Oh lookie here, Mooner, he’s had 15 comments,” and she starts reading them.

Oh shit! Do something Mooner, and do it quick. “Come on baby, let’s put the I-net away and focus on us.” God I hoped I wasn’t whining.

SAC Ellen turned her phone screen to me and said, “What, “us”, Mooner?”

Someone asked me one time how I can have ten ex-wives without ever cheating on a one of them. At the time, I was at a loss for words.

Carta Blanca beer and Squirt have been my companion’s since I got back home to the ranch after my aborted date. I’d be truly miserable if I drank any other beer.

Manana, y’all.

Why I’m Nuts; Another Day Shot To Shit

Saturday, January 29th, 2011


So. Today was going to be a wonderful day. I have many things to be happy about and I’m man enough to admit them.

At breakfast just now, I was sitting with Gram, Aunt Hilda and Mother, Gnat (she’s my trusty assistant out to Mooner’s Compost Plant), Gram’s best buddy P-cubed, and this young guy in a Texas A&M tee shirt and boxer shorts The Squirt was sitting on a stool at my side.

P-cubed is Penelope Paxton-Parades, a retired librarian, and mightily pissed puppy over the AISD’s plans to fire librarians to save money. The young man is quiet, and looks scared.

Mother says to Gram, she says,“Oh for Pete sakes, Gram, tell this boy to go put his clothes on. He’s not properly dressed for dining at my table.”

“Can’t find them,” Gram said around a mouthful of oatmeal with fresh figs and honey from someplace in Tennessee. It sounded like she said, “Pfanf phin nuumm.”

Squirt started snickering and whispered in my ear, “Tu grandmamacita es muy fucking funny, Bwana Mooner.”

“Shh,” I whispered back. “If we’re not careful we’re gonna reach the critical mass required to put Mother into full martyr lock-down.”

My mother has already anointed herself “Saint Mother”, and cast her role to be long suffering at the hands of her family. The race to be Saint Mother’s number one cross to bear would end in a tie between Gram and me.

I needed to save the day, so I say, “Hey everybody, I’ve got loads of good news. I got my bloggie comment dealie fixed, well that is to say that Ben the computer genius fixed it, I got finished with my first rewrite of the edit on my book, and look– most of the important women in my life are here with me for breakfast. I’m a very lucky boy!”

I held a hand to my heart and lifted the other skyward to emphasize my luck and good news.

I did, of course, neglect to mention the laundry list of important women not present– SAC Ellen, Reckmonster, Thundercat832, Wonderella, Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, and more.

Then, I wondered if I might be making real progress when I realized that Wonderella made a fourth place finish in my important-ladies-in-my-life derby mop-up race.

“I’ve got a robe I can give this child,” I said. “Squirt, run back to my closet and bring back one of my UT robes.”

“Si, Senor Mooner. I shall return muy pronto.” Off she raced.

Gram swallowed another mouth full of tasty oatmeal and said, “Well, ya little shitbird, iffn ya’s so happy with yer stuff, whyn’t cha say a prayer a thanks?”

Oh for God sakes, I think to myself. This old gasbag is going to start getting all Baptist lady on my ass. Give me a fucking break.

 “I’ll break yer fucking face iffn ya don’t stop taking the Lord’s name to Maine,” Gram said.

Holy shit am I thinking out loud to myself a lot. “That’s taking His name in “vain” Gram. Maine’s a state,” I say. Maybe that will end this discussion.

Instead, this gets me a case of the evil eye from my grandmother. But I feel too good to be effected much, and I find it hard to take Gram seriously when one of her hopefully-eighteen-tear-old boyfriends is sitting half naked at my breakfast table. This is technically my house, not Mother’s

“Who gives a shit, Mooner. I’m gonna Maine ya fer being all sacroplasty.”

Why bother telling her it’s “sacrilegious”?

Gram drains her glass of grapefruit juice with a hardy slurp, plunks the glass down too sharply and it almost breaks. “Look here Mooner. Little Tinker Bell over there is a diminity student from Switzerland er somewheres, and he a takin a rematical down to Aggie country. I want ya ta be nice to im.”

What in the world have I ever done to deserve this shit. I’ve got a foreign exchange student on sabatical, sitting at my breakfast table in his underwear, and poking his spoon at a bowl of grade-A number one oatmeal, with this look on his face that says, “What planet did I wake up on?”.

“Gram?” I asked “Did you dose this boy with a little something?”

“Well a course I did. You don’t spect me ta go ta all this trouble fer a quickie do ya?”

I started drinking Carta Blanca beer at 8:30 this morning. It’s 8:00 at night now and I’ve finally washed the memory of breakfast from my brain.

Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson asked me in my telephone therapy session this afternoon, “Are you drinking, Mooner?”

“Does the Pope wear ladies clothes and protect child rapists?” I replied.

We spent the fifty-minutes that mark an hour’s passing on a psycho therapy clock discussing why I get all tangled up with so many women.

No Wonderella I’m so fucking crazy. Manana, y’all.

Reckmonster And Thundercat832– Mooner Sanwich Or Early Death? More Medical Malady

Thursday, January 27th, 2011


So. What a fucking week. Texas governor Rick “Pass the Hatchet, Honey, I’ve Got Some Higher Education To Fix” Perry is doing his best to fulfill campaign promises made in recent elections.

“I promise to do the stupidest shit you ever did see,” were his words. I’m paraphrasing his actual quoted words here. OK, maybe I interpolated a touch as well. But to anybody with a double-digit IQ (that would be the level of intelligence required for entrance at the University of Alabama (Roll Tide)), can decode my meanings.

In support of Little Ricky’s efforts to castrate, hysterectofy and contralto-tize the education out of Texas schools, the Austin Independent School District has decided that the best way to cut some budget fat from their problematic midsection is to fire librarians.

To paraphrase Shakespeare, “The first thing we do let’s fire all the librarians.”

When asked to comment about the plan, married to a former librarian and former president of the United States– an intellectual giant of the Republican party, the right honorable George W. Bush said, “Well..(pause for deep thought and contemplation), who needs all those lie-berryans anyways? Texas school books don’t need no help.”

When George W. was reminded that his wife, Laura, had been a librarian, he commented, “Really?”

Maybe I dreamed the GW Bushkin quote.

But worse than the nasty effects that my state legislature is having on my psyche, my bloggie comment capcha dealie was twisting my shorts so tight I couldn’t feel my balls. My computer guy finally got it fixed, but with MS Vista as my operating system, no fix is easy. Getting a new computer isn’t an option because Vista clings to what weak memories it has tighter than my Gram on a college frat boy that she’s cuffed to the bed.

And you can’t pry a college boy from my Gram’s spiny claws with a tow truck and a backhoe. Been tried.

Anyway, so early this morning I was shaving and I noticed that I needed to tend to the redwood forest that the interior of my nose has become. Actually I should call it the gray wood forest. I’ve got these thick, gray nose hairs that must have come from a wild boar gene sequence hiding in my DNA. Some long recessive trait that decided to come out and fuck with me.

Normally, I pluck or wax unwanted hairs. Like what Ingrid does for my ass shows. Ingrid is an ex-wife and owner of Ingrid’s Hot Wax Emporium. She’s got a place down to south Lamar. She gave me these professional tweezers to use at home to keep things tidy between waxings, so the first time I noticed a coarse gray hair protruding from my nose, I plucked.

Now these nose hairs are something special. Really, I mean it. I clamped the tweezers to the hair at it’s base, and gave it what I felt to be an appropriate tug. Nothing happened except I got a sharp sting in my nose and tears in my eyes. I wiped my eyes so I could see to grip the hair again, and this time…I tugged.

The hair stayed stuck in my nose and the tweezers slipped off. My hand smashed into the mirror and shattered it to bits. That was seven years ago.

Pissed, I went to the garage and grabbed this pair of adjustable needle-nose pliers we use to mend fences. I used the rear view mirror on my 1967 GTO to spot the fucking hair, gripped it in the jaws of the pliers and then jacked the knob down tight.

“This might hurt a little,” I said to myself, out loud. And then I held the pliers in both hands and yanked with all of my might.

I awoke a few hours later, laying on my back in a pool of my own blood. My hands still gripped the pliers tightly, and when I could focus my eyes, I saw that somehow I had managed to pull a balled and burlap tree from my nose.

And every time I took a breath through my nose, I could feel cold air wheezing in my liver. That fucking hair had rooted in my liver.

Plan B has been to use a scissors to trim the little fuckers as close to the skin as I can, and move on.

Anyway, my ADHD has been on the fritz, what with all the politics and bloggie capcha bullshit, and I guess I was a touch distracted. I was wondering what it would feel like to be the creamy Mooner filling in a Reckmonster and Thundercat832 sandwich. I was thinking that between the three of us we hit the gene pool of every continent, and wouldn’t it be fun.

And I clipped the flesh in my nose with the fucking scissors. Made that sound like when you use poultry shears to trim the skin on a duck.

People say that your scalp bleeds the worst of any body part. People who say that shit have never cut the inside of their nose. Or their pecker.

Peckers bleed the worst of anything. There was this one time Mother, she’s my actual mother, zipped my little precious into the rusted zipper of Daddy’s old coveralls. I was three. And I’ll stop there because that story is in the book.

I’ll just say that you’ll see less blood at a chicken fight than what you’ll witness at a pecker cutting.

But interior nose cuts are a good second place. One second I’m thinking how much trouble I’d be in if SAC Ellen knew I was thinking about the texture of the Reckster’s skin, and wondering if the T-cat has big nipples, when… snip!

So, I’ve spent the day with the end of a Tampex stuffed into my nose. I’ve been busy all day and haven’t had time to change it, and now I’m scared to. I just know that my blood has welded the absorbent cotton to the lining of my nose. So I left it in.

Then, a few minutes ago, sitting at our just-finished dinner, Gram looks at my face and says to me, she says, “Oh fer shit sakes, Mooner. Yer gonna get a case of them taxer shit Simmons. Git that cotton out yer nose.”

“Don’t you mean “toxic shock syndrome, Gram?” I had to ask.

“Who gives a shit, Mooner. Sumthins gone a git you sooner er later. Now go blow yer nose and git me a bowl a puddin’.”

I made some butterscotch pudding from scratch. It was good.

So. Now I’m worried I’ll get TSS, but I’m also worried about reopening a nose bleeder. Maybe if I soak it in warm water I can get the Tampex loose enough to remove without tearing the scab.

This is going to be a twelve-packer of Carta Blanca beers night. I better get cracking. Manana, y’all.

My Comment Problem; More State Budget Smarts

Wednesday, January 26th, 2011


So. This is a very quick note to tell you how sorry I am that my comment stuff is all fucked-up here to my bloggie.

My computer fixer guy is out of town so I’ve been attempting to fix it myself. Me working on my computer is as smart, and risky, as hiring a deaf-dumb-and-blind-guy to disarm bombs. I’m a pinball wizard but a lousy computer fixer.

What I have discovered is that the Word Press widget maker for my capcha program dealie has this sign on his website that states very clearly, “This program is being rewritten.” The “rewritten” part was in blue.

“You don’t fucking say,” was first out of my mouth, out loud, and loud.

Whenever Ben the computer fixer gets back to me I’ll get this shit fixed. I promise. Please don’t abandon me. I’m too fragile.

Which reminds me. Today’s paper had an update to give us a peek at some more of Little Ricky Perry’s proposed budget cuts. It now appears that the mental health out-patient care system is facing huge reductions in staffing and other funding.


Let me bottom line this dealio. These are the programs that provide medication, counseling and job assistance to our bipolar, schizophrenic and other less-well diagnosed unfortunates. The programs in line to get these budget whacks provide the drugs that allow many of these folks to avoid jail, hospitalization and homelessness.

Oh yea, and anger, and violence.

Crazy people don’t want to be violent in the same way that people with cancer don’t want to die. Me, I don’t want to fuck things up all the time, I just do. But without my psycho therapy, and the non-prescription potions administered by my Gram, I’d likely be dangerous in far more dangerous ways.

I can afford to pay for my own treatments, I don’t depend on the goodwill of society to protect itself of, and from, me. So I haven’t tracked-down the man who raped me as a kid, and set him on fire with his own severed dick in his mouth. Because I get treatment, I haven’t gone to Walmart and bought the guns that I would use to shoot-up the programmer and designer section of the Micro Soft Vista operating system.

People who need but go untreated, un-medicated, are incapable of controlling their thoughts and impulses. That’s why they need treatment and medication for shitsakes. When their illness goes unchecked is when they act out.

Can anybody say, “Tucson, Arizona,”?

So again, let me get this straight. We’ll just cut off our nose– slash mental health care benefits, and just face the music? That will cause more mental instability and significant acting-out. Then, we’ll arrest those nasty loonies and put then jails or hospitals. We’ve got way too many vacant rooms in those facilities, right?

Brilliant budgetary insights. We’ll cut daily medication and treatment costs of a few dollars a day, and replace that cost with a jail cell.

Why don’t we just buy each person on the mental health roll a gun with 2 bullets. We’ll go to Walmart and get a special deal on our Saturday Night specials. Then, a one-hour gun lesson on how to stick the gun in their ear and pull the trigger. We’ll get our lawmakers to do the training, make them look each each crazy in the eyes before sending them to meet the Maker. (The second bullet is because we crazies sometimes require two shots to get things right)

Ugh, and fuck Rick Perry.

Five am and I need Carta Blanca beer.

There’s A Dick In My Predictions; Grumble, Grumble

Tuesday, January 25th, 2011


So. Sometimes I hate when I get things right. I often wish that my views on a subject were totally wrong. I wish that I could get right the stuff I want to get right, and be oh-so-wrong on the other stuff.

But, alas, my ADHD-addled mind basically bats .500. My won-loss record is a 50/50 sort of dealie when I want to be right. I know Sarah Palin would see me as having an admirable record, but that’s little comfort for even a prattle-brain like me.

But lately I’m batting a thousand on my Texas political predictions. I’ve been trying to warn everyone about Little Ricky Perry and his band of brothers for years. For some reason my less than stellar overall batting average reaches Hall of Fame numbers when evaluating the motives of that little fuckball, Texas Governor Perry.

I feared that he would use the massive $27 billion state budget shortfall as an excuse to further punish our citizens, and tried to warn everyone a few days ago. Well, cut my social programs and call me Nostradamus, I was right.

Dammit, I was right.

First, in a head fake to make us look away from the black hole in our state’s treasuries, the little man announced his important emergency legislation requiring a woman to become intimate with her fetus before she aborts it. Like how about we make the Executioner down to Huntsville State Prison blow each condemned man before pushing the button. Clear headed law making at its best.

Now, the boy’s next step is to eliminate all financial aid to freshman college students when those programs are cut by 41%. You heard me right– a forty-one-per-cent cut. For those of you with teenagers, you know how you’ve been pushing your kids to do their best and get into the top ten percent of their class so they can go to college as the big reward? Grab your panties Sarah, because that program is looking at a 79% reduction.

Yesterday, in my pissy rant about Little Ricky’s abortion bill, I asked where all of the stupid fucks have come from who keep electing an egomaniacal moron such as the Rickster. I just figured it out.

We’re breeding and brainwashing them right here to home.

Never have I wished Squatlo to be more wrong about something than when he calls Texans the worst, as a group, of America’s right-wing religious zealots. I’m sad and embarrassed and angry that he is spot-on right.

But I’ve seen this issue with a new clarity as the sun has risen over the Lone Star State this morning. I now understand what Rick Perry and his bunch are up to. Here is my new thought.

Let me ask a question, the question I asked myself that started me to clarity’s door. If you were Rick Perry, what is the one thing you can do to strengthen and perpetuate your iron-fisted grip on our state’s voters?

My answer: make them dumber and dumber.

Force them to read school books that teach your mystical world views ahead of reality-based facts. Cut higher educational support for our brightest minds. Push teen motherhood and school dropouts.

“If you’re so fucking smart little girl, go git you a education up to New York or one a them other communist states. Go be a burden somewhere’s elst.”

That’s his message.

When I was a kid we had a joke about Oklahoma: What happens when a moron moves from Texas to Oklahoma? The IQ goes up in both states.

I doubt it was true when I was a kid, but I thought it a funny joke. It pains me to my soul to say it, but if the moron moved back to Texas today– I’d feel better about my state’s community intellect. That’s no joke.

And don’t go getting all word-police on my ass about the moniker “moron”. I never use moron to describe a person of accidentally-diminished capacities. I’m speaking of the morons who choose to be so.

The scariest part of this situation is this. I can tell you exactly what Rick Perry and his supporters are thinking. You ready?

“Oh goody, a $27 billion budget deficit. Now we can cut every social program by as much as we want. Anybody got some Cuban cigars?”

Fuck Rick Perry!

Drink Carta Blanca beer. Manana, y’all.

Sorry, But I Must Say, “Fuck Rick Perry!”

Monday, January 24th, 2011


So. I want to apologize again for the mess my 19-question test dealie was. Is. Micro Soft Vista mixes with Word Press like a lit match in an over-sprayed beehive hairdo. My computer stupid added to the mess as well, but even my computer fixer-upper guy just shrugs his shoulders at Vista.

Here’s the deal. Texas Republican governor Rick “Little Ricky” Perry has decided to throw a wet blanket over the $27 billion state budget shortfall he has created by playing to his right-wing religious fan base. Instead of dealing with the worst budget shortfall of any state in the country, Little Ricky is pitching an “emergency” abortion bill to congress.

Our head Prick has pushed out the first bill of the session, and it goes like this. Before any woman can have an abortion, she must pay for a sonogram and then watch the pretty pictures and listen to the accompanying sound track.

“Women won’t be so quick to abort their children,” was the basics of the little pissant’s big close when he announced his important legislation.

No wonder his wife, Anita, always looks like she’s been catching it in the ass from a donkey. Have you ever seen photos of that poor woman? John Kelso did a funny piece in our paper to draw attention to her plights.

Me, I’ve been trying to get some sort of grip on the boy’s logic in this dealie. But all I can find is this. OK, you silly little man, if we want to make a woman look at a sound picture of her fetus before an abortion, then:

Why don’t we make you look into the eyes of every child in Texas before you enact legislation or budget cuts that reduce their school funding;

Why don’t we require you to spend a month sleeping in a cardboard box under a bridge before you make another cut to funding for the mentally ill;

How about we put you on a dumpster diet before you take away social programs that fund food stamps;

Let’s make you play nurse to sick children before you limit their ability to obtain health care coverage.

That little bastard wants to protect unborn fetuses in the name of God. In the name of God, man, grow a heart for those of us already here.

Where did the voter base that keeps electing this moron come from? How did the great state of Texas come to lose its moral compass? What in the hell has happened to my country?

It’s a wonder the people in other countries don’t like us.

Fuck Rick Perry.

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

Read At Your Own Risk; ADHD+Squatlo+Reckmonster=This

Monday, January 24th, 2011


[Author’s Note: Have I told you how much I hate MS Vista? I have spent the last 2 hours attempting to get the formatting fixed for this post. I’m sorry for the mess, but it’s Squatlo and Reckmonster’s fault. I am but the messenger.]

So. Psycho therapy sucks. After thirty years of near spotless attendance, numerous extended visits to the Shoal Creek Mental Hospital, and the payment of hourly fees that total in excess of $2 million, I’m still all fucked up.

Lately, I’ve been working on finding commonality of interest with people in order to learn to interact in ways that don’t lead to slaps and arrests. The theory behind this particular therapy lesson is this. If you have areas of mutual interest with a person, then it should be unlikely that the other person will slap you, or seek your arrest.

I haven’t been able to stay out of trouble long enough to know if it will ever work. What I can tell you is that all of my efforts to instigate relationships based on commonality of interest have bitten me in the ass.

Take my efforts to develop kinships with other bloggers here to the webber. I develop a closeness to Wonderella– I support her great comic strip and promote her name around the I-net. What do I get in return? A sex-free life.

Then there’s Squatlo, evil genius blogger from the state that catches all of Kentucky’s shit as it rolls downhill. I have become his fast friend here to webland and I must say that he has been a lot of work.

Then there’s the whole God-pays-me-a-visit dealie. He didn’t stay long but I think we really bonded while he was with me. But all I’ve gotten from his visit is an aftermath of grief.

But that fucker Squatlo takes the cake. There’s this 19-question tag thingie getting passed around blog sites like a hot potato. Reckmonster tossed it to Squatlo who has tossed it to me. Now I want to toss my cookies. If I don’t answer all nineteen questions and then pass it along to four more bloggers, my pecker will double in size and then fall off.

What could be worse than learning that you have a giant pecker only to discover you have to carry it in a box?

Look, I’m just going to get this over with. I want to bitch and complain but I like my pecker attached.

The Test

  1. If you have a pet, do you see it merely as an animal or are the members of your family.

Well for starters, why didn’t you proofread this damn test? For seconds of shit pie, what do you mean when you say “pet/s”? I have a collection of peeves that somehow manage to pet themselves in the face of my efforts to rid them from my life. So, to answer part two of question number one, as it relates to my pet peeves, I treat them like I do my Gram. Love/hate, hate/love, you can’t kill family.

I still have my pet rocks, Rocky and Granita and their little twins, Stoney and Marge. Them I don’t consider family.

With ten ex-wives, I have many pet names. My ass has so many pet names I won’t even start; my cooking prowess has garnered me the monikers “Grill King” and “Boss Tomato”. Roshandra called me her “Buzzy Boy” in honor of this little thingie she liked me to do to her crotchie; my therapist and first ex-wife, Dr. Sam-I Am-Johnson calls me a “crazy and inappropriate redneck fuckball”; the Squirt calls me a pet name in Swahili– “Bwana Mooner.”

My pecker has had many nicknames: my personal favorite, “King Cobra”; funniest, “that’s not a pickle”; least favorite, “you’re 6’4” for shit sakes, is that all you’ve got?”; then there’s SAC Ellen’s affectionate “Stun Gun Willy”; and the always popular “The little man on Mooner”. I treat my pecker exactly like family– love/hate, hate/love, won’t cut it off.

Then you would have your classical lines of pets, living, breathing varmints. I have my own dog, Dixie, a matriarch of the dog world and international music maven. She’s third generation Golden Retriever with the Johnson family and will be the last of her line. I love her.

I might as well have a second dog and that would be the Squirt, and each dog thinks they are my boss. They push and bully me. Squirt has been getting me into a world of trouble.

Then there’s Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry, the gay pig and ostrich who live in my closet. Why isn’t it “whoms live in my closet”?

Now, therefore and here-to-whence, in answer to the question, since I would risk my life to protect the animals, I guess family.

Except that brings the entire question into question because I would debate long and hard about risking my life to save my Gram.

2. If you can have a dream come true, what would it be?

I would like to have a chance to see if the grass is greener for sane people. I would like to live a month without the ADHD, with the option to extend the sanity, if desired.

  1. What is the one thing most hated by you?

This one’s easy. Any person who carries the prejudice of religious superiority. If you think that you should control my life or make decisions for me based upon your religious beliefs– fuck you. Especially the right-wing Christian Republican Baptists and their cronies.

  1. What would you do with a billion dollars?

First, I’d hire a computer expert and a Photo Shop geek, and I’d pay them to frame Squatlo. I’d have them fix it to where I had iron-clad evidence that shows the Squatster in a torrid affair with Reckmonster.

Then I’d give the evidence to Squat’s wife and film his ass-kicking. The boy’s wife is a serious ass-kicker. Then I’d send a copy of the film to the Reckster to make her cry.

Next, I’d take $100 million and set it aside for later contemplations.

The rest, I’d distribute among groups that fight prejudice against gays, groups that seek-out and punish child rapists, and I’d start a TV cable channel and only show shit I like. Intelligent commentary, comedy, music and great movies. Like Slaughterhouse Five, Catch-22, Where’s Poppa, A Clockwork Orange, etc.

  1. What helps pull you out of a bad mood?

Another easy one. OK, easy depending upon what made me in a bad mood. Like right now I’m in a bad mood because I’m not getting any sex. This is Wonderella’s fault, with an assist from Squatlo. What would end that emotional slump is a blow job. Or some sweaty taser sex.

But if I was in a bad mood because Rick Perry is the governor of my state, I’d say, “Fuck Rick Perry.” That always makes me feel better. Fuck Rick Perry, fuck Rick Perry, etc., ad nauseum and ad infinito.

Then, if I was upset because the auto-format dealie to my ignorant Micro Soft Vista computer couldn’t be fixed, like up above, then I’d feel better if I set my hair on fire. I rather smell burned hair and charred flesh than deal with my worthless fucking Vista system.

Hearing Squirt translate a six-word sentence in five languages always make me feel better. Carta Blanca beer too. Squirt and Carta Blanca beer are keeping me sane during this current tenure of forced celibacy.

We were down to the lake this morning, freezing our asses off trying to fish in the cold rain. Squirt loves to fish. She’s my bobber watcher. She sits and stares at my red-and-white bobbers like a bird dog on the point. She doesn’t move a muscle or blink until the bobber starts showing some action.

This morning it was so cold that after a while, she was like one of those wind-up toys that vibrate and skittle about when you put them down. She was shivering and vibrating like one of Gram’s rabbit dealies. I had to keep moving her away from the edge of the dock to keep her from going over the edge. But she never once broke point.

Which reminds me. The steady readers among yo know that I went through a hell of a 2010 with an ass-area infection. Terrible swelling and pain, and operations and nasty oozing and shit.

Well, you’ll all be glad to hear that when I checked my ass this morning in the shower– all of the swelling has subsided, and the only remnants of the problem are the still puffy and pink surgical scars. And my scarred psyche.

OK, the scars are still a touch tender, and Holy shit is my ADHD on the fritz. I’m digressing the bejesus out of all of us.

What I’m trying to say is that this commonality of interest deal might be a crock.

  1. Which is more blessed. Loving someone or being loved by someone.


  1. What is your bedtime routine?

Which one? Whose bed? Is one or more of the dogs with me? Are Rick Perry and Rush Limbaugh having a lover’s spat?

Have you ever been around a gay pig and ostrich when they have a disagreement? It’s enough to make you think about sharpening a gutting knife and sparking up the smoker.

My pair’s fights somehow manage to heat to boiling in the middle of the night. Rick Perry will hog the covers or Rush Limbaugh will fart under them. Ever smelled a hog fart?

I tried to teach the boys how to light Rushies farts and almost burned my closet down. I ended up putting one of those push button spray fragrance dispensers on the closet wall. Rick Perry pushes it like it was a pain medication clicker on his IV over to the hospital. I wanted one of those dealies when I was having all of my ass trouble.

I had to put a felt cover over the the dispenser button. Ricky’s beak is blunt but it’s hard as a rock. The “clack-clack-clack” of him punching the button was keeping me awake.

But I always brush my teeth, whiz in the sink one last time for good luck, think about what a lucky guy I am and then get in bed. Then, I either think about how wonderful clean sheets feel on my naked skin or wish I had clean sheets. Then the ADHD takes over and I wake up after some amount of time.

  1. If you are currently in a relationship, how did you meet.

Oh for shit sakes, how do I even start with this fucking question? Relationships with what, like with people, or animals, inanimate objects, governmental institutions that go by acronyms, my pecker, my ADHD, relatives, ex-wives? What, what what? I’m at 2,000+ words already and my fingers hurt.

Let’s assume, in the interest of brevity, that you mean romantic relationship. Well, I can’t tell you about how I met SAC Ellen because that story is central to the plot of my soon-to-be-published new book. That’s the same book that might never get finished because this fucking test will consume me and I’ll die while answering number 17.

So how about I tell you how I met some of my ex-wives. I’m too tired of answering these questions to do all of them, but here’s a few.

Wife numero uno, the now Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, was met at school at the University of Texas where we both attended. Streaker Jones and I were doing our naked men act and drew a crowd that included the mad Sicilian bombshell. Love at first sight.

I met Roshandra Washington-Johnson at an Austin City Council meeting and I also met Evelyn La Rousche-Johnson in Council chambers. Roshandra is a policewoman and Evelyn is an opera singer.

I met a wife in a yoga class at the YWCA.

I met a wife in jail. And on a train and in a house and with a mouse.

And I met one very special lady on a blind date.

  1. If you could watch a creative person I the act of creating, who would it be?

I’d like to watch Squatlo when his wife catches him after she watches the film framing him.

Or Ludwig Van Beethoven, or Bach, maybe. I think those two were crazies like me. Bach managed to conjure incredible music from pure mathematics. The intricacies of his composition stagger me. I envision that he had my variety of ADHD. But instead of having a myriad of conflicting simultaneous thoughts, Johann Sebastian had those terrific lyrical lines of music filling his skull.

Ludwig overpowers me with sheer beauty of dense textures and rich instrument mixes. I think the deaf Master was a brooder and bi-polar. Brutally angry one moment and deliriously happy the next.

I enjoy watching my Gram as she toils in her little basement workshop, boiling fresh magic mushrooms to make the juice that is the foundation of her potions.

  1. What kind of books do you read?

All kinds. I love detective and spy mysteries, anything funny, history. As an author myself, I”ll refrain from naming names. At least until I can persuade one to endorse me.

  1. How would you see yourself in ten years?

Hopefully in some way other than in my reflection in the eyes of caregivers. Or through the dirt. My hopes would be to see the same guy, just older and smiling a giant smile because sanity had been restored in the world and right-wing religious fuckballs had lost all influence on the planet.

  1. What’s your fear?

I fear digressing and taking too long to finish this test. Was there a time limit?

I fear additional losses of Constitutional rights at the hands of the right. I fear more silly wars. Like Billy Maher said, “If we’re going to start a war over oil, bring home some fucking oil!”

I fear that I’ll catch Alzheimer’s to go with the ADHD. Imagine having twenty thoughts at the the same time and you don’t recognize a thing about any of them.

I fear retribution from the chain-letter-bloggie-tag gods. That’s why I’m doing this silly test.

I fear isolation.

I fear nothing, because God paid me a visit and said, “You’re an good guy, Mooner.” OK, I paraphrased His actual words, but I know what He meant.

Which brings up another point. Since I have been visited by the Big Him, should all references to me be capitalized? Like Me, My, Mine, Ours, you know all of My stuff. Would need to capitalize Stuff? My Stuff, maybe.

13. Would you give up all junk food for the rest of your life in trade for a trip to outer space?

Are you kidding me? My intellect lives in outer space, and it’s not that great a place to be.

Besides, I don’t eat that much junk food anyway. Except for Cheetos.

Are French fries junk food? What about pudding?

  1. Would you rather be single and rich or married but poor?


  1. What’s the first thing you do when you wake up?

I pinch myself to see if I’m awake. As a sufferer of the dreaded ADHD, when you’ve ingested as much Carta Blanca beer and psilocybin mushroom extract as have I, it’s always important to start your day awake.

Many of my fuckups occur when I’m not sure what I’m doing.

Contrary to popular thought, walking through life in a dream and living in a dream are two distinctly different thingies.

  1. If you could change one thing about your spouse or partner, what would it be?

Are you fucking kidding me? I’m attached to a fucking federal agent for shitsakes. One with a gun and a license to kill. No way I’m wading into this one.

Except to say that I would like to change the infrequency of the sex.

  1. If you could pick a new name for yourself, what would it be?

OK, I don’t think it best to name ourselves, I think we’re best-named by others. Having said that, how about “Your Royal Highness, The Most Adored King Mooner”.

  1. Would you forgive and forget that special someone no matter how horrible a thing they have done?

Nope, since “no matter how horrible” covers some pretty horrible shit. But, I am a forgiver and a second-try kind of guy. When you fuck up as much as I do, that whole goose/gander dealie takes on new meaning.

Like the entire Wonderella debacle. I fear I might have ruined my love life over a little passing fancy between me and a semi-super powered cartoon person. I never thought my unusual fascination with a cartoon could have such a profound effect on my real woman. Who’d a thunk it?

Maybe I should say that I’m an “another-chance kind of guy”. Second chances don’t begin to cover my transgressions. Maybe I should start a new political party called the Transgressionist Party. Our party line would be, “Please forgive us because we are The Trangressionists.”

I’d let Squatlo be the chairman because he’s smart. Reckmonster could be the treasurer. She’s half semi Asian and can pinch a penny until it drips copper wire. I’ll be the pretty face.

Did I ever tell you about the time Streaker Jones and I got all messed up and decided to run Dixie for Austin City Council? Funny story.

  1. If you could eat only one thing for the next six months, what would it be.

Another easy one. The 24-hour buffet at Caesar’s Palace in Las Vegas. Or maybe the one at Bellagio.

I spent a couple weeks last summer on an onion and garlic diet and almost melted central Texas. It’s just not natural to eat any kind of limited diet.

Am I done, Teacher? I think I feel better, maybe. Maybe this is how Grandpa felt that one time after he passed a kidney stone. So far I’ve only got two of my choices ready for passing this silly test along to. The first is Whitney at and next is .

Now go away. I’ve got a book to finish.

God’s Dichotomies; Mooner’s No Prophet

Saturday, January 22nd, 2011


So. In the days since I was visited by the Big Boss, I have come to think that just maybe I’m not crazy. I’m also thinking that just mayhaps I’m way loonier than I ever imagined. And for all you grammar teachers out there, I know mayhaps is not a modern English standard word. But it should be, so fuck you.

It appears that a dichotomy has once again inserted it’s two-faced nose into my business. I hate fucking dichotomies. I blame the ancient Chinese philosopher, Chairman “Connie” Confucius, for the invention of dichotomies.

I think Connie was an in-line blood relative of the first Baptist– Connie was the original brain-fucker. All of that yin/yang bullshit was Connie’s idea. I think Harry Nilssen said it best when he sang, “Good/bad/good/bad/goo/baa/……”

Harry also delivered one of my favorite relationship songs with, “You’re breaking my hearrrt, you’re tearing it apart, so fuck youuuuu!”

I used to lay on my back on my stone patio at night, glazing into the night sky while listening to crazy Harry. His voice would help still the many voices in my head to just a few as I watched the universe pass slowly by. Yes, I meant glazing and not simply “gazing.”

If you apply a dozen cold Carta Blanca beers and a triple dose of magic mushroom juice to a gaze, you get a glaze. Like the difference between a bare-naked donut and a liquid sugared one.

Which reminds me to ask. Why, precisely, does that Krispy Kreme donut that I eat while its still toasty-hot from the glazing machine taste like a one-bite sample of nirvana, when the self-same KK donut, served cold, tastes like wax paper that used to wrap raw chicken livers before it lay in the sun?

Which brings up the childhood memory of chewing gum. Remember how gum slices were wrapped in that special paper? Streaker Jones and I would fold it lengthwise into a long, tight roll. When you bent it double, it was a perfect missile when fired from a rubber band launcher looped over thumb and index finger.

Opposing thumb dexterity is man’s greatest advantage over less civilized species.

Anyway, the latest dichotomy to infect my mind is this. On the one hand, God came to see me for a little pep talk. I was down on myself for being me, and the Big He wanted me to get past my self recriminations. “Keep doing what you’re doing, I have big plans for you, Mooner.” would be a paraphrased quote of what God told me.

Most folks would take God’s visit and apparent words of support as a good omen, and they’d start bragging and shit. They’d say stuff like, “I’m smarter than you so do what I say or God will smite you down,” or, “God told me to tell you that if you don’t stop all that homosexual activity you’re going to burn in Hell,” or my personal favorite, “God has given me a floor plan for constructing a new government, and he wants me, and my ilk, to run things. Now just close your eyes and pray after me…”

As the brother to, and ex-husband of, lesbian woman, and a man who most looks up to a gay man as my role model– what can I say to that silly logic? I mean what more can I say other than, “Fuck you, you asswipe right-wing Republican Baptist shitballs!”

I’m not concerned that I’ll become the yang to all of that yin of asinine rhetoric, but I am concerned that I’ll misread God’s intent in his planned use of me. My ego is quite well-checked, thank you, it’s my id that’s the problem.

What if Catholic Anti Abortion Lady is right. What if I am the devil’s spawn and I’m to be the foil to spark the end of days as predicted in the Mayan calendar. What if God’s visit to me was Him setting the final stages of Earth’s demise? Maybe God the Star Wars guy, George Lucas, about me and that’s why Georgie’s fully-vested in the 2012-end-of-time dealie.

Maybe God is tired of us fucking things up all the time. Maybe he’s tired of proctoring such high maintenance made-in-his-own-image screw-ups? I know that when my two sons were at each other’s throats with sharp objects, as they often were as boys, I was tempted to just allow them to let-er-rip.

Sometimes I felt as though fathering was too much trouble, and my tenure in the position lasted but a few years. God has been putting up with our shit for-fucking ever.

At dinner, when I told Streaker Jones that I was worried that God’s visit was not confirmation that I was thinking and acting correctly, but rather He was making sure that I continued my path to lead the world to mass destruction, he said, “So what?”

I told you guys Streaker Jones is a genius. Really, so what? We were sitting at the dinner table last night when I brought the subject into review. I noticed that Gram was starting to give me the Evil Eye. “What do you think, Gram?” I asked her. I find it’s always best to invite her into discussion rather than wait for her to come barging in with guns blazing.

She thought for a bit and said, “Who gives a shit, Mooner. Yer a little fuckball either way. Now pass me tha boilt cabbage.”

Gram’s right. Who does give a shit? I mean except for me.

I was sort of feeling better after conversing about all of this with my family and best buddy. I tried to sum up my sentiments on the subject so we could move on to the next subject. “See why I hate dichotomies? You can’t ever resolve one without creating more. What do you call a dichotomy’s dichotomy?” I asked them.

“Mooner Johnson!” almost shouted by the chorus of voices.

Well, of course. Ask a stupid question. Manana, y’all.

Maybe The Pope Consults With Rick Perry; A Mooner Insight

Wednesday, January 19th, 2011


So. Sometimes it hurts to be right. Today’s Austin American Statesman newspaper provided corroborative evidence that my recent visit from God really happened. Today’s paper provides proof positive that my foreshadowing skills are both highly accurate, and bothersome.

At His recent visit to Moonerland, God, Who would now be confirmed to be the One, the Only– actual God, told me that I need to keep doing what I’m doing; that Streaker Jones, Squatlo and I are part of some bigger plan; that Carta Blanca beer has been granted His Seal of Approval; and that Texas Governor Rick “Little Ricky” Perry is a fuckball.

He also told me to start capitalizing all my references to Him, which is the only thing He told me that was confusing. Like in the sentence that started the last paragraph. Should I have said, “The One, The Only,” with capital Ts on my the-s? I thought about a simple solution and that was to just capitalize every-fucking thing in a sentence wherein He is mentioned. Looked silly when I did it that way.

I also worry that He will be pissed at me for cussing in the same sentences in which He is mentioned. Then again, He said, “Fuck Rick Perry,” and he made a Wonderella joke during His brief visit. I certain that my God has a sense of humor and can take a joke as well as make one.

I have always thought that visits from God were imaginary events conjured from the minds of crazy people. Like Joan d’ Arc. I still think she was a total nut job, but I’m also starting to give the benefit of a doubt as to whether He actually visited her with advice to smite some ass for the Catholic Church.

I know I’m crazy and I know God came to sit with me, but I’m not all that crazy like Joanie. And holy shit am I digressing.

Let’s get back to today’s paper. Yesterday I predicted that the first things to be butchered in the attempt to balance our Texas state budget would be education, health care and social programs. Today’s headline: “Spartan budget plan calls for broad cuts. Public school funding, financial aid, and health care would take big hits.”

I hate being right sometimes.

Now remember folks, Little Ricky has been telling the Devil Obama in DC that Texas doesn’t need a nationalized health care plan because we got it handled here to home. What he didn’t bother to say is that his way to handle it is to ignore it to make the problem go away. What health care problem? I don’t got no stinking health care problem.

Ricky, listen to me son. Ignoring problems will not make them go away. Thirty years of psycho therapy have provided me with at least that limited insight.

But enough already with the Texas politics. Let’s talk about the Holy Roman Catholic Church. My position for years has been that the Vatican has been hiding and protecting priest rapists behind their mommy’s flowing robes. I have always thought that the Pope(s) have provided safe haven to the bastards as a matter of policy.

I have been harassed and threatened by Catholics for spreading false and impure ideas about their blessed religion. As with my Texas budget prediction above, today’s paper has proved me spot-on one more once.

“Vatican warned bishops not to report abuse cases,” is the story lead. The article started, “A 1997 letter (written by Pope John Paul’s diplomat to Ireland) warned Irish bishops not to report suspected child-abuse cases to police…”

The article went on to say that the letter threatened bishops who ignored the policy to only handle cases of child rape by their clergyman with in-house policy. Policy violators would be “highly embarrassed” by the Vatican.

Once more, a religion places itself above the law. Isn’t that the causal foundation for the Dark Ages and the Inquisition?

Me, I sort of view some of this shit like a modern day Inquisition. Shitballs are murdering “non-believers” in the name of their Gods, other shitballs are legislating by rule of their right-wing religious belief systems, and the Catholics continue to be Catholic.

I much preferred President Clinton’s rule under the influence of blow jobs to any religious influenced politics. How many wars have been started by men routinely getting their pipes cleaned by willing, comely young lasses?

I’m out of steam. Manana, y’all.

If God Says I’m OK, Then What Are You?

Tuesday, January 18th, 2011


So. I told you about my visit from God in yesterday’s writings. Wait, let me attempt to clarify. Yesterday, in my bloggie posting, I told you that God had paid me a visit.

I told you about the visit only to fulfill my promise to tell you about anything interesting that happens in my life. It wasn’t to impress you nor was it to recruit to the Church of the Full Rising Mooner. I don’t care if you think I’m nuts, because I am, and I don’t care if you don’t care.

Some of my best buddies have disparaged me (Streaker Jones and Squatlo), some right-wing religious fuckballs have called me a heretic, and my Gram has spent hours telling me stories about when the Big Guy has visited her.

Some of my Gram’s stories are disturbing.

“Have I ever told ya bout tha time I was down ta Aggie land this one time?” Gram giggled, as she popped the top off a cold Carta Blanca at dinner last night. “Funniest thing ya ever did see. Had me a engineer an his roomie tied to tha bumper a the one fella’s pick-up, an me an tha P-cubed was duin a dance fer um afore we sexed em up.”

Gram took a big slurp of her been, and went on, “Yes-siree-Bob, we was going in fer poontanger a sixth time. Wait, now, it mighta been seven. Them boys was saying no, but we knew better. I’d dosed em with my Party Potion Number Nine, Mooner, an I knew they had another couple runs left in um.”

She had to go on.

“But where does God come in to this story, Gram?” I asked.

“Oh yea. Tha one young fella was seeing stuff an said God was wavin him on ta Heaven. Mighta dosed him with a tad too much mushroom juice.”

Yes, I suspect she might have.

Streaker Jones told me, he said, “Mooner, you talk too much.”

He’s right, I know I do.

But I don’t give a shit what anyone thinks of me. Never have. I especially don’t give a shit if you’re a Baptist shitwad and you’re pissed that I would have the audacity to say that God paid me a visit. You rotten right-wing Republican mother fuckers had better pray that I imagined God’s visit. If I read the Big Guy right, He told me to keep doing what I’m doing– that He approves of me.

So fuck you.

And before I forget, Little Ricky Perry was re-inaugurated today. I refused to listen to that shit brain’s speech, but I caught a sound bite before I could change the channel. That brain dead moron made us Texans another promise. He promised to balance the budget shortfall without creating any new taxes. He promised to do that by cutting wasteful spending.

Which means that he will be cutting education, health care and any other meaningful budget items. I don’t know about your states, but here in Texas the only meaningful activities our state government manages to participate in are social in nature.

Everything else they do is a cluster fuck. And for the last twelve years, even our social programs are fucked clusters. The Republicans have seen to it.

People keep asking me if Rick Perry is really such an asshole as I say. Find a copy of his speech today and see for yourself. I heard just the one little bit that speech, but I can promise you that any reasonable man can see through that little fucker’s thin veneer of right-wing hate and straight to his black heart.

But don’t take my word for it, go to a higher authority. To quote God His very Ownself, He said to me, He says, “Mooner– Fuck Rick Perry.”

“And drink Carta Blanca beer!”

Amen, Lord. Manana, y’all.

You Won’t Believe This One

Monday, January 17th, 2011


So. Everything is starting to get clearer to me. The jumble of actions, reactions, brainwaves, good luck and bad that make the threads from which the fabric of my life is woven, are finally making sense. I’ve got it all figured out.

I think.

“Here’s tha dealie,” as my Gram likes to say. Over the last year:

  1. I’ve been arrested, and released, seven times.
  2. I’ve endured nine months of ass agony and the surgical procedures required to rid me of an infected lower peritoneal cavity.
  3. I’ve been celibate by reason of enforcement, not by reason of choice, for roughly 177 days, even though I’ going steady.
  4. I’ve become entangled with numerous nefarious, yet lovable, types here to the I-net, each of whom/which have brought both happifications and problamatics to my life. Squatlo and Wonderella are but a pair of said yin/yangers and the most recent examples.
  5. I’ve solved numerous big-picture world-issue problems and gotten nothing in return except for backtalk, nay saying and considerable grief. In evidence I offer my Chinese productivity mystery solution, my men-pee-in-sink-to-solve-water-shortage solution and my soon-to-be-announced hemp fabric diaper invention that serves as a personal compost plant/methane gas recovery system/propulsion system.
  6. I’ve endured numerous erosions of my quality of life caused by right-wing religious Republican fuckballs, and with the new even more highly Republicanized Texas State Legislature now in session, it’s going to get worse.
  7. I have reached numerous milestones in my psycho therapy, such as the number of court-required sessions in a year, number of issues obtaining enlightenment (lifetime achievement award), number of newly-discovered problematic issues, and my personal favorite– breaking the $2 million mark in personal therapy session charges.

I stopped at seven dealies, but that isn’t the half of them. I could go on, and on, and on. And on. I won’t because one of the aforementioned psycho therapy enlightenments, listed in Number 7., above, is that I sometimes have a tendency to use too many words to convey my thoughts, when fewer words might be more even more enlightening, and provide sharper images and understanding, than when I use more words.

Anyway, I had an epiphany last night. For once it wasn’t a celebrity camel toe dream or a sex dream or even a nightmare. This time my vision wasn’t fueled by hallucinogenic mushroom juice or peyote buttons or even a copious over-dosing of Carta Blanca beer. This moment of truth came to me in the dead of the night as I sat at the foot of my bed feeling sorry for myself.

Here’s what happened. I was awakened from one of my feel-sorry-for-Mooner dreams we all have. OK, what I mean to say is that each of us have dreams wherein we are continually being frustrated because we cannot accomplish any-fucking-thing we attempt in the dream.

In this dream, I was attempting to get my pecker out of my pants to have sex, but my zipper was snagged on my shirttail. The struggle to free myself for a much needed release had deteriorated into a dream fistfight and wrestling match between me and the zipper, and the zipper was winning.

I was awakened from my nightmare by the real-life fight between Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry taking place in the closet. It’s been frosty cold in Austin and the two gay boys were fighting over covers. It seems my giant pig was, as the ostrich Rick Perry screamed, “Hogging my fucking covers.”

Then I heard Rush scream back, “If your neck wasn’t ten feet long we’d have enough covers.”

I jumped out of bed and ripped open the closet door. “All right, boys, that’s enough.”

Obviously it wasn’t enough because Rick Perry bitch slapped Rush Limbaugh on his snout. The slap was more like a bare-knuckled punch since my ostrich fights with his granite-hard head. I’m certain that’s because birds lack hands, and ostrich beaks aren’t pointy. I’m sure that he would have pecked the pig on his snout if he had a sharp beak.

“Stop it, and stop it now!” I said as I waded into the middle of the fight.

I took a couple head shots to my shins from the giant bird, and a load of pig snot when the last bitch slap connected solidly. “Dammit, do you want me to go wake Gram?”

Instant calm.

I covered them equally-well with their king size comforter and told them, “Now shut up and go to sleep.”

I left them to peacefully slumber and latched the closet door. I sat at the foot of the bed and wiped pig snot off my arm with my tee shirt, then pitched the nasty shirt towards my dirty clothes hamper. I shut my eyes tightly and started feeling sorry for myself.

All the many aspects of why it’s so hard to be me started running through my head. With my version of ADHD, that means that fifteen-to-twenty problems were running through the gates of my synapses simultaneously. My head was spinning, and I felt the first pinprick of salty water start to ooze from the tear duct in my left eye.

I felt someone sit beside me on the bed. It was a heavy presence and smelled of spicy men’s aftershave. I almost freaked out– Gram had caught me hiding the boys in the closet. I was formulating my get-the-guys-out-of-harm’s-way story when a deep basso profundo voice speaks to me.

“Mooner Johnson, it’s time. Open your eyes and look at me.”

I opened my eyes and turned to my right. And there, sitting on the end of my bed, with his knees pressed tightly together, was God. I swear to God.

“Holy shit, God, are you you?”

“Indeed-e-do, Mooner. And it’s You, and You, for heaven’s sake. Please start capitalizing all of your references to Me.”

“OK,” I told him.

There was a sort of dead air time, but I was afraid to say anything. It’s when I say stuff that I get into most of my scrapes. Then He broke the silence with, “Are you Wonderella’ing why I’m here?”

We both laughed at that one, me nervously. “I guess that might be one of the several questions racing through my skull,” I told Him.

“Well here’s the deal. I’m preparing you for a special project, son. Your life so far has been a trial by fire, and I must tell you that I could not be more proud of how you have managed your life’s trials.”

“Thanks, God,” I said. Then I almost stammered, “Is it OK if I call you God, or would you prefer something else?”

“God’s OK by me,” God said. “But let me get to the point of this visit. You are one of the few sane men in America, and it is your job to spread your wisdom. I have aligned you with numerous like-minded, yet diverse people to assist you in my task. All I will tell you is that Streaker Jones and Squatlo share your duties as equal partners in My enterprise. I will not visit them, Mooner, and you are not to tell them of their roles.”

“Wha-what am I to do, Sir?” This, I thought, was a very good question.

“That’s a very good question,” God told me. “I only ask that you keep doing what you do, and make no apologies for it.”

“That’s it? Just keep fucking things up and drinking cold Carta Blanca beer?”

This got me a smile and a gentle hand on my shoulder. I felt a surge of goodness pass from The Hand into my body. It warmed me with a something feeling that I can’t even verbalize.

Then God leaned close and He whispered in my ear, “I’ll be back.”

I didn’t want him to go. “Please God, tell me something else before You go. Give me a word of wisdom to share with the world.”

A huge grin spread on God’s face and he said in that booming voice of his, “Fuck Rick Perry!” and He was gone.

I want to tell you more, but I’ve got God’s work to do. Manana, y’all.

Squatlo And Wonderella Make More Trouble; Mooner Takes The Fall

Sunday, January 16th, 2011


So. I’ve been so full of my own shit lately, I’ve managed to get myself into another moral dilemma, and then shit all over myself. What with the solving of the Chinese productivity issue– that’s the one where I found a way to increase American productivity by mimicking Chinese behaviors, and pointing out another Republican shortcoming (by pointing to their budgetary shortfalls), well, I’ve been pretty cocksure and cock-brained. I’ve been acting as if I considered myself a sane man.

My Wonderella problem was fixed at least on a temp basis, when I got my book manuscript back from my Editorator and had it lock me out from her edits. I’ve been so focused on getting my book finished, Wonderella’s importance has slipped in my mental priorities.

To overcome the Micro Soft Vista prejudice my computer has against my manuscript, Dixie has loaned me her I-phone and I’ve been doing the corrections to the manuscript on that.

When I take breaks to let my fingers un-cramp from working the little typer screen to the cell phone, I try to take deep breaths and think about how grateful I am to have an editing option that doesn’t cost the price of a new computer. When I finally start to feel grateful, I realize that the work output from a half-days’ squinting and bitching and cramping equates to three paragraphs of change, and a twelver of icy cold Carta Blanca beers.

The only thing that keeps me from killing myself over this dealie is the knowledge that Squatlo, who possesses a far firmer brain than I, has technology problems of his own. Actually, since I can’t manage to reproduce the Squatster’s problem with my blog comments, maybe I should slit my wrists and be done with it.

Squatlo says that when he enters a comment when four entries are ahead of him, he can’t see all of the other comments. Anyone else have that problem?

Anyway, my ADHD is exacerbated by having all of these problems, each of which is a problem I have because of the ADHD. If that’s not a Catch-22 I’ll eat my shorts. Which gets me back to my most current problem.

Since I’m no longer fully-engaged with Wonderella, I’ve been allowed back into the presence of SAC Ellen. My federal agent of choice has decided to forgive me of that transgression. As long as I keep Wonderella thoughts at level five, or lower, on the elevator that carries my layered brainwaves, I’m back in.

Last night was our first time together in over a week. I went to her house late in the afternoon, picked her up, and we went food shopping for our reunion dinner. We went to Mandola’s Market and then to Whole Foods. Our dinner selections were: grilled asparagus wrapped in prosciutto and adorned with shaved Parma-Reggiano and this nifty 12-year-old balsamic I have; shepherd’s pie, full of roasted lamb leg and carrots and onions and topped with creamy mashed potatoes; and tapioca pudding.

The shepherd’s pie was in honor of SAC Ellen McClellan’s heritage, the pudding was my choice, and the asparagus with Italian ham were a joint venture. Dinner was great, we had a nice wine with, and after dinner Carta Blanca beers. She wanted to watch the movie The Social Network, and so we did.

Halfway through the movie, I had to pee, and badly. I had been holding it so as to not break my newly-regained closeness. “Don’t pause it, Sweetie,” I told the SACster, “I’ll just be a minute.”

I jumped up and raced to her bathroom, unzipped my jeans and started peeing all over her vanity. Sometimes when I hold a pee too long, I release a dual stream not unlike when you put your finger over the end of a garden hose. Since I pee in the sink to save water, I peed on her vanity rather than the walls and floor of her bathroom.

I panicked, but I cleaned everything up with water. The quantity of water required to fix my mess was still less than that of a toilet flush, so didn’t feel too bad about it. I went back to the sofa to watch little Markie what’s-his-name finish fucking everyone in sight on his way to becoming a multi-billionaire, and to snuggle under the blanket with my lover.

When the movie was over, we went to the bedroom to get ready for some sex. “I’ll get ready first, Mooner Sweetie. Then I’ll get a proper charge on my stunner.” We sometimes use her Homeland Security-issued stun gun as a sex toy.

With that she was off to the john. I heard her pee (on the toilet), wash her hands, brush her teeth, clean her face and lotion it. Then she came into the bedroom with a rather quizzical look on her face.

“That was so strange,” she said. “ When I brushed my teeth it tasted just like asparagus pee. That was some strong asparagus.”

My body instantly covered with chills. My goose bumps were goose-bumped. They looked like baby geese riding on their daddy’s backs. My mouth went dry and I could feel my ball sack shriveling into the shape of a too-dry raisin. Now what do I do?, I thought to myself.

I needed sex, but I’m an honest guy as well. After processing a hundred possibilities, I settled on saying that I wonder if it could be pee smell from when she peed. While this was an avoidance action, I can live with avoiding my small problems if it helps me cure my larger ones.

I screwed my best thinking-man look on my face and said, “Well, I Wonderella if it might be from when you peed in the sink?”

“I meant to say, ‘I wonder if you were smelling from when you peed’,” this was said to the outside of the front door as it slammed in my face.

“Fuck me running.” This was said by me, to only me.

ADHD is a miserable disease.

Texas Budget Sucks; Rick Perry Too

Saturday, January 15th, 2011


So. Let’s talk budgets. I’m a businessman, and budgets form the foundation upon which good decisions can build strong bones. On your balance sheet.

OK, before you start-in on me, I admit it. I’m an ADHD-addled redneck leftie who has been lucky in business because my best friend and business partner, Streaker Jones, is a genius entrepreneur. I get it that my successes have been pinned to the smarts of one Streaker Jones, and not my keen decision making.

Doesn’t change the raw facts. I’m a businessman, and budgets are the foundation for financial stabilites.

Now you’ll start with the, “Don’t you mean ‘stability’, dumbass?”

“No,” I’ll respond. “What-the-fuck would you call more than one stability?”

Me– stabilities works just fine. As an example, one stability is that good budgeting brings is understanding; a second stability is peace of mind; a third is discipline; a fourth might be continuity of workforce; and a fifth might be unabated financing at reasonable rates from your bank. And a sixth might be that you won’t wake up broke one morning and have it be a surprise. Each of these stabilities is reliant upon making and following good budgetizing. Budgerations, maybe.

And do not even start with the feeble argument that the above-mentioned list are simply factors that can lead to a single stability. If that’s how you logicalize, you’re way past the ability to reason, and you’re likely a right-wing religious Republican fuckball.

To you I say, “Bite my ass, log-off my bloggie, and go suck Rush Limbaugh’s limp dick.”

To the rest of you, allow me to explain. Let’s take the budget situation of the great state of Texas, a governmental institution that has been run and orchestrated by the fine minds of the Republican party for the last dozen-plus years.

Swept into ever-increasing numbers of elected legislative seats with promises of, “No new taxes, reduced spending and balanced budgets,” we Texans find ourselves in quite a budgetary pickle. Two years ago, as the most recent elections geared-up, Texas Republican Governor Rick “Little Ricky” Perry bragged that in the midst of the financial ruin suffered by other states and the federal government, the fine Republican conservative minds of Texas had managed a $4 billion State budget surplus. Democrats, and other more honest people in the know, questioned the veracity of Little Ricky’s bold statements.

I think Streaker Jones said it best when he asked, “How inna fuck kin ya eat more an ya grow an git leftovers?”

Brilliant question, Streaker Jones, and dead-on target. How indeed can we keep spending more when our income diminishes? To have purchased that bullshit during the last election cycle, you would need to choke down the concept that the Republicans can pull $27 billion out of a hat.

Or their asses. The same asses from whence their brains lie. Maybe that should be from whence their brains lay. That whole grammar dealie throws me.

Now me, I got myself a little hint that mayhaps, just mayhaps, Little Ricky might have been lying about the $4 billion budget surplus a few years before. I think we had a clue that the Republican Boy’s Club were no smarter as a group than they are as independent thinkers. Oh for shitsakes, was Little Ricky “laying” about the surplus?

See, in 2007, mearly two years befor the bold $4 billion surplus statement, the Rick Perry-appointed Directors of the Texas Department of Transportation (TxDOT) made a startling discovery. To almost quote the head TxDOT shitball, “We have ‘lost’ approximately $2 billion from our budget.”

Now again this is just me, but I think that if you tell me you’ve lost $ 2 billion, I’m going to question any further representations you might make re: budgets. I’ll go all Missouri on your ass and say, “Show me!”

But not here in Texas, where right-wing religious pablum is the earwax that seals-off our redneck brains, inhibiting oxygen flow to our brains which rapidly destroys our ability to question. We elected an even higher percentage of our officials from the conservative tea-bagger leaning fascist faded-gene pool.

I wish I had something clever to say about this, but those of you who get my side of things don’t want to laugh at this no-laughing matter. And the ones who don’t get it, won’t get it.

They’ll get neither the jokes, nor the budgetary fuckscape.

I’d go fishing with the Squirt if it wasn’t so damned cold. Escape from my budgeted miseries to Nature’s calming breasts.

Need Carta Blanca beer. Manana, y’all.

Mooner Solves Chinese Productivity Mystery; MS Vista Still Sucks

Thursday, January 13th, 2011


So. I think my Wonderella crisis has passed, for now. But the Nookie Parade is still passing me by. I’m too entangled with my so far feeble attempts to work the computer’s edit functions, and finish my book, to have any time to devote to love. Or sex.

I had my computer guy out last night to fix it for me. He can fix anything in the entire operate-your-computer-and-get-it-to-do-shit arena. Ben has fixed every problem I have ever dropped into his lap, most of which have been of the operator error variety. Ben has managed to overcome every mangling of software and hardware alike, until now.

After five minutes of intense effort, Ben had sweat dripping from his brow and sarcasm dripping from each word. At the 45-minute mark of his technological ministrations, he said, “My God, Mooner, you can fuck a computer to hell and back with the simple act of turning it on. But this is one of your masterpieces.”

But at the one-hour-fifty-two-minute mark, Ben says to me, he said, “I apologize, Mooner. This one’s not on you.”

Then he cussed and keystroked for eight more minutes, closed all of the sixty-three application software programs he was using, and shut my nearly-new HP off.

“All right, Ben. You fixed it!” I exclaimed. “I knew I could count on you.”

“Didn’t fix shit,” he told me, “I’m giving up.”

Ben never gives up.

“Ben, you never give up.” Ben never gives up.

“Well, I never say, “never,” and I’ve never been beaten, but you’re never going to complete your edit of that book on this computer.” When Ben said, “this computer,” he sounded more disgusted at my hardware than any woman has ever been.


“But there must be a solution. I’ve got to get this editing done so I can go to print.”

Ben looked ashamedly at the floor, and said to me, “Mooner, the only solution I see to this problem is a quart of cleaning solution and a wooden match. A pint might do the trick, but you wouldn’t want to just wound or maim this fucker in the fire. You want to toast it.”

“Wha-wha-what?” I stammered, “That computer is just a year old.”

Yea, but you bought-in to the that whole MS Vista bullshit. I told you to wait until they did something new, but…”

I interrupted his tongue lashing while it was still in first gear. “I know, I know. I’m not blaming you.”

He refused my check for payment for his services by saying, “Consider my bill as the down payment on your new computer.” Then he left me to ponder my miseries.

Since I ponder miseries best while seated on the crapper, I grabbed the latest Card Player Magazine and went to the pot. I was reading a story about one of the many Asian players enjoying success at professional poker, and that made me think of how strong China has become in the world economy. That got me to thinking how I keep hearing about how the Chinese work force is so much more productive than we Americans, and I wondered why.

I finished the magazine maybe ninety minutes later, utilized the ever-present box of baby wipes that populate each bathroom I inhabit since my ass operations, then I properly washed my hands and headed to the kitchen to reload.

I popped the top of an icy-cold Carta Blanca (utilizing one of the several antique beer keys in my collection and, thereby, avoiding what I can only call “Squatlo disorder”, and removed the cap from the bottle and no flesh from my hand in a feeble attempt to twist-off an old-fashioned beer cap), took a big glug of my favorite brew, and parked my carcass on a stool at the granite-topped island counter.

As I raised the bottle to my lips for a second glug– it hit me.

“Son… of… a… bitch!!! Sonofabitch!!” I was shouting out loud. “I get it. I know why the Chinese are so fucking productive.”
Do you, dear readers get it? Have you been thunderstruck with the same incredible enlightenment as me?

They don’t have porcelain commodes anywhere in China other than in those water closets frequented by westerners as a matter of design. Nope, they don’t– been there, and done it the Chinese way. In China, you can’t sit on a China throne and play King for an hour.

No-siree-Bob, your typical Chinaperson shits in one or two ways. They squat, always, and do the deep-knee-bend bowel evacuation exercise while squatted over either a hole in the floor, or a narrow dirt trench.

A man cannot read the paper and waste 16.987% of his awake lifetime sitting on the pot reading the Sports Section. Like I say, been to China, tried it. After fifteen minutes squatted down and looking at the USA TODAY- China Edition, I couldn’t feel my feet and had to call for help to wipe my ass and stand back up.

“Oh, my God!!!” I said aloud, again. “I’ve had an original thought!!! I need to call someone.”

Nobody answered my calls since it was 2 am. So, I napped and set an early alarm. I’ve opened my first Carta Blanca of the day, not for need but rather for historical accuracy, and I’m going to begin calling around to spread the word. I’ll start with Streaker Jones, the the Squatster, then Squirt and follow with Wonderella.

It’s gonna be a great day. Man do I feel good! Manana, y’all.

Mooner Saved From Wonderella; Still Fucked

Wednesday, January 12th, 2011


So. Maybe there is a God. If there is a He, He’s a big guy with an incredible sense of humor, a keen sense of irony, and a mean streak.

I’m not an atheist, and for sure I’m not the good Baptist boy Mother and Gram spent incredible energies to craft from the raw, ADHD-infested flesh that was me as a child. Those attempts became vain effort on the occasion of my getting raped at Boy Scout aquatic camp by my Baptist deacon scout leader.

I want to think that I would be smart enough to shrug the moldy, smothering blanket of idiotic Southern Baptist ideology and dogma without that jump start. But maybe I should see that the silver lining yin to the rapist’s storm cloud yang, is my awakening to the fact that you must always question authority.

But I’m already digressing. My frequency of digressions always increases when I think of my rape. I think of getting raped when I get into trouble. I get into trouble when I do something really stupid. I started doing really stupid things after I got raped.

Some that great karmic circle-of-life dealie is major-league fucked.

Now, of course, a major theme in my thirty-years-plus of psycho therapy is how I need to forgive my rapist. I’ve been told that I will never be fully healed until I reach that emotionally healthy place.

Maybe I’ll never be fully healed.

Speaking of ADHD-infested flesh, you all know that I’ve been in this quagmire with Wonderella, and my buddy Squatlo refuses to help me get out. I don’t know why I expected him to act otherwise, because he is my friend.

My other friend, Streaker Jones, won’t help me either. Streaker Jones is the perfect best friend and the Squatster seems to be following Streaker Jones’ format. “Look, Mooner,” Squatlo told me. “I can’t help you with this, you need to do this on your own.”

Streaker Jones’ answer to the same question? “It’s yer’s ta fix.”

Why I’m surprised with this is the only surprise worth mentioning from the shitstorm that is my Wonderella crisis. Like with psycho therapy, the therapist doesn’t do a single fucking thing. The patient does all the work. So why is therapy so expensive?

Anyway, my version of a possible God showed up yesterday to help solve my Wonderella problem. Since I’ve had trouble getting the comic semi-super heroine off my dirty mind, God decided to have my editorator return my corrected manuscript of the book back to me.

If you don’t suffer from the ADHD, you’re thinking to yourself, “Wonderful, he got his book back so he can finish with it.” Then you would go on your merry way– happy, healthy and with a sound mind.

Me, I almost peed myself when I got the emailed package around noon yesterday. Since I opened it at noon-thirty, I have been glued to my computer screen trying to figure out how to work the editing program. After twenty hours of this frustration, allow me to say this:

Microsoft Vista operating systems suck!!!!!!!!! Fuck Microsoft.

But again, the God thing enters. When I was shaken from nearly full day of mad-clicking my mouse at a non-responsive computer screen by the awakening of my pet pig and ostrich, I realized that I had spent twenty hours concentrating on one thing, and that thing was not Wonderella.

Rick Perry and Rush Limbaugh exited the closet and sat at my feet as they do each morning if they are not in some silly lover’s spat. I don’t know that gay lovers have spats any sillier than straight lovers, but these two are silly squared.

Which brings up a point. My pig and ostrich are both males of their species. The pig’s sex/gender is an easy tell, as he has balls the size of oranges that sway like a pendulum from a wrinkled nut sack that reaches his back knees. Making the determination of the ostrich was different matter.

Have you ever tried to determine a bird’s sex? Like, a parakeet or a pigeon or a chicken? Remember how they fought the procedure?

Think about performing the task on a 350-pond walking bird that uses his thirty-pound head, attached to a four-foot neck, like a mace. Took three of us and almost a quart of one of my Gram’s potions to get ‘er done.

They do make a cute couple, Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry. It’s obvious they are in love, and you have to admire that. Regardless of how stupid they act.

Holy shit am I digressing.

My point is this. I’m afraid that even if there is a God, he doesn’t solve our problems in the classic sense that you pray to Him, and the problem goes away without any oily aftertaste. Nope, He solves one problem by showing you that the old problem is minor when compared to the new one.

Like the man who prays to God to have a pecker long enough to reach the ground, and his legs fall off.

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

Mooner To Seek Outside Help; Can Squatlo Fix Wonderella Problem?

Monday, January 10th, 2011


So. I’m sitting here in Austin, Texas, freezing my ass off. A wet cold front blew in last night and I now suffer in the uncomfort of my own home because I’m a crazy asshole. Discomfort, maybe? Should be un rather than dis on that one.

I like things chilly and since I pay the utility bills, I take the last say on thermostat settings. I try to be accommodating, but when your anchor tenants are my Gram and her martyred daughter-in-law, Mother, my actual mother, it’s difficult to maintain thermostatic sanity.

We were at dinner, hours before the cold hit town, and Mother asked me to turn the heat up.”Son, you know how my old bones react to the cold and damp, don’t you?”

Me, I’m thinking to myself, How can I ever forget when you bitch and whine about it all the fucking time.

“Mooner Einstein Johnson! How dare you speak to your mother that way. I raised you better than that… I’ve suffered so many sleepless nights over you.” My sainted Mother takes one of those slow, deep breathes so favored by martyrs around the world, and continues, “It’s all your father’s fault, God rest his soul, for passing his ADHD along to you. I could have been a dancer on Broadway, you know I was that good. But your daddy had those bedroom eyes, and…,” Mother’s voice trailed off in another typically martyr-favored way.

I must have been thinking out loud. Again. Maybe I need my filters changed.

“Oh quit yer fuckin’ bitchin’ fer shitsakes,” my Gram tells Mother. “Go git a sweater an a ‘lectric blanket an shut yer yap.”

“Thanks, Gram.” I got up from my chair and walked around the table to plant a kiss on the top her her hard head. With my chin rested on her bony shoulder, I say, “Thanks for standing up for me.”

My Grandmother swatted me away with a liver-spotted hand, turned in her chair to look me in the eye. “I ain’t standin’ nowheres fer you, ya little shitbird, I’m jist sick a hearin’ yer mother’s snivel-snottin’. You go put on some heat afore I git my double-barrel and plant tha both of em in yer ass.”

In an act of defiance, I reset the thermostats in all but my master bedroom area in the house. Now, I’m in my thermal drawers and wrapped in a heavy blanket with the Squirt in my lap, and I still can’t feel my nuts. Not that I have any need for gonads that can sense any sensations at all. My sex life is nonexistent ever since Wonderella hit my town.

When news that this cold front was coming hit the airwaves, I got a call from my own dog, Dixie. Worthless fleabag says to me, she said, “Streaker Jones and I have decided to escape the weather and go down to Costa Rica and collect a mushroom strain he needs for his collection. We’ll be back after the weather clears.”

Then Dixie laughed, a sound I once found endearing. “Stay warm, you inappropriate man. And stay out of trouble– you’re pushing SAC Ellen too hard on this Wonderella deal. Why don’t you ask Squatlo for some woman advice. He seems stable, and smart.”

“Bitch,” I said into dead phone air. I seem to be collecting an inordinate number of dead phone air minutes. Maybe I can get a refund from the wireless guys.

Streaker Jones told me about this mushroom he’s after. It grows on the moist, rotting coffee beans that fall from trees in Central America. My hopes with this particular little spoor are that it picks up some of the rich coffee flavor from my favorite bean– the Costa Rican coffee bean.

If it does, then Streaker Jones can cross-pollinate it with the Great Texas Magic Mushroom, and sell their offspring to my Gram. Me, I’m thinking that Gram’s alternative medicine potions would be more palatable, and have more depth of flavor, if they had a rich coffee aftertaste of French roasted Costa Rican coffee.

Maybe I should talk to the Squatster and get some lady advice. But I’ll wait a day, or so. Wonderella’s new installment is due to hit newsstands.

I want a Carta Blanca beer, but I’m afraid to stick my hand inside the cooler to grab one. Manana, y’all.

Editorial Comment; F Rick Perry

Sunday, January 9th, 2011


So. This short posting is my vain attempt to save face for a problem in yesterday’s Squatlo bitch. I made a major mistake and wish to correct it here before any of you stick it in my face.

The beautiful nature photos are located by clicking on the top left corner of .

The right top is funny shit he stole from other funny fuckers. Also worth the time it takes to view, but not nature pics.

Isn’t it just like me to write some insightful stuff and poke fun at someone and then fuck it all up. That sentence ended with a period, grammar-concerned readers, because it was a statement, not a question.

I know I fucked it up, it’s what I do for shitsakes.

Switching from coffee to Carta Blanca beer now. It’s been awhile since I reminded you, so fuck Rick Perry.

Manana, y’all.

Squatlo And Wonderella– Today’s Installation

Saturday, January 8th, 2011


So. I told you about that entire Wonderella and Squatlo dealie and I think I mentioned that they are ruining my life. My inabilities to: control my urges, say “No”, or control my thoughts are cannon fodder for smart minds and keen perceptionators, like the Squatster and Wonderella.

I’m still not getting why Wonderella is even a problem, much less one of a life-ruination variety. If I was daydreaming and having sex dreams about a real woman, I could easily understand the problem. But my fascinations with an imaginary semi super-powered comic bombshell– I just don’t fucking get it.

Squatlo, however, is a horse of a different brew. His problematic influences are in-your-face thingies and visible even to me. Why he is such a terrible influence on me is a multi-layered shitcake, and filled with a rainbow of frostings and stuff.

OK. For starters, he is smarter than me; he manages a prolific output of intelligent content without either the craziness or ADHD that fuels my voluminous writings; he looks at society through eyes that effect a clarity of thought and reason that is matched with the clarity and imagery that the high quality German lenses on his professional camera bring to the stunning wildlife photography he takes and posts to his site; and, he has an encyclopedic memory bank.

Lucky fucker.

Then, there is the simple fact that I like him. Lately, we have conversed some about stuff, and I like him. I often have issues with people who I deem smarter than me because they seem to affect a snot-nosed attitude that makes me want to thump them on their nose. Hard. Hard enough to bring tears to their eyes.

I do try to not thump them hard enough to draw blood, as that leads to that whole taser-handcuffs-backseat-ride-to-jail-to-be-booked dealie. Not something I can’t handle, as I’m experienced. I’m just too fucking busy writing here to my bloggie and answering 3,500-word emails from the Squatster.

However. As I mentioned upstairs, this is a deeper relationship than all of that before-mentioned stuff. The deep well of history that underscores our relationship is dug far into the very fabric from which America was cut. His and my relationship has its origins in our country’s founding parents. Actually, it goes farther back than that to our forefather’s old countries. But I don’t have the time to spend trimming the family trees that deep into the woods.

Here’s the deal. When I combine the knowledge my educations in Texas public schools– where truth was meted-out using Texas public school textbooks, combined with my degree-related core education courses from the only UT that matters, and then filter that through my personal experiences and readings– my mind conjures the following:

We all know that when our America, USA, was originally founded, the Brits sagely decided to populate the great state of Georgia with all the criminals, prostitutes and mentally ill Limeys they could round up. The logic was simple. “We’ll clean the streets of London by exporting the problem a few thousand miles across an ocean,” were Queen Elizabeth, Part One’s words. She’s thinking that if you put a few shark-infested miles of ocean between you and them, and drop them off on a strange island with hostile native peoples– problem solved.

Same sort of logic we stole and re-deployed down to Gitmo.

This original Georgian population quickly inbred and morphed into the first Southern redneck cracker fuckballs. The inbreeding beget inbreeding of the already inbred, loin fruit that was unceremoniously shipped westward to settle Alabama, each on the tenth anniversary of their birth and their wedding day.

Roll Tide!

When Georgia’s first shipments of settlers were unshackled and dumped to their asses on hard-packed red clay, there were among their numbers seven stowaways. A baker’s half-dozen honorable men, each of whom took a terrible risk by committing a minor crime to earn passage to the New World.

This magnificent seven became the first white men to settle what we now call Tennessee.

Things were hard for the six plus one, but these were hard men. So what if they married local girls and sired half-breed children; so what if they sexed with animals in the lean years. So what if they ate wild hickory nuts and bat dung to keep from starving. Bat dung tastes like chicken if you boil it long enough.

And don’t go all fucking word police and call me a racist. I’m a half-breed my-ownself and I can’t find a more comfortable word combination to categorize that particular aspect of my DNA.

If it makes you feel any better, call them and me, “Of mixed racial DNA,” you fucking imbecile. Why don’t you worry about something important? Like how we have a man running the US House of Misrepresentation whose ever-present tears streak pathways through his bottle tanned face like the contrails from a squadron of B52s.

I might be digressing. In an effort to self-edit, I’ve read this thing fourteen times. I can follow my logic stream but something feels off.

Anyway, Squatlo hails from the Volunteer State and likely is a direct descendant of one, or more, of the original Mag-7. We don’t agree on everything and sometimes he lacks vision. Like when we were discussing a joint venture to market this product I invented. I can’t tell you everything here, but I will tell you this. Me, I see no real problem cleaning the trap on a sink if thoughtful men have pissed in it, rinsing after each use.

If you go to his site at you get a chance to read about what I have been saying. Also, that’s where you can catch a peek at some of his nature photos. Click on the upper right corner where the photos rotate. Number 40 brought tears to my eyes.

I have managed to fuck back a little. I tricked him into sticking a hypodermic needle loaded with icy cold Carta Blanca beer into his system. Killian’s my rosy red butt.

Then, my UT football team stole the most valuable adult asset from his UT football team when we hired Bennie Wylie to be our new strength and conditioning coach. Hoo-yah!

I hope this made sense. If not– like my Gram always says, she’ll say, “Oh who gives a shit, Mooner. Yer so fuckin’ crazy I’d a shot ya afore yer first birthday iffn ya wasn’t kin. Might do it anyways.”

Manana, y’all.

Squatlo Joins Wonderella; Mooner’s Therapy Issues Balloon

Monday, January 3rd, 2011


So. Outside influences are ruining my life. It isn’t bad enough that I am inherently a ADHD-addled crazy redneck fuckbrain, allegedly, it seems that the recent weeks have brung me imported outside looninesses. I know brung isn’t a word, but it should be.

One of the outside loony factors is my fancy pants editorator, the bitch. I’m college educated for shitsakes, I know that brung is not a standard word. But who among you in my reader pool had any doubt what I meant when I used it? None of you, right?

But miss fancy pants can’t stand to allow a man freedom of the pen. I’ll bet if I was a woman she’d tread more lightly when I make up words or when I intentionally fracture sentence structure to suit my intentions.


And Wonderella. Holy shit and wipe my ass with the Pope’s lace slip, but Wonderella has brung me to my knees. See what I mean about brung? Way more impactful a word than brought.

Of course, impactful isn’t a real word either. But I didn’t use hoot’n’nanny English and say, “bringed.” Bringed just isn’t impactful at all.

I’m getting near the point where I need to end either my monogamous relationship with SAC Ellen, or my intense I-netter love affair with Wonderella. Wonderella is far less demanding on me but SAC Ellen has actual sex with me.

Had sex with me.

What’s wrong with a man if he dreams about a cartoon semi-super hero and accidentally calls his real life lover Wonderella a few times?

Not much, really. It’s not like I called her by an ex-wife’s name, and with ten of those there’s a good chance that any sex-fueled misnomer hits on an ex’s moniker. I can’t figure what the big fucking deal is with that.

After ten days of emergency psycho therapy sessions intensely focused on my, “Wonderella issues,” as Dr, Sam I. Am-Johnson terms it, I’m even more confused than ever.

Take today’s special session. I said, “Look, Sammy, I can’t figure what the fuck it is that I did that’s so wrong here.”

“Mooner, there is nothing I can do for you if you can’t see what your problem is,” was the best I could get for $400.00 an hour.

“Then why am I paying you 400 bucks an hour?” A reasonable question to my mind.

“You are paying me to help you get better, my dear ex-husband.”

“So, again I ask. Why aren’t you helping me?” Reasonable I am, again.

“OK, Mooner,” Dr. Sam started. “Try this on for size: “I … can’t … help … you … if … you … don’t … know … what’s … wrong!”

My turn. “Alrighty then, try this on. I know that … you … are … a … giant … bitch!”

I stormed out of her office, signed my bill for $400.00 and slammed the front door as I left.

But I’m digressing the point of this bloggie posting. Squatlo paid me a visit last night and left a comment to my bloggie. It was a comment that displayed keen insight and a sharp humor. I was impressed and tuned-in to his sight at and fell in love with his mostly political humor and informative stuff. He’s almost as prolific as me and likely way smarter.

Check him out and see what’s up, the giant flaming asshole. I say asshole because I spent several hours reading his stuff and forgot to call SAC Ellen at an appointed time. She agreed to go to lunch with me and try to explain to me why the Wonderella dealie chaps her ass so much.

But like I say, Squatlo stepped into my life and caused me to shit in my own mess kit.


I’m lucky I’ve got the Squirt. I can’t understand half of what the little shitbird says to me, but she’s loyal. As long as I share my Carta Blanca beers with her, we’re best dog and friend.

Manana, y’all.

Mooner’s Thoughts Stolen; Who Gives A Shit

Sunday, January 2nd, 2011


So. Happy New Year from everyone here to Loonyland. We had a big party in the barn out to the ranch for our bringing-it-in shindig, and the final body count topped a hundred. The list of party-goers reads like a who’s-who from Central Texas, if you like your who’s to be interesting. Most of the attendees who I haven’t already mentioned here to my bloggie shall go likewise unmentioned here today.

“Why?” you might ask.

“Simple,” my best reply. “They are prominent characters in my soon-to-be-published book.”

Since I’ve made numerous promises to not reveal book stuff here, I won’t reveal any book stuff here. I will say that a good time was had by all and that I managed to keep Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry alive while in my Gram’s presence. A Herculean task, accomplished with a cunning and grace not owned by me. I borrowed enough of Streaker Jones’ cunning and a full measure of SAC Ellen’s grace, which allowed me to keep my pet ostrich and giant pig out of harm’s way for the night.

Or should that be, “…not owned by myself…”? That grammatical dealie is a tough one for me (myself?). I don’t think I had ever said the word, “myself,” until sometime in the 1990’s when sports figures and actors and other celebrities started using it to death. Now, I hate the word and work hard to not use it. I’ll rewrite a sentence ten times to get tenses and shit reorganized so I can say “I,” or, “me,” or, “mine.”

Of course, the fucking word police– in the guise of a fancy-pants editorator, red-lines and scolds me about tense shifts and that sort of shit.

That’s another sound reason to not have this bloggie edited. Which reminds me of what I wanted to tell you today.

I have to mention the Non Sequitur cartoon empire. Mr. Wiley, at is another of my heroes and likely a same thinker as me. He recently published a cartoon in our local newspaper, the Austin American Statesman, and the subject was a perfect impression of one of my thoughts on religious ideology.

Two people are looking, listening to a third guy who is standing before a large sand sculpture of a big guy. At least I think it was a sand sculpture, but it might have been sculpted from rock, or paper machete, or maybe Rice Crispy bars.

And I know I likely spelled the glued paper sculpting process incorrectly as well as screwed grammar eight ways from Sunday in that last paragraph, but I don’t really give a shit. You understood exactly what I meant, right?

So, who really needs a fucking editor– right?

Holy shit!


Gram gave me a new potion for the new year she calls, Pay ‘Tention, Mooner, Yer All Disco-bubble-ate-up. I took it early Friday afternoon, and I’ve been focused ever since. Until now. Looks like it has a thirty-six hour efficacy.

So, the caption above the cartoon says, “The Dawn of a New Religion.” The guy who’s talking says to the other two, “Commandment number one is: Don’t ever question what I say.”

Now. I know that I didn’t say any of that word-for-word from the cartoon, but you get the sentiment. And while Wiley didn’t steal the idea from me word-for-word, he stole it from me none the less. I’ve been telling people for years that religions must be questioned, and since they don’t allow themselves to be questioned, they can’t be fully trusted. I should have hyphenated none-the-less.

Wiley and John Kelso, another stealer of my ideas who also publishes in the local paper, manage to routinely print stuff that mirrors my own thinkings. When I bitched about this thievery in my morning emergency therapy session, Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson says to me, she said, “First off, Mooner, these special sessions are for us to work our way through your Wonderella issues, so you need to focus your crazy-assed mind on that.”

Then she ponders my bitching for a minute and says, “As for Misters Wiley and Kelso, I think that neither of them is quite as screwy as you, neither of them has spent any time locked away in a mental hospital, and you have never had an original thought in your life.

“Has it ever dawned on you that when you accuse someone of stealing your ideas, that it is actually you who has stolen their ideas?” my brain doctor/ex-wife finally finished saying.


Sometimes simple words, simply said are best, so I decided to say it again. “Bitch.”

“Well I might be a bitch, Mooner Johnson, but you, my good man, are a lunatic redneck fuckball and just as crazy as they get. And your time is up.”

I signed the receipt to add $400.00 to my psycho therapy bill on my way out. For those who don’t know, I understand that it’s “psychotherapy” and not psycho therapy. But it’s my favorite prank on Dr. Sam I. Am because she hates it when I separate the psycho from his therapy.

My point, should I have one, is that I am actually OK when other people steal my ideas, or thoughts. It gives me a little validation, and validation is important to a crazy person. Knowing that Kelso and Wiley are not of the same ranting, raving lunatic measure as me lends additional validation. If smart, successful and already published personages can have the same thoughts as me– there is hope for my book to be a hit!

Maybe that paragraph should have included a myself or two, but again, like my Gram always says, “Who gives a shit, Mooner. Me, my, I, mine an even myself– they’s all me, myself, and mine.”

You have got to love that old bag’s twisted logic.

Me, I’m having a cold Carta Blanca beer to prep me, myself, for today’s meaningless football games. Manana, y’all.