Pooch Screwed Again; Mooner Screwed, But Not Screwed


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 http://www.squatlo-rant.blogspot.com 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.

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5 Responses to “Pooch Screwed Again; Mooner Screwed, But Not Screwed”

  1. squatlo says:

    I’ve gotta plead not guilty here, first of all. It’s not my fault you spend your appetizer conversation droning on and on about fantasy women IN FRONT OF YOUR DATE. Convincing her you’re cured of Wondrella while basically guiding her to the source of your latest mind-goober-whack-a-thon was probably about the dumbest thing anyone’s done since Francis Ford Coppola made a third Godfather. You win two best picture awards and you think it makes sense to try for three, with the same fucking story? Jeez…

    And your comments thing is still all boogered up, Mooner. You can only read one or two of them, not the six or seven that the post says it has. If I were you I’d dump that blog host and move to one that understands user compatibility. It takes a lotta love to keep coming back here for this techo-abusive relationship you and Vista and this blog commenty thing put us through. ASk anyone.
    If you go to youtube you can view all kinds of vids by the same hottie who impersonates Bachmann on my blog. Your next fifty or sixty video dates await.
    Get the lube and open another Carta Blanca. Life is short.

  2. admin says:

    Squat. It’s all too easy to hide my crazy ass behind any excuse. As for the comments dealie, it might be sitting in GoDaddy’s court to fix. One of those, “One of the other websites on your server has soooooooo much traffic that you little teensy itty-bitty site gets shit on,” dealies. Trying to get it done without losing everything I’ve got, and spending big bucks.

    Ah, Fame– you fickle bitch.

  3. Sorry you didn’t get nookie from SAC Ellen, Mooner. At least Squat got blamed and not me.

  4. admin says:

    Nope, not your fault this time. Not Squat’s either, in the most real sense of things.

    Impulse control, impulse control, im… Hey Reck, that reminds me. You and Tcat never got back to me on that Mooner sandwich idea I had.

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