Mooner’s Thoughts Stolen; Who Gives A Shit


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.

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6 Responses to “Mooner’s Thoughts Stolen; Who Gives A Shit”

  1. squatlo says:

    Mooner, sir, you have hit upon a problem I’ve noticed often in my own travels and exploits… people keep stealing my ideas. I’ve noticed some of them (the thieves, not the ideas) passed away long before my own actual birth, which makes the plagarism and theft all the harder to prove, but I’m sure you’re familiar with the process. You come up with a perfectly plausible solution to a problem no one else has even noticed, think it through and find the path to fresh air already clogged up by some dickwad who died during the French Revolution. And when you point their thieving ways out to your peers, they act as if you’ve lost whatever moral GPS you might have once had.

    The solution for this is to blame time travel, obviously. They must have solved the time/space continuum thing, dashed ahead a few centuries to glean from our work, then dashed home with these wonderfully advanced theories and solutions. What can you do? Other than going back to a time in their lives before they found us and stopping their future explorations, we’re at a loss to explain their methods.

    Keep up the good work, man. I’m enjoying this first visit to your site, hope you’ll check mine out once I figure out what I’m doing.

  2. admin says:

    Squalto, thanks. Theft of intellectual property is a history-old problem and Streaker Jones has proven time travel a reality. As soon as I have some free time I’m going to go back and invent taxation and patent it in every country. Then, I’m going back to the day before Adam and invent the first religion, kill Adam and make Eve an honest woman.

    Think of it– get on your knees and pray to Mooner.

  3. admin says:

    Yes, they do. I just read some of your stuff and you are pretty fucking funny yourownself.

    As I see it, here’s the rub– I don’t think you are crazy. Creativity in a sane mind is an unnatural act. As a total whacking fuckball, my every thought is, by definition, creative. Tough to live with, but the output is copious.

    But thanks for the comments. I’ll keep up with you.

  4. squatlo says:

    Thanks for the sanity diagnosis, but I’m afraid that conclusion isn’t universal among those who know me all too well…

    I believe my tendency to self-medicate has kept me from getting the professional attention compulsory institutionalization might have offered.

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